EMOTICONCERT

The old popstars quickly died out; they just couldn’t keep up. The likes of Dylan Miles or Calla had too much pain, too much baggage or at least, they couldn’t keep it under wraps. What the people wanted was pure euphoria and the former titans of the pop world (who would have easily sold out not three years ago) just couldn’t deliver. The old guard of producers similarly dismissed the new technology as a gimmick but, by the time they realised this fad wasn’t going away, the music industry had left the moguls in the dust.

The fans however embraced this new era of music, partially due to its accessibility. Anyone could get the feeling from any new streamed track and even some of the old ones were being retrofitted with the capability. However, aficionados would tell you that those recordings felt ‘canned’. The real experience was live.

This is what sealed the coffin on the previous generation of pop artists; they could manufacture the feeling in the studio, through careful rehearsal and editing, but most of them just couldn’t hack it live. When an oldie performed on stage, all that was beamed to the audience was a depressing cocktail of nerves and self-doubt drowned in adrenaline (although oldie performers did retain a niche following with fans who craved misery and melancholy).

The new music required a very specific sort of performer, not necessarily one who was always happy (although that helped), but someone who could control their thoughts and feelings, at least for a full set. The advice to all rising stars seeking mainstream appeal was minimise your psychological baggage, or learn to suppress it on stage. For those that mastered the trick, the gates of global stardom were opened.

To ‘connect’ at an emoticoncert, you simply had to take the unique code on your ticket and think it into your Neural Portrait Implant. The implant would connect to the concert app and you would be tuned to the same frequency as the singer’s transmissions. You would feel everything the performer felt, without restriction. Unfortunately, the transmitters had a limited range, so you really did have to be there.

It’s nearly impossible to imagine either side of the experience unless you’ve felt it yourself. A common description is that when the artist performs, it becomes a near-spiritual event. There is an unfathomable reassurance in knowing that every one of those thousands of people is with you, connected to you in the purest way. In return, the singer is given an experience of humility and gratification like no other. Nothing will connect you to others like opening your soul and sharing your most intimate feelings, even if it is only a performance.

People are truly changed after their first emoticoncert. They leave having experienced commonality with a crowd of strangers and a deeper knowledge that, of all the differences between us, we all feel in exactly the same way.

ANAX.

THE SEED AND THE STONE

There is a story, told to the children of Hirun, that goes something like this:

Once upon a time, in a great forest, there slept a stone. Now, stones are well known for wanting nothing more than to be left alone and this stone was very happy just resting on the ground in the shade of the trees.

One day, a seed fell from the sky and bumped the stone on the head. The stone immediately woke up and asked the seed, “What are you doing here?”

“I’m very sorry,” said the seed, “But I just fell here. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“Disturbing me? Why that’s exactly what you’re doing,” the stone replied angrily, “I’ve been sitting here for years, resting quite peacefully and now you’ve come along and woken me up.”

“I’m very sorry, but there’s not much I can do. I’m afraid I can’t move, you see, I’m just a seed,” the seed apologised again.

“Oh, don’t you worry about that, you’ll move very shortly.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re so small, the wind will pick you up and carry you away,” said the stone and the seed began to worry.

“Yes, I suppose it might,” said the seed

“Or if the wind doesn’t take you, the rain will come and wash you away,” continued the stone.

“Oh dear,” said the seed.

“Or if the wind doesn’t take you, or the rain doesn’t wash you away, you will be eaten. Just look over there,” said the stone.

The seed looked into the distance to see another seed sitting on the ground. Suddenly a bird swooped down, picked up the distant seed in its beak and swallowed it whole.

“You see,” said the stone, “If the wind doesn’t take you and the rain doesn’t wash you away, a bird will come and gobble you up. Now, if you’ll kindly be quiet, I’m going back to sleep.”

The seed was now very worried indeed, but it had one question for the stone.

“Wait,” the seed said aloud, “why doesn’t the wind take you away, or the water wash you away or a bird gobble you up?”

“Because I am a stone, I am too strong for the wind to blow me away, too heavy for the water to wash me away and too large for a bird to gobble me up. Now, stop talking so I can rest,” said the stone, with a laugh, but the seed was still afraid.

“Would you mind if we kept talking? If I’m going to be blown away, washed away or gobbled up, I’d rather spend the time I have left not thinking about that fact and talking will take my mind of such a dreadful fate,” the seed asked hopefully, but the stone was not interested in conversation.

“We can’t talk, you’re a seed and I’m a stone, we are too different. You can talk to your own kind, but you can’t talk to me.”

“We can talk, we’re talking now,” the seed insisted.

“I know we can talk; I would just prefer that we didn’t. Now, you are going to do what I say because I am bigger, I am stronger and I was here first. What are you? You are just a seed, you are small, weak and pathetic,” sniffed the stone haughtily.

