We stand on a platform between the top and bottom of the stairs.
Above us our history, our heritage. Below us, the bowels of hell. The platform has been getting nearer the bottom for some time, but we’ve chosen to ignore it. The sulphur smell of greed, the uric acid burns of celebrity are just things we have become used to.
But my eyes are open. I am the photographer standing between the two worlds.
There they are, at the awards, talking about the environment, while they’re taking flights to go on thirty minute chat-shows on the other side of the world.
There they are, role-models, product ambassadors; but they twerk, they grind, they dress in ways that are frankly obscene – while girls aged twelve dress in push-up bras and dream of careers in glamour modelling or dating rich football players.
And the boys, oh the boys. Ten year olds talking head-shots on CoD. Eleven year olds talking the best strip clubs and ammo centres on GTA. Don’t blame the manufactures; blame the celebs with their Instagram photos and messages to the fans; parents think anything goes. The moral compass of society is haywire.
I have had enough. For evil only needs good men to do nothing.
Ever wondered what happened to ‘one hit wonder’ celebrities? Their demise is my doing. I spread rumours and hack sales figures.
I hack phones and photo accounts – oh yes, and I’ve done a lot more.
But my Instagram insurgency is hardly making a dent. We have been brainwashed and will forgive almost anything.
We are sliding. The platform is sinking. All I can do is take the pictures.
Usual Hourglass rules applied to this – 36 hours – 360 word limit – use the photo prompt.
This sort of story has been buzzing around my head for a while. I’ll probably revisit it as I don’t think I’ve done it justice.
Clearly – this is just a work of fiction.