Vossey stood under the fluorescent orange streetlight on the pier feeling like a stupid, cold idiot, scolding herself for both ever believing he would show up and also for wearing such thin clothing in an attempt to appear sexy and alluring. 

She looked at her watch one more time, brushing past her rock-hard nipples. They were too pert to avoid at this stage of coldness. She saw it was 7:30pm before the first raindrop pointedly hit the watch face. He was half an hour late already; no point being wet as well as stupid, cold and idiotic. She turned and rushed back to the car park, narrowly avoiding the dump of rain that was casting in her specific direction.

She started her old bomb of a car and stared out the front window as the first thuds of heavy rain drummed their arrival in mercury-esque splashes on her windscreen. It’s a pity that I’m not in the rain, she thought to herself, because then no one could see my tears. 

The car radio ominously started playing light gospel music that she simultaneously took as a sign but also immediately denounced because if God existed he wouldn’t allow one of his children to live in such pain.

The swing in the attached playground swung back and forth in the wind and reminded her that her uterus was drying up and soon nobody would ever want her because she would hold no societal value or benefit as a mate.

Her chubby fingers gripped the steering wheel so tight her fat knuckles turned blue as she cried in great, heaving motions.

Her blue, ring less fingers. Anther big cry.

The ocean sea shelled over the reassuring hum of her engine and a group of miscreant youths appeared from a nearby pedestrian tunnel as she frantically cleaned her eyes, knowing that the only sight worse than a fat woman crying was a fat woman eating.

More people followed – did a football game just end? – as she assumed the role of a perfectly normal human being who sits in their car and stares not at a beach but the promise of a beach because don’t we all do that from time to time?

The crowd dispersed and her loneliness resumed which shamed her because the frantic rush for the appearance of normality was a welcome distraction in her lonely, cold and stupid life.

Joel was lightly play punching me as we rounded a corner and witnessed a man being held up at knifepoint. The play punch froze on what an observer may have called an affectionate bump as Joel and I scrambled back round the corner, out of sight.

“Wherearewegoingtodo?” Joel blurted in such a hurried fashion that it presented as one word.

“Chill, dude, chill,” I calmed him. “He didn’t see us. We’ll be OK.”

“What about the guy? Do we go save him?”

“Save him? What do you think we are, super heroes?” I peeked my head around the corner to ensure we weren’t squabbling over a moot point. The guy was still being held up. Argument still valid.

“But there’s three of us against one guy! With numbers alone…”

“That’s three times as many targets,” I barked with my super serious face on. “I’m not going to risk my life for that guy’s wallet. My life is worth more than the $20 he probably has in it.”

“It’s not about that, man,” Joel pleaded. “You’re going to stand by while another human being gets robbed at knife point?”

Just that moment the knifepoint tore down the road past us, loot in hand. Joel and I raced around the corner to the victim.

“Dude, are you OK?” We called as we neared. The man was getting back on his feet, presumably after a final scuttle. “We saw what happened.”

The man stopped mid-pat and stared through us. “You. Saw. It. Happening… and you did nothing? I could’ve been killed.”

“Look dude, we’re sorry, we were just trying to help.”

“Oh yeah? If you were really trying to help you would’ve done something when I had a fucking knife to my throat, jackass.”

The absolute truth took the air out of our lungs – I suspect more mine than Joel’s.

The man caught himself and adjusted. “I appreciate the help boys, but all I’m saying is: always do what you’d want others to do for you.”

“Duuuuude…” I said. “I’m boooooooored.”

Getting high and watching TV seemed like a great idea at the time. Phenomenal. But fast forward a few hours later… 

“You, uh, wanna watch a movie?” my stoner buddy Derrick asked.

“We have nothing,” I yawngroaned. “We’ve seen them all and they weren’t even that good the first time.” 

I idly flicked Cheetos at the dog, which had probably farted again but you would never smell it in the thick dense of this room anyway.

“Being a teenager SUCKS,” said an exasperated Derrick, retreading familiar territory for us both.

“I know right! Think about it: when we’re 19, we can be out Every. Single. Night.”

