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Mercury Rising There were two useful skills I learnt from Drama lessons with the matronising Mrs Box. The first skill was how to lie. An essential. But the second was camouflage, magik, illusions. Drama taught me how to become someone else, how to shift my skin and psyche into a better-worse-pure-dirty different. When I needed to escape from my fragile awkward form, I became Mercury. It flowed under my skin poison poison poison until I died, submitted to the best mistress I’d ever had. Mercury could do anything. She was voodoo for lost souls, drugs for rainy daze. When I was mercury, I didn’t trip over my feet, but glided like the mist at shows. Mercury danced in me like a dervish, and I could never stop never wanted to stop, ditzy high highness, my goddess. I guess I was possessed. But heaven doesn’t last forever. The bible lies. He was heat, the glass, he made me rise, Mercury rising in my veins. And I loved him. I loved him when I wasn’t Mercury, I loved him in the chaos and the in the quiet. But you could say he was an addict. He wanted the mercury like I did but I could never lie completely. Mercury was only camouflage, war paint that washes off in streaks in the rain and hot tears, hiding nothing underneath. That’s all I was without her, nothing, and he wanted everything. He found me out. And then the mercury really hit home. I invited her in, like some kinda Vampirella, and now she’d seduced my love, drank it dry. I mean, I’d wanted this; I’d no one to blame. I was stupid, selfish, I wanted him any way I could, even if he wasn’t really mine, because I wasn’t really me. I’d asked for it, begged, sacrificed. But black curses always turn on you thrice-fold. They always said the Mercury would send you mad in the end.
Don’t Get Me Wrong I am writing this article on labels, the little tags we all carry round. I was asked today by an a girl I’ve known since primary school, “What are you?” “Eh?” I replied, bemused. “Erm, human, at least the last time I checked. Although…” “No, no, I don’t mean that. Are you a Goth?” (The last word said like a dirty word). “Kinda, if you like”. “Well, are you a hippy then?” “Whatever. I’m just me”, to which she replied impatiently; “Yeah, I KNOW, but what ARE you?” What do you say to that? Just because I look and act a little different from her and her cookie-cutter friends, she feels she has to put me in a category. Why? Maybe it’s easier for her that way, so she can say, “Yeah, I know she’s weird, it’s cuz she’s a Goth”. Maybe she can’t deal with the fact it is possible to be yourself and express it outside of her sports-label-cliché lifestyle. Anyone who doesn’t fit he way society expects is labelled, usually in a derogatory way. Different people have different ideas of “normality”, and in turn, a different idea of what is not normal. One of my friends defines “Goth” as someone who wears black and listens to heavy rock music. By that definition, yes I am a Goth. However, another friend defies it as “someone who worships Satan and has sex in churches.” Which I do not (!), and therefore, am not a Goth. It’s a bit confusing. In my school (god bless it…), the term “gay” is an insult. People say, “How gay is that?” when they think something is stupid. I always shout at people when they use it like that, but the homophobia is so deep…Why don’t they see, being gay is perfectly normal, people should be proud of their sexuality, whatever it is. Homophobia now is like racism used to be; now racists are not tolerated at all. (To prove my point, an overheard quote “My uncle’s black and he got a load of racist abuse the other week. That’s so gay, I hate racists.” Genuine statement.) Gay doesn’t equal bad. It doesn’t equal anything, just a part of someone that shouldn’t even be an issue. People are labelled according to their appearance, gender, race, interests, religion…the list is endless. And really, quite unnecessary. Why do we have to fit people into little pigeonholes? I am more than a sum of my parts, and so are you. So is everyone you know, whether you like them or not. If you have to slag someone off (and they really deserve it), at least be eloquent, and don’t rely on overused clichés. The “freak!” vs. “slapper!” argument is so tired, and hypocritical anyway. Get over it, wearing Kappa from head to foot is not actually a crime, and neither is wearing black velvet and fishnets. In conclusion, if you get me wrong, you don’t get me at all. Everyone is the same and everyone is special. Its how you express it that matters.
