eckyducky

i. I was thinking today about the ten-year talent.  As a generation, it spread through us like a virus, multiplying and developing sub-species and mutations, changing the way we spoke and interacted with language.  Words came cheap and fast, born from the tips of our thumbs.   For a decade there, we were the gods of predictive text.  Typing until our fingers became a flesh-coloured blur.  Many didn't even need to look at the key-pad: touch-type but don't think too hard.  If you over-analyse it the words fall apart.  Trust your thumbs and let communication flow across the void and onto your loved one's screen. 'Babe cant make it 2nite.  Mum

Jaime could not remember a time when she had not been an actor. Sometimes this frightened her. Her accent changed on a bi-monthly basis, she asked permission for hair cuts, flirted with influential homosexual men, cried on command and hurled herself in and out of wonderful and terrible worlds daily. 'How lucky I am' she would muse as she bent her head over a new script in a café.  'How lucky' as she hung, crucified off the skeletal structure of the not-yet-completed set, or heard the cries of the protesters outside of the premier holding signs saying 'Jesus hates you'.  'How very lucky' as she felt the eyes of the director consuming her