“Hittin’ on chicks,” chimed in the sleazebag in the corner.

I threw a pillow cushion at him. “Hittin’ on your mum.”

There was a knock at the door. I snap looked at Derrick with my mouth open. “Are we expecting anyone?” His eyebrows raised in shock said it all.

“Shit hidethebonghidethebonghidethebong!” He picked up the bong and frantically tiptoed towards the cabinet, sizing up holes and making a couple of false attempts as I frantically waved a tea towel under the ceiling fan.

“Who is it?” I called out between over exaggerated fans. “Open up,” I’m sure I heard a deep male voice reply. “THE COOOOOOOOOPS!” I hissed. “Oh man the cops! How did they know how did they know? My parents are gonna kill me.” I dropped the tea towel, jumped off the seat and ran to the mirror to check myself.

Derrick ran to me at the mirror and slapped me. Hard.

“Thanks man.”

I gave my cheeks are cursory glance in the reflection to make sure they weren’t red, wiped my eyes and fixed my long hair with a quick pat, tucking it behind my ears.

We’d been suspiciously long, so I ran to the front door, opening it and clearing my throat in one movement. In my best law-abiding voice, I dropped a suave, “Good evening…”

The Pakistani pizza delivery guy was courteous to a fault. “Your large meatlovers, sir.”

“Eh Tom?”

“Yeah Jarrod.”

“Check it,” Jerrod continued. “’ole in one.” He was indicating at the trash he just threw into the bin, certifiably in one toss.

“Nice one bruv,” said Tom. “Hey how’d you go with that sheila last night? ‘nother ‘ole in one dere?”

‘’ole in two,” Jerrod replied in  the cheeky manner that only a cockney could pull off, only it didn’t make sense the way Jerrod thought it did.

“You wha?”

“You know bruv. ‘er other ‘ole.”

“Ho ho, good one guv’nah.”

They lightly punched each other and made crude pelvic thrusts with their tongues out as they reached the newsagent.

“A quickpick for tonight’s game, thanks chap,” Tom said to the lotto saleschap.

“What’s dis den?” Jerrod teased. “You still floatin’ the clouds from last ngiht?”

“It’s £150 million tonight man. You’d be daft not ta.”

They walked out of the shop and on to the footpath. “What are your chances though dude? 200 million to one?”

“150 million to one: me,” Tom snapped back. “Besides, someone’s gotta be ‘the one’ man. Gotta get a ticket to try.” He punctuated his point by holding his ticket erect and poking out his tongue at his mate while turning to flash it at him while continuing to walk. Directly into traffic.

He barely has time to scream “shit”, but you would not have been able to hear him over the blare of the car’s horn anyway. As the brakes slammed hard, the car drifted sideways in a seemingly uncontrollable slide.

If it’s life that flashes before your eyes in the moment before death, Tom’s life could be surmised as an unfathomable wave of panic and regret. The thought lingered with him long enough to realise that the car had miraculously steered itself away from his immediate demise and into the other lane.

Jerrod has been stopped stunned only a step behind. “Bruv!” he called as he stepped forward and yanked him off the road and in to a warm man embrace that neither wished to acknowledge was more than welcome, it was needed.

“What the fuck, man,” Tom could only mutter as he patted his friend on the back. “I didn’t even see it coming.”

“That’s cause you weren’t looking, dickhead,” Jerrod expressed, harsh way that men are only allowed to display their emotions.

Stepping back on to the footpath and away from immediate demise, Tom and Jerrod continued walking as close as two males could without being, ya know, queer.

Neither thought to check for the ticket, which was in Tom’s clutches as he faced death head on but now lay discarded on the road and would later be revealed to no one to be the 200 million to one ticket.

The mist swirled over the dead body in the middle of the dark, grassy forest clearing.

“Who dunnit?” the detective muttered, becoming a caricature of himself. “Who killed this man?”

He was, of course, addressing the townfolk who stood circled round the corpse with flames burning atop torches like the mob from Frankenstein.

