Inspired by Clarissa D. and playwrights’ egos. Dedicated to all writers who couldn’t but still… (farted)
Mr. Dalloquay said he would buy the flowers himself.
He just knew he needed to. No, the problem was not the party he wasn’t eager to invite anybody to. It was something else, something too peculiar to mention here or anywhere for that matter.
Clarence was carrying it for a few weeks now. It was becoming him, undefined and hurtful. Clarence knew that as soon as he does it, nobody will be able to help him… nobody… nothing… nowhere…
The flowers looked too weak and he was just too distracted from himself, from the world that needed him. He wanted to be but he wasn’t. What and how were not the questions anymore. It was the disconnection he saw becoming and engulfing all of him with no mercy, with nothing, but everything…
The undefined emptiness was growing inside him promising him zip, nada, niento… He couldn’t face the people. He knew that it is bigger than him – bigger than anything ever imagined. He knew that he couldn’t do it, even though so many said, don’t be afraid, it will remove your fear of not being there where flowers were not enough to be just that, the flowers. They needed to become something else. He still didn’t know what, but he felt it. He was becoming that emptiness inside him. He was becoming nothing in everything. If he were let it go, the world would know he did it and that was not an option.
He looked at the sky. There was this thing he forgot the name of. Then he looked at the bitch, unleashed but somehow still chained to the anger of its two front legs as if the tail couldn’t wag anymore.
The bitch was there, but how? There was no leash and no tail. Was he wagging the bitch or was it that he knew nobody saw the bitch but him. He was that bitch with all his being, unchained but somehow still there where he just couldn’t…
This face, where has it gone? He picked a pickle or was it a radish? He couldn’t distinguish. He felt the same bitterness as he always did while eating something that he didn’t wanted to. The bitch again or was it that something which spread inside him as some plague promising to destroy that everything he was so fond to keep? Everything is gone now… the bitch too… He still feels that radish or the pickle in his mouth. He couldn’t prevent it from happening. He had nobody to see it, even the bitch… It was gone… The emptiness was growing consuming all of him… the otherness… the intestines… now was the time for his heart…
He thought he made it clear to her, he hated to rewrite. He hated to change anything. It had to be the way it is, with the bitch and the tail wagging away… But it was too late…
It was growing inside him. He knew he wouldn’t be able to hold it longer in. Why did he say that he was okay? He wasn’t. That was that something he hated speaking about, coming from inside him, devouring his being, changing him, making him not the one he really is. He’ll disappear, he knows it, he’ll disappear if he lets it loose.
The scene he wrote was written and somebody foreign wanted to change it. He couldn’t apprehend it why. Was it the bitch or the flowers that still needed to be bought that made him think: I am not and I will not… but it was already too late… three minutes after four too late…
These flowers were too wilted and he was not there anymore. Why did he say he was unhappy? The bitch again was wagging him like there was something he needed to remember. Oh yes, the flowers… He was holding them just a moment ago and now they were gone…
How did she dare to say my writings would improve if only I removed the bitch? No, the bitch is me and it has to wag.
He was disappearing like that bitch he fought so much about. The emptiness inside him was growing through intestines to his heart. His heart is strong but way too soon removed from what he is, from who he was.
He did it yesterday and now he’s disappearing. That day which called him out diminished all that he believed was true. No, he is not going to change it – he will say it to her – I’m not the bitch you want me to be – you go and duck yourself with your three acts of glory – I’ll stay with the bitch – the bitch is me and she needs to wag… He is her now or she is him, he could not feel it anymore.
He farted… No, no, no it is too early for that to happen, no! The fart was gone, but where? He couldn’t feel it, he couldn’t smell it. Where did it go? The flowers! Why do I smell the flowers? The audience is clapping, screaming “Bravo!” He changed the wagging bitch, but why? The emptiness is full again, but is he him or her? He’s on the stage – oh yes, the flowers – you giving them for free? The claps of million palms – the bitch – she’s free – the bitch is free – the empty is full again. He cannot smell it, but why? He knows he released it. More flowers? More applause? The bitch is gone. He’s free.
Everybody dies at the end anyway…
Slog About All Things Mushy 