Pongo #68

Channel 22

Thanks guys. Today’s guest taleteller is none other than the star of new thriller “Skin Bitch”, Ms Hellin Fova!

Glad to be here, Popun.

So what will you be giving us today? Fairy tale? Horror story? If your character’s experiences are anything to go by, I bet you could tell us a good horror story.

Maybe, maybe. No, today, I’d like to tell a cautionary tale. It's fictional, but it doesn't have a moral, only advice which the listener may or may not wish to heed.

Do go on.

Thank you. The girl stared into the puddle. All around her were the last rags of snow, blitzed by the council at the larval stage with tonnes of orange grit. Cars roamed, screeched, fell hostage to red lights. A motorbike revved loudly behind a cyclist, causing them to skid, jamming handlebar end into pubic bone with a cry.

There was no reflection to be found in the puddle. At least this way, she wouldn't snap out of staring three hours later, with a shopping list of things she hated about her face. Maybe even a to-do list.

She caught herself looking in the windows of electrical shops, trying despite resolution to catch a glimpse of herself in the dark of an off TV screen. Each one refused to go dark, showing over and over again the clip of the long distance runner who saves a sprint finish, gives her all to take gold, then wonders why nobody applauds her win, as the other runners fly past her to a bell she never heard, into the final lap. It was always screened on Funniest Bloopers shows – TV within TV. The girl never found it funny, unable to take her eyes off the crestfallen athlete, yanked off the podium with nowhere to go, nothing to do but stand in front of the firing squad of paparazzi, struggling to locate that lost lap she MUST have run, unable to even cry.

The girl had never been an athlete, but every day felt like standing around while the others ran past her and one TV producer, sat in the crowd, giggled openly. The legs rushing past her reached like ladders into the clouds as she stared into the gummed pavement.

Every day she rang a premium rate number to be told her skin looked like porcelain. The message varied if you needed an extra hit before breakfast, but the trick was never to ring it more than ten times. Ten was how many new messages BeautyBackrub had deigned to record each day, so after ten, you couldn’t fail to get a repeat message, exposing the pulleys beneath the reassurance that you were beautiful. Even if you quit at eight, it was still a little like Russian Roulette – there was always the chance that the random generator would parrot its last utterance, telling you all over again that “your smile is exquisite. It’s like stars in strawberries. No wonder people look at you and want to kiss you or be you. And they do. You just haven’t noticed.”

The phrase gathered sarcasm like cat hair with every repetition. The girl knew the key was to ring once then focus on matt surfaces until the clock and the earth swung round once more, and she could dial, confident that the voice would be equipped with fresh flattery. In between then and now, well that was up to her. It was a full time occupation just trying to stamp and shatter the hours and dodge the gauntlet of mirrors seemingly everywhere.

All around, you could see people cradling phones against their heads, nuzzling against the plastic, clinging to the voice. The same voice, different randomly generated phrases, hot like radiation against the ear. The magazine span.

The End. Thanks a lot folks.

Oh! Right, well…thank you Hellin. Will we be getting Part Two next week? What’s going to happen to this girl and do we get to know her name?

No, that’s the end.

Right. Right. OK. Right, well let’s have a word from our sponsors, shall we?