No one said it, but the collective thought boomed: Tyler. Tyler knew the cadaver – well, Tony, his name was – and had held a serious grudge against him since he ran off with his woman. The fact that Tony was insanely wealthy also contributed to his motive.

The body provided no answer, bar the fact it was clearly a blunt instrument to the head that finished the job.

The blacksmith looked meek as the detective strode towards him, puffing away thoughtfully. Where on earth did he get that tobacco pipe from anyway?

“Do you know anything about this?” the detective demanded, clearly referring to the anvil-like impression on Tony’s dead head.

“It was Tyler, sir!” the blacksmith gasped, relieving us all of the duty. “It had to be Tyler. We all know their history, and the last place Tony was seen alive was in the pub havin’ a right blue with Tyler.”

The detective gummed his pipe as he undoubtedly felt a respected, thinking detective should do, and asked, “Is that so?” raising an eyebrow as he did.

The town hummed an affirmative reply, most meaningfully from the publican, which appeared to sedate the detective as the wind picked up, blowing the fog away in the next clearing to reveal Tyler’s bloody corpse.

I laughed and giggled and entered the elevator, pressing the button for 15 in one smooth motion. “That’s what she said,” I retorted between my uncontrollable laughter at what was, frankly, another doozy.

Joey could only must a small smirk though. Weird, I thought, Joey usually appreciated a good that’s what she said. “What do you want to do tonight?” I asked when my breathing had recovered enough to talk properly.

“We’ll figure it out when we get up there,” Joey said, which I now realise was ominous but didn’t at the time.

Sadly my elevators don’t ding but the roar of the door opening once we reached the 15^th level was somewhat satisfying. We made small talk about the garbage chute – “I always go to put my garbage in apartment 16!” I playfully said, as the chute was adjacent – until we reached the front door. I fumbled with the keys and the locks – no reason, I’m just a little spastic – and cracked open the door to find all my friends and family stationed on my shitty, shitty furniture. Joey slapped his hand on my shoulder.

“It’s OK mate,” he said in a voice I assume he thought was caring but was actually creepy, “Come in. We just need to talk.”

My roommate Matt was sitting in the armchair at the head of the coffee table, two friends adopting the Joey-clasp on his shoulders as he wiped tears from his red, puffy eyes.

“What’s going on?” I asked, as this was clearly some sort of intervention. My mind raced like I was on speed. Again. Oh god, is that the problem? It’s been ages!

“Josh,” roommate Matt sobbed, “You… should… know!” He dramatically blurted out before breaking down uncontrollably.

“We just want you to see the effect you’re having on your loved ones,” said Luke, the smarmy cunt. Who invited him anyway?

“What?!” I screamed/demanded. “What what what? How is this meant to help if I don’t know what you’re talking about?”

“It’s the bathroom,” said smarmy cunt Luke. “It is… disgusting.”

“You never cleaaaaaan it!” Matt hollered, wilidly gesturing in the vague direction of the bathroom with his tissue-clenched paws.

“That’s not true,” I muttered. “I rinsed the bath tub just the other day.”

“That was SIX MONTHS AGO,” Matt heaved before once again breaking down. “You’re so far removed from reality you don’t even realise that that was last season!” Sob, sob, sob. “You have… you have to change.”

I’m being intervened… over this? The ridiculousness of the situation struck me harder than the putrid stench of peroxide. I relented. “Well, what can I do?” I exasperated.

“You just need to get down there and go for it,” was the answer.

As far as I was concerned, there was only one reply here. “That’s what she said.”

They do smell a bit. And what is with their teeth? Plus at home we have cancer centres; here they seem to have centres dedicated to putting moles on.

But, you don’t come to Thailand for the people, unless you’re a lonely elderly gentleman with money. You come for the shopping.

Cruising Patong mall, I was accosted – both in the physical and aural senses – by Thai after Thai with cheap wares. They were a bit much, I thought to myself as I playfully construed ‘Thai’ into forms like ‘Thai dye’ in my head and giggled quietly while burying myself in the search for unbelievably low-priced crap. A toothless wonder gummed at me from behind a case of watches.

