Tag Archives: Stories

FAME KILLS: The Bette Parker Story

Trigger happy paparazzo surrounded me.

They think I’m insane. They think I’m ugly. They think I’m beautiful. I step into traffic with racing cars speeding by; even the cars slow down because I am that important. Flash, flash. This is lush, and I can see the man that loves me front and center taking the photographs more thoughtfully than all of the others, and suddenly this is no longer just an exchange between the celebrity and the paparazzi. This is Da Vinci crafting Mona Lisa. I must pose and back up a little, so he can see all of me. This portrait shan’t go unfinished. He photographs me warmly. How he photographs me, I know its love. One paparazzo screams, “Miss Bette, Miss Bette Parker, you’re going to get hit by a car. Please, get out of the street!” Another paparazzo screams back, “Let her get hit, man.” Click, flash, click, flash. How sweet, they want me to be Marilyn Monroe, Princess Diana, Michael Jackson. No PR agent could book this kind of love.

Destiny was a friend of mine that followed me around since I was just a little girl. I used to think destiny was a benevolent pal of mine, but I think she was always secretly jealous. She always had to tag along and give me what I want, but she wanted what I had, so she would soil all of my kismet moments that she gave me. Destiny resented that her one purpose was to ensure that my life unfolded in the most magical way possible. Destiny didn’t want to introduce me to Hollywood, she had to introduce me to Hollywood, and that bitch did everything she could do to make sure that Hollywood ate me alive.


Scene 1: All of these girls are ugly, and desperate. You can smell it on them. The sun glimpses through the windows and they’re all memorizing their lines, and some are even wearing wigs to ensure that they look as believable as the character they’re gunning for. The director comes out, “Ms. Better Parker? You’re up first.” I better not blow it, I thought. I walk in his office with the script. I observe his warm eyebrows and strong fingers observing me from over his desk. My pussy begins to drip wet. Even my pussy knows I want to be a star. I put down the script, I heighten my skirt, I direct his hands to feel how bad me and my pussy want to see our names in light, and then in order to not blow it, I blow it. I blow him and I get the part of a lifetime. No wig necessary.

Scene 2: Red carpets are fun, and I love wearing Italian and French things that cascade down my back and thighs that will ensure to get me talked about tomorrow morning as long as that Sir Mercury boy doesn’t try to steal the show with his alleged performance art. Strategic nudity is a type of performance art too, isn’t it? I step outside of the black limousine on to the velvet blood that ran down the floor before me and the cameras begin to rejoice. “Miss Parker, is it true you’re dating Sir Mercury?” No, Sir Mercury is a fag. “Miss Parker, do you think you’ll take home the gold tonight?” Probably not, I didn’t blow anybody on the academy yet. “Bette Parker, what’s next?” I answer, “What’s next is not a question for the celebrity or artist to answer, dear. That’s a question for the beautiful public to decide. I am just glad to be now.” I love answering questions. I decide who I want to channel, and they eat it up. I sound like I am reading off of an script, and they call it old Hollywood. I didn’t take home the award, but I was talked about the next morning for my barely there leather couture creation from Italy. All’s fair in love and fame.

Scene 3: She’s going to ask me the most personal questions, and my publicist tells me to just answer because this is a landmark interview. I’m stuffed inside of a pencil skirt, with a sweater tucked in, with a high bun, a big gold watch for a touch of masculinity. The men to need to want to fuck me and the women need to want to, well, fuck me too. Nobody can second guess my desirability, but I must look like a viable option, not a threat. I must be likeable. This time, I must stay in character.

“Bette Parker, you have the world. How amazing is it being you?”
“Well, I must say, I feel like I deserve it.”
“You feel like you deserve it?”
“Well, yes.”
The audience doesn’t desire me, they envy me. I messed up.
“That sounds a bit entitled.”
“Yes, entitled.”




Scene 4: My career is over.

Scene 5: Everyone has their favorite drugs for different reasons, but I love weed with some cocaine sprinkled on top. It softens up my imagination and helps me be able to mold back into the superstar I once was, if only in my mind. The beautiful thing about rock bottom is that it helps you discover what really feeds you because that’s the first thing you reach for. Some reach for food, or security, I reached for the fame. I called the paparazzi every evening and told them where I’d be and I’d wear things that only an alien whore would find appropriate, and I found love for a few moments every evening. One photog in particular reminded me of that fateful day in the casting director’s office that the bitch, Destiny, set up for me. His fingers were strong, his eyebrows were warm, and my pussy still salivated by the idea of the chance of stardom.