Life Juice “Oh, Sam!” I could hear Mum sobbing from downstairs. I knew there was something wrong straight away, but I didn’t have to go down to know what. My little brother Sam had just come home from school with another warning courtesy of the lads he used to hang around with. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had an “accident” with them, but I could see right away when I did venture downstairs, that this time was different. Worse. This time the warning was bleeding hard and fast on his temple, a steady stream of blood washing over one side of his dirty face. These warnings had being going on for a year at least, and at first it was just little things. His pencil-case would go missing or his PE shirt torn or he’d “fall over” and cut his arm, and as Mum and I replaced and sewed and bandaged, we soon realised what was going on. We never spoke about it though, I don’t know why. Maybe it was because the ringleader was the son of Dad’s boss. Maybe because Mum had always been timid and didn’t want to cause problems by complaining (like they weren’t already there…). Maybe she thought the bullies would get bored and find something new. Maybe we both brainwashed ourselves into believing it would go away. But it didn’t, and soon got worse as these things often do. And now Sam’s head was gushing with blood, almost as fast as the tears were gushing down his bruised cheeks. Neither showed signs of stopping. I kept thinking, all this emotion is coming out of him, soon there’ll be nothing left, he’ll be empty. Still the blood flowed, but he was getting weaker. I could see him getting drowsy as the life juice ran low. It was slowing down by the time we reached the hospital, like he was losing energy, life, hope. We were told there was nothing we could have done, he’d taken a bad blow to the head and developed a brain tumour. That there was nothing they could do for him now. All I could think about was the life running out of him. He looked so hollow lying there in the sterile bed. Mum said I shouldn’t see him, it would upset me more, what did she know? I couldn’t bring myself to call the body Sam because as far as I could see, it wasn’t Sam. It was just an empty container, now broken, and empty, and useless. What is a bottle without the liquid inside? His body was a shell. A bullet-less gun. No Sam. So I went. I went and I looked at it and it was hollow but not like it was on TV. He looked asleep. I always liked Sam when he was asleep, sometimes at night I would sneak in and watch him sleep, especially after a bad fight. I’d imagine the life-juice flowing around, healing the cuts slowly, and I thought if I watched for long enough I would see it. But I never did. And the cuts I was looking at now would never heal, like an indelible smudge on a great painting, an imperfection. Even at the funeral, the make-up couldn’t hide it. I don’t want to remember him like that but I always will. I still do and I hate it, like I hate the bullies, myself for not helping him, and Mum for being so weak. Like I hate his school for saying bullying is part of school life. Bullying is part of school death. Sam’s death and the death of our family. Mum’s eyes are so hollow now. She looks but doesn’t see. Dad’s the same. They’ve wept their life-juice dry and it will never come back. He’ll never come back.
Asking For It “The most intelligent thing to come out of a woman’s mouth is a man’s dick” I was told this so-called joke by a so-called friend (I won’t reveal who, else he’ll be bombarded with hate mail from enraged femmes. It’s tempting though.) Guess what I did when I heard it? I didn’t walk away, or remove his own so-called intelligence. No, I laughed, because if I didn’t I think I would have burst into tears. I laughed at how such prejudice, such hateful crude misogyny can still exist. The disrespect given to women is so strong in teenage society (I can’t comment on any other). The majority of teen males hold some of the most offensive idea and ideals, it makes me sick. The term “gay” is an insult, and the only thing worse than being called a girl is being called a queer. An attractive girl walks past a group of lads on the town to a chorus of “I’d give her one”, and “She’s asking for it”. If you examine these statements in themselves, they are very creepy. Is it any wonder rape still goes on? Maybe she doesn’t want one, loser! Stop thinking with the contents of your boxers! And if a girl DARES not to fit the wank-mag requirements they stickily paw over, she’s a bitch, a heifer, a fat cow. Opinions are not acceptable, unless of course, they match theirs. (I know not all teenage boys are like this. It would be just as prejudiced of me to say they were. I’m just saying this does go on, I see it every day in my school). How many men you know would have laughed at that joke, if not in private, then “with the lads”? (I’ll rant about peer pressure another time). How many of your male friends or boyfriends might have chuckled or maybe agreed a little? It’s a sobering thought. Riot Grrl is all very well, and anything that empowers young women is worth its weight in gold, But how many males know what R.G. is? How many understand? In Lad culture, feminism is a dirty word, summoning images of raving lesbians with hairy armpits and singed bras. So what can we do? TAKE NO SHIT. I’m not encouraging or endorsing man-hating, but I am encouraging fighting for equality. Say what you think. If they don’t listen, say it again, louder, and again, until they do. Be powerful. Be subtle. Make ‘em think. All grrls have it in them. Cuz face it, you’re so fucking special, you don’t deserve this. No-one does. Ignorance breeds hatred, but knowledge truly is power. Women are power and we don’t deserve to be hated. So give them a piece of your mind. They’re asking for it.
All the above articles are taken from Hostbody issues 1 and 2. Some are based on personal experience, some are not, and I reserve the right to keep the truth to myself. Do not judge me on them. Any responses and reactions are welcome, as are any contributions. Mail to hostbodythezine@yahoo.co.uk .

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