To all my friends and family, you are cordially invited to my shindig extravaganza.

The time, place and date are all irrelevant. I can hear you asking hundreds of questions, but please ease your concerns, for it will all become clear in due time. You know me well enough now to understand that my intentions are never clear from the offset and to expect the unexpected.

I assure you, if you are reading this invitation, I am very fond of you and appreciate the relationship we have, in whatever shape and form that may be. I may be brave enough to say I love you. So, it is with open arms that I welcome you to my gathering where no one is gathered, it is with an open heart that I share my words with you, personally, while sharing them with others, and it is with an open mind that I believe you will be as entertained as I during the festivities.

Within this invitation, there is a link that will only be active for five days from the moment you access it. The link is to a performance I wrote and acted out myself. I use the word performance ever so lightly, as the reality, which I'm sure you will be attentive enough to perceive, is rather different. I encourage you to raise a glass as often as I do and drink with me. I also entreat you to not record it, just enjoy it for what it is.

My only hope is that you enjoy the performance as much as I did and it brings our fondest times and experiences together to the forefront of your memory. Treasure those memories, savour the exquisite tastes of laughter, sadness, excitement and adventure. Find solace in the moments of boredom where idle noise filled the space between us. Please, never forget every second we might have spent side by side. But most importantly of all, I hope this invitation and subsequent performance bring a smile to your face, a tear to your eye, and a hangover tomorrow.

I love you,
Matthew.

August was two days away, and Santiago was practising his date writing on his computer. Zero, one he typed, then another zero, then … his finger hesitated over the next key, a bead of sweat clung onto Santiago's forehead. He inhaled and closed his eyes. He pushed down the key. The number appeared on the screen, and Santiago opened his eyes, gazing at the two circles. He felt them staring back at him, taunting him. Santiago slammed his eyes shut again. After five quick breaths, he opened his left eye, focusing on the keyboard. He pressed 'enter', and the cursor jumped to a new line. Santiago typed the next date. Zero. Two. Zero. His finger stopped. He closed his eyes again. "What a weakling", a voice laughed. Santiago jumped up and looked around his office. "Who said that?" he asked the bookshelves and empty walls. The unknown voice whistled. "Down here, you pathetic example of what is considered an intelligent being", the voice spat. Santiago looked at his keyboard and grabbed the desk with both hands to steady himself. The number had peeled itself off the key and stood on small white legs made from the same typeface, glaring back at Santiago without eyes. The number laughed, but neither circle moved. Santiago sat down slowly, mouth open. He rubbed his eyes with his fists, but the number was still there. It tap danced across the top of the keyboard, making Santiago allow a grin to spread across his lips. The number danced the final taps, took a bow, and jumped at Santiago's face with a flying kick. "Die, you fucking loser!" was the number's war cry. Santiago raised his arms, but the number clung onto his sleeve with new typeface arms, wielding a knife in one hand. "Let me kill you, Santiago. I know I'm your worst fear", the number said while it tried to climb up Santiago's clothing. "No! Fuck off!" Santiago shouted as he ran around the office, flapping his arms, knocking the bookshelves and kicking over the small waste paper bin beside his desk. The number held on to the fabric of Santiago's shirt, plunging the small white knife into his forearm and using it to climb. Dots of blood began appearing through the shirt, like burst acne. Santiago winced with each stab and shook his arm like a hummingbird's wings, but the number cackled at him. "Oooh, I'm going to get ya", it said, swinging off the knife's handle and using the momentum to reach Santiago's elbow. "I'm going to cut your throat, you miserable twat!". Santiago screamed and sobbed, refusing to look at the animated number stabbing his forearm and insulting him. After several minutes of flapping, running, swearing, and stabbing, the number crashed to the ground with a little thud and the knife was flung from its typeface hand. Santiago crouched down, almost needing to get on his hands and knees. He looked at the pricks of blood up his forearm and laughed. He stood back up. "My octophobia ends here", he stated before stomping on the number. The number raised its arms. "No, please don't!" it said. Santiago looked at his blood-stained shirt, red polka dots scattered over a light blue background. He started to smile, then chuckle, and, finally, he erupted into laughter. "Why would I spare you?" he asked the number. "You aren't really a threat to me. You've done no more damage than a vicious wasp without any venom." "You're right. You're right", said the number between panicked breaths. "But together, we can take over the world. You have larger hands and can hold knives that cause real damage. I'm a mastermind. Together, we can achieve great things, Santiago". Santiago rubbed his chin while analysing his right hand. "Hmmm, what do you suggest?" he asked the number. "Pick me up, and let me tell you", said the number eight. Santiago picked the small white number off the floor, and placed him on his shoulder, close to his ear. The number climbed up into his earlobe and began whispering. Santiago nodded along, a villainous smile pushing his cheeks.