“That’s very rude of you,” retorted the seed.

“Well, it’s very rude of you to keep talking, so be quiet!” and with that, the stone fell asleep again.

“But who will I talk to?” cried the seed but the stone was asleep, and did not reply, so the seed had no choice but to remain silent.

For some time, the seed and the stone sat side by side, in total silence, and with each passing day, the seed grew more and more worried about being gobbled up. Then, one day, there was a loud noise, which woke up the stone.

“Was that you, seed? I told you to be quiet,” shouted the stone angrily, but the seed was quiet, the noise was coming from somewhere else. The noise was footsteps and the sound grew louder and louder until it was right behind the stone.

“Seed, seed! Help!” Cried the stone but the seed remained quiet, as it had promised, and the foot fell upon the stone. Yet, the foot went, as quickly as it had come, leaving just a large footprint beside the stone. The stone gasped and looked around, amazed to still be alive.

“By the earth, that was close!” the stone exclaimed, “Seed, did you see that?” but the seed did not reply.

“Seed?” The stone repeated but the seed was gone and, in its place, in the middle of the footprint, was a small hole about the size of, well, a seed. The stone was amazed.

“The seed’s been trampled into the ground,” the stone cried, to no one in particular, but although the stone felt a slight twinge of remorse it laughed.

“I told you you’d be gone soon! Didn’t I tell you? Well, not by trampling exactly, but I said this would happen. Now, at last, I can get some peace,” said the stone and it settled down to enjoy a well-earned rest.

However, as the stone was resting, the seed was growing underground. Slowly and silently, the seed grew roots, then a stalk. As the roots grew deeper, the stalk grew taller until it pushed out of the ground and kept on growing. The stalk grew taller and thicker until it became a trunk. From the trunk grew branches, from the branches grew leaves and everything kept growing and growing until the seed was a mighty tree.

The wind blew hard but the tree stood strong. The rain fell hard but the tree grew taller. The birds came, but they didn’t gobble it up, instead, they made the tree their home.

The tree was now so big that it pushed against the stone, waking it up for a second time.

“What’s going on? Who are you?” said the stone but the tree did not reply.

“Mother of nature, I know you, you’re the seed! But you don’t look like the seed anymore. Why, you’re bigger than the seed, stronger than the seed, heavier than the seed,” and once the stone heard its own words echoing around the forest, it paused and looked at itself.

“Why, you’re bigger than me, stronger than me, heavier than me!” said the stone.

The stone tried to rest, but couldn’t knowing that at any moment the tree could shed a branch and its great weight might crush the stone to powder. The stone worried about this for many months and finally when it could bear the thought of being smashed to atoms no more, the stone spoke to the tree again.

“Seed, I mean, tree, I can talk now, if you’d like,” the stone said, but the tree remained silent and the silence made the stone angry.

“Seed! Talk to me!” cried the stone, however, the tree was so tall, it could not hear the stone. In fact, the tree was so tall, it was as tall as all the other trees.

“Hello,” said one of the other trees.

“Hello. I’m Seed,” said the former seed and the other trees laughed.

“You were a seed, we were all seeds, but you’re a tree now and you need not worry.” And indeed, the tree didn’t worry ever again about wind, rain, birds, footsteps or even stones.

ANAX.

PORTRAIT OF HER

It is all happening now. It is faded like a memory, but for me, it is all in the present. For me there is no past or future, only the now. My condition is hard to grasp, but I am attempting to understand.

I am drawing short breaths. They are my last. I am drawing long breaths. They are my first.

My life and hers are simultaneous. I am adding two white specks to her eyes and she comes alive. She draws long breaths. Her eyes are sparkling. I am grasping for her name, but I cannot remember. She helps me find the past, but I lose the present. Her breaths are short and so are mine. It all happens at once.

I am grasping for what I cannot hold. She is standing over me, the only sparkle in her eyes is the glisten of tears. She is kneeling beside me. She is asking again, but I cannot answer. I am grasping for her name, but I cannot remember, I do not know who she is.

Her name is Katie. She is my daughter. She is a baby, she is a child, she is a woman. She is dying in front of me. Short breaths, grasping for air she cannot hold. Her eyes are sparkling as she stretches up to give me the picture of us that she drew. I am framing the picture and hanging it up in my office. I am doing this so that when I see it, I will think of her.

I am a child and old Norton is showing me statues. Their eyes are dull, glossed over with white. He explains that they used to be painted bright colours and when the eyes were painted, they were alive, but now the paint has washed away and the eyes are dull. My painting is not finished yet. Her eyes are dull. Norton is explaining that life is in the eyes. I am adding two white specks to her eyes and my painting comes alive. Her eyes are sparkling.