“You like?” she asked a shell-shocked Caucasian for probably the 600^th time that day. I made the international sign for ‘just looking’ – fingers forks to my eyes that then forked the shelves – and continued looking. And then I saw it: the silver D&G watch I wanted. Like, spot on, the exact watch I wanted.

I remained coy to heighten my bartering power. “How much for, uh, this one?” I flatly asked, barely pointing at the watch of my dreams in order to not give the game away.

“Dis one?” she asked, pointing to some heinous CK abortion.

“No,” I spoke loudly and clearly and pointedly so that any foreigner could understand my perfect language, “That one.”

“300 baht,” she disinterestingly replied. I did the math in my head.  $10 is 75 baht, so $300 baht is… tick, tick, tick… $40! That watch goes for $400 in stores!

Stay cool Millie, stay cool. “I’ll give you 200 baht for it.” It was worth a shot. “275,” she fired back. I was never good at bargaining and was whipped into an orgasmic shopper’s frenzy about the low starting price, so took her first offer and slammed the 275 baht into her filthy hand so fast I’m surprised it’s still attached.

After navigating the cess-ridden, shit-stinking streets to get home, we all debriefed and sipped cocktails by the pool in our resort. Lyn showed off a sarong – uh, whatever, yay Lyn – and then it was my turn.

To maximise dramaticity, I ruffled and hid my arm into the shopping bag and yanked it out with my new life purpose upon my wrist to coincide with my intense announcement of said find. Gasps were heard in Beijing.

Stunning, I’m sure one of my admirers said among a din of praise – but it’s so hard to make out individual compliments when you’re drunk of the envy of others.

A voice penetrated over all others. “Where’d you get yours?” It was Carol, the bitchy little bitch bitch, her arm quite clearly adorned by a replica of my watch.

Patong mall, I replied, gazing lovingly at my watch that I’m absolutely sure was shinier and therefore more beautiful than hers.

“Just like the real ones!” she marveled, presumably talking about mine and not her piece of crap.  It’s true, I thought to myself, it is and I love it.

“Not bad for 200 baht,” she exclaimed ruefully, which hung thick in the air for the briefest microsecond before her dull fake ass watched bitch hand had to wipe my thrown cocktail off her stupid whore bitch smug face.

Her hair. Her hair, her hair, her hair.

The rain beat down hard outside as we lay enveloping each other under a duvet, warmed not by the heat of our bodies retained by the duck down but by how we felt for each other. The pierce of her eyes as they looked not into my eyes but through my soul. My soul was transparent before her yet she stayed because her soul was transparent to me too.

Our tangible lips met and re-introduced warmth to another part of our connected bodies. The saliva lubricated this ongoing connection as our jaws chomped out deep kissed. She kissed with her eyes open because she wanted to see, to experience every second. She looked at me. She looked at my hair too, then back through my exposed translucent soul.

Masterfully closing the kiss in the full, rich manner to which I’d come to adore, to live for, she continued to stare at me, my soul, my everything that has, was and will be.

“You,” she barely whispered as she tucked my hair behind my ear. She tucked another strand. It was so slow, like she didn’t want it to end and it was possible she could only live to tuck my hair while staring through my soul.

Another tuck and she allowed her hand to continue from my ear along to the back of my neck, which she then dragged gently to pull me in for another kiss as I melted in her arms and happily ceased being my own entity.

Argleton was a "phantom" settlement that appeared on Google Maps and Google Earth but does not actually exist. The supposed location of Argleton was just off the A59 road within the civil parish of Aughton in West Lancashire, England, which in reality is nothing more than empty fields.

“Doesn’t exist. Doesn’t exist. I’m so fucking tired of being told Argleton doesn’t exist.” Landon shook with rage.

There he stood, once again, in front of a newsstand; the marquee quire clearly stating that Argleton did not, in fact, exist.

Choosing to do something with his rage rather than let it simmer into a carcinogenic stress ball as usual, Lando stormed to the Argy Bargy – the pub whose name was a fun play on the local’s nickname for their beloved town, “Argy”.