Scene 6: He swam inside of me over satin covers and his dick was a camera that was interested only in the “authentic”, “real” me like a Mario Testino portrait. Half of me thought I was sleeping with the devil. The other half knew that I was sleeping with the man that gave me this fame I’ve always hoped for. I was disgusted. I was enthralled, and he was having an orgasm, and recording.

He says, “You fuck me like you’re on stage.”

“I am. It’s funny, when I first came to Hollywood, I was a twit thirsty for attention, and I got that attention by any means necessary.” He recorded me with eyes and I could tell I wasn’t have a conversation, I was recording for my documentary special. Maybe, a feature film release or maybe something intimate like a HBO special.
“But, maintaining the attention, then losing the attention and then fighting for the attention made me an artist. It turned me into a real performance artist of the new millennium. You know, being deliciously private in public because all you do, even what you do privately, is somehow designed to feed your adoring public. Oh, how I love the adoring public.”

Intermission: Barbra Streisand, Judy Garland, Better Parker. My mother wanted me to be a star, so she named me just like those Hollywood gals she grew up adoring. The night fell and my father didn’t see his little girl, I just know it, he saw one of those women in one of those glamorous films. He didn’t see missing teeth, pajamas, and immature eyes. He saw red lipstick, sequins, fur, and readiness. So, he whisked me away and took away my innocence and made a marquee out of me. I didn’t have any time to comprehend my new found stardom because that was the morning Princess Diana died and I couldn’t risk my tears smothering the flame of the torch that was obviously being passed down to me.




Scene 7: They found my home. I can hear the flashes from outside of my door, and I think if I were normal, I wouldn’t have heard it, but I’m the superhuman of reality. I’m a celebrity. So, I can hear my friends snapping and hustling in bushes. They love me so, even when the world rejects me. One is from Rolling Stone, I can tell by rhythm in his camera clicks. I invite him in.

“I’m from Rolling Stone.” I know. “I wanted to see if I can interview you for my piece. It’s a think-piece on you, I think you are one of the most important celebrities of our times, you know. I’d love for your perspective to be shared in this.” Of course, you can interview me, I think.

I say, “No.” He pleads, I pretend to ponder. I say, “Yes.” He asks me questions. The lot of them are boring, except the last one.

“What’s something someone wouldn’t know about you?”

“I feel useless when I eat fruit. Cut me, I only bleed. Cut the fruit and they pour sweetness and vitamins. I think my chase for celebrity has been me trying to compete with fruit.”

“I think you’re sweet,” he said.

We fucked. I fell in love, he wrote a story. I became even more of a train wreck, he was established as even more of a genius, and secretly, we became lovers.


Scene 8: The cars zipped by. “Miss Bette Parker, you’re going to get hit by a car,” one paparazzo said. “Let her get hit, man,” my man, my lover, my fruit said.

One car with headlights almost as bright as me made a legend out of me. It only took fifteen minutes for me to escape my famous fleshy body. I would never shop at Forever21, but as my heart beat slowed, I became ecstatic to be merchandised in Forever27 next to Amy Winehouse t-shirts and River Phoenix mugs.

It was grand, even the fall, in retrospect. I was the superstar, a crashing light that everyone marvels and envies, and all superstars know that one day it will one day fall like everyone else. It’s an existential brand of excellence that goes great with lobster and champagne, and I got to dine with this spectacular brand of ridiculousness that is stardom, even if just for a brief moment.

Cosmic Confessions From A Celestial Cunt

In a galaxy far, far away, there was a divorce. He was a mad Martian, I suppose. I was a celestial cunt, I’d say. Our arguments would dry up the Milky Way, and at night we’d stargaze and create our very own twilight. All the love we made while spreading the moon on crackers would just explode into constellations. We were playing space battleship! We’d return to our hearts, instead of Saturn. Star wars! We both won, until we both lost.

I should’ve known this pattern of exploding, volatile stars and serene space travel couldn’t last forever. Fighting, then making up couldn’t be all that I and my space cowboy could do. Soon enough during one of Mercury’s retrogrades, I’m sure, he decided that I was not the astronaut for him, leaving a heartbroken earthling out of me. I suppose, he was leaving me with just the world, no space. He was leaving me with just the dirt, no stars. He was leaving me as just a boy, not the universe. He took the universe right from underneath my feet, leaving me nothing but earth, not even that Neptune sound.

