If... I can prove my singing and writing, then by definition, not all of this can be a fantasy. I know I self healed the fog of anxiety. Human brains are not meant to spin. They move from point to point.

Prologue  
‘… He sees your thoughts as sin,
Exposed and bare like skin,
I am in service to the muse.
Forever lost, unsought,
He comes when I have not,
My final service to the muse.’
 
The climatic line sheered the air: rays of sunshine, unveiling a frozen morning. The raw melancholy distilled throughout the contestant’s performance continued to shiver the entire audience, as if the whole herd of them had just been released from a naked embrace.
She bobbed into a bow… And the Glasgow Arena detonated. The singer was in her thirties, and petite, with arresting, green eyes. She looked pale under the blazing spotlights. The crowd’s thunder continued; she beamed back, waving.
‘Amazing!’ Johnny Gale—one of the “Talent Attack” judges—declared into his microphone. Johnny’s cheeks were webbed with purple veins: testifying to a fondness for hard liquor. He had, however, managed some of the most successful pop acts in Britain over the past two decades.
Pauline Austin—the second “Talent Attack” judge—wiped at the tears trickling down her Botox cheekbones. Pauline had packed out stadiums herself in her youth, and was no stranger to the admiration of crowds.  
‘Marvellous,’ she gushed.
‘Thank you,’ the contestant said, in a guttural, Glaswegian accent. ‘I’m Alison. I’d like tae thank my mum, my dad, my boyfriend… Anyone who’s ever shown me support. This is a dream come true!’  
‘You truly are a “Talent Attack”!’ Damien Powell interjected, rising to his feet to join with the applause.  
Slim and in his fifties, with a full head of black hair, Damien—the record-industry magnate in charge of “Talent Attack”—grinned at Alison. His smile never touched his wolf’s eyes though; he weighed Alison, like a lamb strayed from the flock.
‘I didnae come here tae compete, actually,’ Alison replied. ‘In fact, you can eat my arse!’  
Stunned murmurs exploded amongst the stands. The judges were poleaxed.  
‘You can’t say that!’ Damien exclaimed. ‘You’re live on…’
‘Fuck you,’ Alison replied. ‘You dobber.’  
The audience fell into terse silence. Some rose to their feet, hands over their mouths. Damien’s jaw clenched; his expression was an axe descending. The other judges glanced away, each discovering something in the floorboards beneath their feet.
‘I know what you are,’ Alison continued, showing each of the judges—in turn—the bird. ‘A cancer! Where are the great artists of this era, those who would bring culture and support tae the disaffected? Yous ram money down the throats of any wae ability when you’ve less than I dae in one finger! Wanks!’  
She strode down the stage’s steps and forged towards the exit; a hubbub swelled in her wake.  
‘I am deeply sorry,’ Pauline said, addressing the audience. ‘We never suspected that anyone could show such disrespect. We’re appalled at her language…’
‘Fuck!’  
Damien’s booming cry had been picked up by an errant mic. Pauline yelped. Johnny leaned into Damien and placed a consoling hand around his shoulder.  
‘We’re live,’ he hissed into Damien’s ear. ‘The show must…’  
The whine of a guitar cut Johnny off, loud, even through the amphitheatre’s doors.  
‘A phone,’ Damien snarled. A tic pulsed above his left eye. ‘We cannot work in these conditions! Get me the police, now!’  
An assistant scurried a mobile over, which Damien snatched.  
‘This is Damien Powell!’ he snarled. ‘I am trying to run a show here and this woman, this Alison…’  
There was a pause as Damien listened.  
‘What do you mean, you’re aware of the situation?’  
His mouth formed an “O” as he stared at the cameras, as if noticing them for the first time.  
‘You must also be aware,’ he demanded, mopping his brow, ‘that we are a multimillion-pound enterprise?’  
He listened intently to the reply.  
‘Thank you!’ he barked, and stormed from the Arena.
‘Follow him,’ Pauline said, snapping her fingers at a camera operator. ‘This is great telly.’
#
Damien screamed for security, who began clearing the spectators clogging his path.  
Alison’s vocals soared over the chaos:
 
‘My senses, so distinct, unique,
In this blue, bourgeoisie boutique,
I’ll tyrannise senescent skies,
Accumulate each major prize.
 
Appropriate lavish jewels,
Avoid the directives of fools,
Discern abundance with my touch,
In glossy magazines and such.
 
And never suspect another,    
And forever share love,
And predict consequence,
In complete confidence.
 
Alongside the righteous spectre,
I’ll imbibe ambrosial nectar,  
Will you soak in fortune's wellspring?
Will you vibrate Cupid's bowstring?
 
When they sink me into the ground,                
And celebrate around that mound,
I’ll sow dreams from another frontier,
Always relieving the palsy of fear.
 
And never suspect another,    
And forever share love,
And predict consequence,
In complete confidence.’
 
The camera operator emerged into summer sunshine, training his lens on Alison, who strutted atop a makeshift platform with her band. A generator churned the stench of petrol into the air while muscular roadies shoved back against the Arena’s own guards. Gigantic stage amps burst out the band’s sound: a maelstrom, sucking the gawking press ever closer to the stage.  
The song dissolved into a riot: screeching guitar, crashing cymbals, and reverberating bass.  
‘Hello Glasgow!’ Alison howled.
The drummer beat down a booming rhythm.  
The bassist throbbed a heartbeat.  
The guitarist pirouetted; instrument levelled at the heavens. She discharged an insurrection.  
‘Act your age!’ Damien shrieked, as a woman—ten years his senior—tried to get him to dance. Hands were propelled into the air. A skinny fellow whipped his T-shirt off to launch it at the stage.  
A flash of blue flared into the camera lens and its operator spun to find the source. Further down the boulevard, two police vans had halted and began disgorging officers.  
Their sergeant assumed point, clasping a megaphone. ‘This gathering is unlawful!’ he cried.
The music faltered. The roadies slunk away as the cops tramped closer. Boos sounded out.  
Someone amongst the crowd shouted, ‘Fuck the pigs!’  
Discontent rippled: either at the police, or at the person shouting, or both… It was hard to say. The sergeant scowled and fingered his holster, loaded with pepper spray. Alison spotted this and raised her hands, palms held out.  
‘Please,’ she beseeched. ‘If yous want tae hear mair, our album is available on Spotify. We are “Due to the Muse”…’  
‘How dare you plug your album on my show?’ Damien yelled, yanking onlookers from his path. ‘How dare you? Don’t you know who I am…’ A precisely thrown apple burst against the back of his head.  
‘They have roused a rabble!’ he sputtered. ‘They should all be arrested!’  
A hail of missiles whistled towards Damien: the police surged to slap handcuffs onto the band, who were hauled off towards the meat wagons. Damien—dripping refuse—reached the cameraman and switched the live feed off.
#
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Act One
No One
A pallid finger traces round my scars,
Her lingering caress, her fleeting smile,
Forever curses me into exile,
As moonlit waters guide travelling stars,
She ushers perpetual nightmares in,
Her lips, puckered to puncture like a rose,
A deceitful beak, emphasized in woe,
She sways intimately, her satin skin,
Disguises an abyss I must delve alone,
While her raven crown, of silken tresses,
Obscures a well befouled with poison wishes,
She offers me nothing, her heart is stone,
And reaches out, her leisurely embrace,
Escorts me down, down to my resting place.
 
 

Expect to hear me on the radio. I like dance music, and have found a producer. Messages of love and solidarity forthcoming