The thock of a pre-thrown dart hitting the board echoed though the sparsely-populated pub as the hulking mass of Lando hulked through the saloon room, rage-crumpled copy of The Daily Mail in hand. The quiet din of the pub quietened further to a hum of whispers.

Lando hulk sauntered to the bar and assumed his usual preach position in front of the draught taps. “Are we gonna,” Lando started, his boom finally muffling the remaining hum, “sit around and take this?” He thrust the paper in the air to punctuate the point. Due to his tense grip over the masthead, the headline now read, ‘Tow    xist’.

Roy, stationed on what was affectionately known as Roy’s booze stool to regulars, looked up from his pint glass and muttered in the manner that only a British drunk could, “There’s no point getting a bee in your bonnet again, youngin.”

The pub hushed and turned its attention to Lando for a rebuttal. The tension was palpable.

“No point?” Lando yelled, exasperated. “No POINT?” He yelled louder, defiantly. “There are people out there saying that we are nothing. That we don’t contribute. That we aren’t even worth including. And you have the gall to sit there and tell me it’s not anything to get worked up about? Have you no PRIDE?” Lando’s pride was indicated by his arms opening in the vague direction of enveloping the town in a loving proud hug.

Roy didn’t flinch. “I’m as Argletonian as peppered tea,” he fired back, referring to a local delicacy. “But even you can surely admit they have a point?”

Lando crossed his arms, brought his feet together and with his expression completed a stance that body language experts would aptly describe as ‘engaged’. Go on, his body language said. Now, his eyebrows and slight nod demanded.

“You know as well as the next man that we don’t exist,” Roy flatly informed everyone listening of their inexistence.

Body language experts further defined the resulting lean from Lando towards Roy as engaged and pissed and probably about to throw a punch.

“I have no doubt you feel real,” Roy said, sensing diffusion was necessary to subvert a fist-face connection. “That is, after all, part of the trick. Part of the illusion.”

Lando, arms still crossed, pinched himself underneath his folded arms to confirm the validity of his existence.

There’s not a specific moment it begins. I’m just in rehab and have been in rehab and it’s OK that I’m in rehab because I need rehab.

Do you know where you are? a psychologist asks me. “Epworth,” I say, naming the rehab centre that had always had a name and I always knew its name.

How old are you? she asks. 26, I replied instantly. She bit down on her pen, disappointed. As she pulled it out of her mouth, she told me to think about it and she’d be back tomorrow.

So I thought about it. It’s 2008 – I know this for a fact because ‘Today’s date is October 9, 2008’ is written on the whiteboard in the room. It’s 2008 and I was born in July 198… 1? So that makes me 26.

Oh… wait… what day is it?

My mother arrived with chocolate. Legend. “Helloooooo,” she cooed at me with a long o while passing me some chocolate, “How are you today?”

“Good,” I said. “Little bored. Did you bring any chocolate?”

She looked at me and then down at the chocolate she’d given me as she walked in. “Oh! Chocolate! Thanks Mum!”

“What have you been doing?” She asked. “I’m a little bored,” I told her. “The psychologist came round today, though I think I failed. She asked how old I was and I said 26.”

“You’re 27,” Mum said all non-judgmental and motherly.

“Oh,” I replied, and tried to save face by deflecting with, “Like, I have to remember flash cards overnight and there was a picture of a flower, a dinner plate and dinosaur. I told her I’d just remember the three Ps: pot, plate and pterodactyl. She told me pterodactyl doesn’t have a P in it.”

“It does,” Mum said, “It’s silent.”

“I KNOW!” I gasped. “She doesn’t. I’m half retarded and even I know that.”

“You seem better today,” Mum said.

“How was I?” I asked.

“You’ve been a bit… confused,” Mum told me. “The other day you told me you’d just gotten back from New York.” I sorta knew I didn’t, but… did I? Something about the tone of Mum’s voice and my imprisonment in rehab told me I hadn’t.

Mum kissed me goodbye. “Best be getting home. Beat peak hour,” she said. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” I replied. “Oh, Mum – next time, can you please bring me some chocolate?”