Reams of timetables and budgets are sitting on my lap, Katie is drawing beside me, our dog Wassily between us. Katie is showing me the finished drawing. She is explaining that Wassily can wear the helmet she has designed and be able to talk. I am at my first exhibition, no one has come. I am telling Katie that she should make her helmet, she shouldn’t give up.

The room is warm. A woman who says she is my daughter is showing me pictures I am not in. She is holding up a picture of our dog Wassily. I am remembering Wassily. I am remembering Katie. I am in a cool white room. The doctor is explaining that my disease is getting worse. The doctor is talking more to Katie than she is to me. She explains that Alzheimer’s can lead to dementia, which could lead to my death. There is no cure. I don’t tell Katie that I am afraid.

Old Norton’s face is staring at me. I am trying to capture what I remember of the man. I am a young woman with paint in my hair. I am adding two white dots to his eyes and he comes alive. The portrait is not him, but it implies him. Dozens of faces are staring at me. With each face I paint, I become more adept at encapsulating these people, their lives, their essence. I am interviewing for a part-time job in a gallery. I am staring at those great paintings, their subjects long forgotten. I am daydreaming of when my portraits hang alongside them. I am in my empty exhibition; my poor imitations of faces feel dull and lifeless. I am being offered a promotion that will leave no time for my own work. I am saying yes. My paintings are in a trunk in my attic, their subjects long forgotten.

Clutching a crumpled letter, Katie is asking me if she should take the job that will leave her no time for her own work. I am smiling, I am saying no, I am saying she shouldn’t give up. Katie is releasing her first product, an implant that can map a person’s mind. She is telling me she is calling it ‘portrait’, for me. Her eyes are sparkling.

I am framing Katie’s drawing of us and hanging it in my office in the gallery. Her work hangs alongside those great paintings. I am smiling, when I see it, I will think of her. The drawing is hanging in my house. I am an old woman. I am looking at the drawing Katie drew and I do not know who drew it. I am searching for the memory but it is lost. I am in my home, but I am lost. I am with my friends and family, but I am alone. I am reaching for the thoughts but they are gone and I cannot hold them.

Katie is tired, I have upset her because I am forgetting more and more. I am telling her I am afraid. She is apologising. She is thinking. Her eyes are sparkling. She says she can help. I am being scanned. I am being interviewed. I am being studied. I am being sedated for surgery. I am waking up. I am touching the back of my neck, feeling a small bump where one of Katie’s portraits lies. Katie is smiling, asking how I feel, if I recognise her. I am reaching out for the name and I am finally holding it. My memories are flooding back to me. I am remembering Wassily, old Norton and all the faces in the gallery. I am reaching to remember and Katie’s portrait device is feeding me the feeling. She is helping me find my past.

I am drawing short breaths. The sheets are too clean. My life is returning to me. I am exercising. I am painting. The portrait device is powerful, my memories are clearer than they were before my mind deteriorated. I am painting one person, but I am remembering every face I ever painted, every subject that ever sat for me. I am painting everyone I ever knew at the same time. I am staring at a marble-eyed statue. I am studying the creases in the face of the gallery owner. I am holding Katie in my arms for the first time, I’m telling her I’ll never let go of this moment.

I am holding tight. Too tight. I can hold my memories, but little else. I reach out for the present, but I cannot grasp it. What is happening right now? Am I that child in school who is learning to draw or am I the older mother, teaching my child to draw? Am I the old woman, lying in bed, drawing her final short breaths or am I stood beside the bed watching that old woman? I am agreeing to Katie’s procedure. Katie is helping me find the past. Katie is helping me lose the present.

Katie is staring at me. I am lost in my memories. She is stretching up to show me what she has drawn. Katie is saying that I am lost again, that I don’t know my own daughter, but I do know her. Her name is Katie. She is my daughter. She is a baby, she is a child, she is an old woman. There are complications following a car accident. I am there beside her. The sheets are too clean. She is taking short breaths, grasping for air she cannot hold. Her eyes are sparkling as she pleads for one more story before bed. I am reading her just one more.

I am drawing long breaths, my first breaths. I am being embraced. A distant feeling. I am holding her. The sheets are too clean. I am drawing short breaths, grasping for what I cannot hold. Just a moment longer with my memories. A soft static is rising through my body, behind it there is no feeling. It is rising to my mind. It is cool and lifting, but it is dark. I am seeing her whole life; it all happens at once. She is still here. Her life is encapsulated in my mind, in my memories. The portrait of me is a portrait of her. My eyes are sparkling before the paint is washed away.

ANAX

[Fragment long-longlisted for the Bricklane Bookshop Short Story Prize]