A piece of paper floated on the breeze down the street towards its salvation. Derek was walking out of his front door when the paper collided with his leg, sticking to the denim and soaking the material. He tried to kick it free, but after several unsuccessful attempts, he was forced to bend down and separate it from his jeans by hand. He was about to discard the paper, letting it continue its effortless flight, but something caught his eye. Lines and squiggles were printed over images, underlining numbers and ending in weird symbols. Derek turned the paper around in his hands, first left, then right. First, stopping at half a turn, then turning it full circle to view it from every position. "What the fuck?", he muttered. He stepped back inside. "Daaaaaad", he shouted from the hallway, "come look at this". David, Derek's dad was sixty years old and went to university before they were outlawed. He constantly felt like he had wasted his life and, yet, that it wasn't his fault either. He came down the stairs holding the bannister and took care on each step. His slippers slapped his heels with each one. "What do you want, Derek?" he asked once he reached the bottom. "Look at this", Derek said, thrusting the piece of paper into his father's hands. His father pulled out his glasses from his dressing gown pocket and opened the arms with his mouth before struggling to put them on. He looked down his nose at the paper. His eyes opened wide, and his mouth moved without making a sound. "Where did you get this?" he said, pushing the paper into the pocket of his gown. "It was flying down the street", Derek said, pointing at the door. "Get inside now!", David barked at his son. "Did anyone see you?" Derek shrugged his shoulders, "I didn't see anyone", he said. "What's going on dad, what is that?" David led his son into the back room, away from the street and any potential passerby who felt a tinge of curiosity. He crouched below the window and forced his son to do the same. Derek sighed but did as he was told. "These, my boy, are words", David whispered to Derek. "And they're trying to start a fucking revolution", he continued as a smile grew under his thick grey moustache.

Justin's body shook as he heard his name being announced. The crowd looked left and right, searching for him, waiting for him to stand and go to the platform. "Justin? Come on up, sweety pie", the hostess announced again. "We can wait for ever", she placed her hand over her eyebrows to better scan the crown. The person next to him nudged him twice, "I know it's you You're the only one not moving" he spat through his teeth before raising Justin's hand. "Here!", he shouted. "It's this guy". Justin took his time getting to his feet, but was sure to be stood before two guards dressed in teal uniforms with a larger than necessary V-neck came to grab him by the shoulders and escort him to the stage.

After the ceremony, Justin is taken to a small room in the Town Hall with nothing but an armchair and a small mirror. He picks up the mirror and turns it around, as he does, the door opens and his half-brother walks in. "I'm sorry", he whispers as he embraces Justin. "Take this, it will help you survive out there. I was told you're only allowed one non-lethal item, so I brought you this. Emmanuel placed a viagra pill and vibrating cock ring in Justin's hand. Justin looked at his half-brother with a puzzled expression. "Night's are going to get lonely out there, and who can think properly with all that tension built up?" Emmanuel said and began to smirk. The two half-brothers burst out laughing. Their tears of laughter quickly turned into tears of sadness and the two embraced once more to say goodbye.

I sat outside the bungalow throughout the night, with no movement. It wasn't until 6 am that the first light turned on behind stained glass, and 2 minutes later, it was back off. I saw no movement until 11 am when he finally stepped outside. He was wearing black tracksuit bottoms and a Pink Floyd t-shirt. He was still in his slippers, they looked comfortable and expensive, unlike the rest of his attire. The t-shirt was struggling to contain his gut, hanging just over the joggers' waistband, a small line of hair escaping the trousers and running to his belly button.

"How can she possibly think this guy is the guy?" I said to my camera, snapping photos of him in his doorway.

  He began walking. I gave him a minute head start and followed him to the corner shop. The carrier bag struggled to hold the weight of two pints of milk, a loaf of sliced bread and some other small bit I couldn't identify. He opened the packet of cigarettes with his teeth and took one, as he was distracted lighting the small pleasure, he saw me.

I chased him for three or four streets and he disappeared. I now had to report back with little to nothing, no new information, nothing useful, except that for a smoker, he can run like the clappers.

   "Shit...", I whispered, pulling out my burner phone from my pocket.

I love you he said I don’t love you back she replied That night he cried in the bath As the water turned red Neither of them were able to open up to love again.

“I can’t…” he said.

He looked at his lover through dirty glasses, sweat ridden hairs stuck to their lenses and a crack running across his left eye.

“You can’t what? Why?” He snapped.

“I can’t keep on going like this. Like us. I may be a superhero, but you’re my only weakness” he said.

“Super what?” He said, his face contorting sideways, eyebrows raising, mouth ajar, and a hand scratching the top of his head.

“We need to talk…” Super said.

Smoke rose from the bbq, the coals began losing the blackness, slowly turning white after an intense red glow. Hissing and spitting as fat drops upon its surface. The smell of cooking meat, beer and cigarettes swells in the air.