For a while, I dwelled on earth as if nothing happened. I certainly did give up what I loved so much, and I refused to even look at the sky, in fear it would remind me of a love loss. I purposely trekked only jungles, woodsy and concrete, but nothing celestial, nothing cosmic!

“No, no! The cosmos are no place for a boy like you!” my reflection would shout from my mirror, sometime last year. I agreed, plus, the world is vast. It is wide and big and magical. Who needed outer space when you had mother earth to walk on? “An artist of the 21st century!” my reflection would shout one night with a change of heart and appearance, sometime in October when the moon looked especially delectable. My reflection, one starry night, was no longer a heartbroken boy. My reflection was Venus, and I was able to make love and admiration just by what spilled out of my vanity mirror. Stardust! It was then; I realized the universe never left.

The universe was always right inside of me making the world that much bigger, that much wider, and that much more magical. I could only abandon it in the same way that the sun could attempt to abandon its own flames, to only realize the impossibility of the entire attempt. My starless time on earth was simply just a stop on my space odyssey. He, that alien to love, took nothing. I decided to hide everything. But now, liberation! Now, I realize I am more than a space oddity; I’m the whole goddamn galaxy. No need for me to ask to be taken to your leader because I now see, in that vanity mirror that holds Venus, that the leader is me, I am he. And everything else too and I am absolutely in love with astronomy, myself, and sci-fi one again. Star-struck!


Shane’s Serendipitous Stories Vol. 2

Some nights, much like tonight, my thoughts lead me to my bedroom window. The stars I see remind me of the spark in your eyes, so eventually the window leads me to my car. The radio is on; correction the radio is blasting in comparison to the quiet of the night, yet I hear no music. For my thoughts are so damn loud. I hear your laugh; I hear my name spoken through your voice. I hear a car horn, so I swerve back into my respective lane. I do not see the road 100 % clearly, for my memories are so vivid. I see your smile; I see a better version of myself through your brown eyes. I see a red light, so I stop. A car stops next to me as well. I don’t look, for I am scared of being let down or maybe I am scared of being proven right, but nonetheless I imagine. I imagine it’s you. I will it to be you. I convince myself that our soul’s forever connected has lead us both to this empty street. My conscious whispers Look. Look.  Then screams, Look! For you and her were meant to fill this street, this planet, and this universe with your love for one another. I glance at the clock it’s 2:24 AM. My eyes burn with fresh tears, my heart aches with unhealed wounds. My stomach flutters with anticipation. My soul cries for one more beginning.


The light is still red; I look over to the car next to me…

Shane’s Serendipitous Stories Vol.1: Goodbye old life

There were once 5,430,829 girls born in the United States in 1992.This story however, is only about one of them. In fact this story is about one, specific girl of the five million born in 1992, who met a specific boy in December of 2012.


The girl was twenty, exceptionally gifted, while also being conventionally beautiful, and on her way to a college degree a year and a half early.  She loved long walks in the park, but often made them on her own. Her life was filled with so much promise, but ironically so empty, and so absent of love . . .

The boy was nineteen, boyishly handsome, and secretly smart. However, the secret was extremely well kept, being that he had nothing to show for it, but a high school G.E.D. and a lengthy rap sheet. He had a pending court case, and the odds were not in his favor. However he had loved every year of the nineteen he lived, and was not only content, but also somewhere deep down . . . He was still happy.


So, maybe on that cool, December night, the girl lays awake in her dorm room studying. Until she gets to a point where her mind isn’t taking in the words on the book in front of her, but drifting to memories she’d like nothing more than to forget. Just maybe, she decides it’s best to close the book, throw a heavy sweater on, and let the breeze act as Alzheimer’s, if only for an hour, from a campus bench.

Maybe the boy lays awake in bed counting down the days until his impending doomsday. He walks down to a kitchen barstool, and stares at the bare refrigerator door. He tries to remember when he stopped getting A’s to decorate it, and when his mom had chalked his genius to a phase of the past, and removed the one’s he had gotten altogether. He can’t. He cries. Just maybe with sore eyes and a heavy heart, he decides to take a drive to the local campus to see what he truly could have been.  Perhaps he stands on the campus’s pitcher’s mound. He throws an imaginary curve ball.


“Strike one!” He yells

He throws again.

“Strike two!”

And again.

“Strike three, and you’re out!” He jumps up and down, excited with his imaginary victory. His smile touches everything but his eyes.

He wanders around for about an hour more, continuing in his reenactment of all the things he could, and should have been. Finally his reenactment leads him to the campus bench. To her.


