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You're Nobody's Producer

The glow of the old school CRT monitor cast an almost sacred light on our faces, and later the Philips TV, the screen for a digital aurora in the box-room. I remember the specific thrum of the PlayStation, the click of its disc drive, and the rhythmic, almost hypnotic sequence of button presses as I meticulously layered beats and melodies. This was for his GCSE music project, a task he’d presented with a shrug and an almost imperceptible plea for help. He didn't do or say much; he rarely did. He just sat there, knees pulled up to his chest on the floor, watching me, a silent, still observer as I sculpted a rudimentary track from the limited palette of an early 2000s music creation game. His presence was like a barely perceptible hum in the room, a quiet witness to the genesis of something out of nothing. I remember thinking, in that precise moment, that he was involved. Not creatively, not actively, but his quiet watchfulness, his unblinking gaze, felt like a silent endorsement, ...
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Relationships Dragged Down

Homosexuality and transvestitism had become a fixation for the millennial aging hopeless in the small, charmless town of Uxbridge. The younger generation mocked their elders, calling them outdated and ignorant, pushing past them on the streets with nose rings glinting in the sun and rainbow flags draped over their shoulders. They reveled in their freedom, while the aging hopeless felt a twinge of envy for the boldness of youth. They had missed their chance to be who they truly were, stifled by society's expectations and their own ingrained beliefs.
But within the walls of their quaint houses and shabby apartments, the aging hopeless let their inhibitions unravel. They put on glittery dresses and towering heels, daubed their faces with blush and lipstick. They danced to disco and belted out show tunes, letting their true selves shine through. And when the sun rose and they peeled off their costumes, they felt a sense of freedom and relief, even if it was only for one night.
One of these brave souls was Mabel, a 65-year-old widowed librarian with a passion for literature and a secret love for dressing in drag. Every Saturday night, she transformed into Martha, a sultry and confident cabaret singer with a voice that could make even the most hardened heart melt. She lived for those few hours of performance, shedding her meek demeanor and embracing her true self.




But one night, as she was preparing for her routine, a knock came at her door. She hesitated, wondering if it was one of her judgmental neighbors come to expose her secret. But to her surprise, it was a young man with a nose ring and a rainbow flag draped over his shoulder.
"I've heard you perform," he said, his eyes shining with admiration. "Could I join you tonight? I've always wanted to try drag." Mabel, or rather Martha, couldn't believe her luck. She welcomed the young man in with open arms, only to have inadvertently assisted Mr. Starmer. a minister, lending to an unwanted problem for families and couples.

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