“Hey.” He says.

“Good God!” She’s startled.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. I meant . . . I mean you no harm. I swear.” He offers.

“It’s fine, I just didn’t hear you approach. I was just leaving anyway. I have lots of um studying and reading to do.” She says with regained composure.


She gets up to leave, but something tells the boy to grab her hand, perhaps maybe the same something that led the boy to campus.


“Please, don’t go on my account. We don’t even have to talk, it’d just be nice sitting on a bench next to a beautiful stranger sharing nothing, but the silence and the breeze.” He says to her. “I imagine I would have done that a lot.” He whispers to himself.


The girl looks down at his hand holding hers, she’s in shock. She wants to scream. She wants pull away, and head back to her dorm. She wants to not trust the boy, but something in her won’t allow it, perhaps the same something that led her to the campus bench.


“Okay.” She says, and sit’s back down.

The silence lasted all but thirty seconds.

“You’re most beautiful when no one’s looking.” The boy speaks into the wind.

“Excuse me?” She fire’s back.

He smiles. “My mom used to always say that a woman is most beautiful when she’s sure no one’s looking, and that it was a crying shame at that.” He smiles at the memory. “And just now when I was walking up it amazed me how effortlessly your hair was blowing in the wind, and how perfectly loose your sweater fit you. And now as I sit some five inches away from you, I can see how naturally beautiful you are. And no offence, but you were probably sure no one else would be out here tonight.”


She flashes an awkward smile.

“It’s a compliment I swear.”  He laughs.

“Well thank you. You’re sweet.”  She genuinely smiles.


That moment of sincerity was all the boy needed, and the moment of sweetness was all she needed. They began probing each other’s deepest thoughts for hours. She told him things she’d only tell paper like “I’ve never kissed someone who wasn’t drunk, and I think that means something. I just don’t know what.” and he told her things he’d only tell god like “I think I was meant to have some affect on people’s lives, but now I fear it’s to late. That I’ve missed all the buses that have come my way, heading for my destiny.”


The sun begins to ascend in the horizon.

“Absolutely beautiful.” The boy says.

“Isn’t it, I’ve always loved sun rise.” She responds, her eyes fixed on the horizon.

“That’s not what I meant.”  He commands.

She turns to face him, he’s still staring off into the horizon.

He continues. “This night was absolutely beautiful, you are absolutely beautiful. To me, this sun rise is only a painful reminder that it’s coming to an end.”

She grabs his hand, and he turns to face her. She smiles. “Amazing, how two people can stare at the same thing, yet feel two completely different things.”

“Indeed.” He smiles back.

“Do you ever—“ She’s cut off.

He’s kissed her.  She kisses back.

“It does mean something.” He says when they break apart. She’s a mixture of smiles, and different shades of red.  “No one deserves to not know what it is like to be truly wanted. To be truly loved . . . touched . . . kissed.  Let my lips wash away the stain of a drunken uncle at every family dinner, or the quarterback in the bathroom of your first high school party, and the second basemen in the basement of you’re first college party. You’ve deserved better. You’ll always deserve better than any one this world has to offer you.”


She begins to cry.


“There’s no tang of alcohol, no stench of regret. No ironic feeling that I somehow was taking advantage of them” She says as she cries harder.

He comforts her for a while.

“I need to tell you something.” She finally announces through now soft sobs.

“What is it?”

“You were wrong. It’s not to late. You’ve caught your bus. You’ve changed my life forever here on this bench. The world may not know, nor the thousands of people who will sit on this bench later on today, but I will. I hope that means something to you. You’re serendipity at it’s finest.”

“It means everything.” The boy admits

They share sympathetic smiles, nods, and kisses. That’s all they exchange. No numbers, no emails, no social media information. They take with them something much more infinite, and meaningful.

They go their separate ways.

“Goodbye old life.” They both whisper into the wind.


Food For Thought

Last night I lay in a beautiful girl’s bed, whom by some mistake made by the universe, I have been blessed enough to call mine for some time now.  However that’s besides the point, and simply my mind wandering to the one I love. The true point is that  I lay in her bed last night a frustrated dreamer. I lay in her bed, and gave way to human nature. Being that I was so caught up in thoughts of a better future, that I was not enjoying the very good, and fortunate present. We all give way to this part of nature at some point in our lives, and that is completely fine, so long as we don’t lose ourselves to it.  Because losing ourselves to anything, love included, is the greatest crime one can commit on oneself. Staying on subject,  as I lay, I began truly thinking. In a conclusion of thoughts, or more so a peak, being that i never stop truly thinking,  I decided that life was a neighborhood. A very nice in some parts, bad in others, long neighborhood, in which we all have our respective houses. Even if we don’t know which one yet, we all still have our respective house. This is important, or maybe it isn’t  but in my mind this whole thought is important, and needs to be put in words, and in turn read. We also have our own respective speed bumps in said neighborhood of life, and for me college is that, well those speed bumps  You see I know where I want to go in this neighborhood, and in truth it may be a long ways into the neighborhood, and I may be met with the neighbors of “Job I don’t really want.” and “Rejection.” etc . . . but I am ready to begin that journey nonetheless. That is without the constant, one after the other speed bumps that college is for me. For some people speed bumps are meant to keep you safe,  other’s around you safe, or let you know you’re going a little or alot to fast.  For others, including me all speed bumps do is slow you down, from getting to a destination that you know is extremely plausible for you to arrive at had the speed bump not been there at all.  I realize that I could be onto something, or plainly another college student who clearly has no idea about the real world. This remains to be seen, and I won’t make any rash decisions. I’ll also admit that  during my giving way to Human nature all I could think about was how the speed bump of college was simply slowing me down, but as I begin to find myself again, I can say  that the speed bump could also be keeping me safe. This remains to be seen as well, but only time will tell. “But only time will tell.” This can honestly be the answer to any question, but that’s a discussion for another time. Getting back on subject for one last time,  I wholeheartedly  thought this needed to be read, I hope after doing so, you share my sentiments. I also hope that we all make it to our respective houses in the “Good” part of the neighborhood.


“Just to give a little background” by Corinne Stevie

In this entry of our Poptimism series, Miami based artist Corinne Stevie tells a story to her self four years ago.

I wanted to take the time out to break down the philosophy behind my latest EP D.I.M. D.I.M is short for “Did it Myself.” I decided to go with this as the title because it really represents where I’m at and how far I’ve come with everything I’m doing in my life art, music, relationships, jobs and whatever.

Just to give a little background. I dropped my first ever solo EP in 2008. This was around the time I was still in college and I was living in my little studio in the ATL. My first EP called The Oddity was something that happened organically. I had just bought a myself a new computer, microphone and everything else I needed to build my little studio. But I did not know that the material I was recording would later be stringed to together to make my first EP. I thought I was just recording for enjoyment.

Prior to that, while I was in high school in the early 2000’s I started to record myself and my other rapping buddies for fun in my mom’s living room. From there me and my friends recorded a couple of mixtapes and we just shared them online, in school, and wherever else we could. Since then I’ve always had a serious interest in the process of writing, recording,and editing music.

So to fast forward back to the future. I’ve always took it upon myself to do what I wanted to do. Somewhere in my gut I always knew that if I wanted to do art, music, or designing, I was going to have to get it done myself. Of course along the way I’ve had people encourage me and be really supportive but I still had to be my first fan and be my first source of motivation to keep going.

With that being said the “D.I.M” EP was a project that came together almost the same way my first EP did,very organically. With each song I recorded my intentions were to have fun and work on my craft of recording and writing. As I continued to work on the art and music things fell into place.

Poptimism: “Start Today, Not Tomorrow” by Randy Conner

It’s been a year since Randy Conner’s first solo exhibition. With no definite plans for a new exhibition, he’s still creating daily. So much his friends tell him he has mental problems. His approach could be called “anything goes,” whether he’s achieving realism or using his “anything goes” approach, Randy does whatever he wants to do. “I think everyone should just do whatever they want to do. Saying, ‘It’s supposed to be done this way or that way’, that’s just dumb. It’s so limiting, and it makes art boring,” Randy explains.

In this entry of our Poptimism series, self-taught artist Randy Conner tells a story about his current life to his five-years-ago self.

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Art and Aesthetic Aces: Scott G. Brooks Finds Beauty in the Grotesque

Scott G Brooks lives and works in Washington, DC. His subject matter ranges from simple portraiture to intricate narratives. In his paintings, he takes social, psychological, and political issues and injects them with a dark sense of humor. Anatomical distortions separate the figures from the photographic ideal, which gives him the freedom to create his own distorted reality. His work is described as twisted and offbeat, sentimental, and disturbing.

Continue reading Art and Aesthetic Aces: Scott G. Brooks Finds Beauty in the Grotesque