of nosebleeds and embolisms

Time for a little critical review of your pathetic attempt at prose fiction, Mr Merry Confundus Davidson. 

Wait a second... Isn't the first rule of literary criticism calm and measured objectivity?

 

Generally speaking yes, but no, not in your case.

 

Whyever not?

 

Because you do not merit such treatment.

 

Er... Why not?

 

Because your pathetic excuse at prose fiction violates every norm of what prose fiction should be, including the fact that it should be readable.

 

Er... Did I ever force you to read it?

 

No, you did not, but I’m made to.

 

You are? By whom?

 

I can't say.

 

You don't mean to say the CIA?

 

No comment.

 

Or MI6? Are they making you read my work?!

 

I said I can't say.

 

Well who else could it be, unless you're working for the reptilian high command.

 

I can't and won't say. It's off limits, ok, so back off before I get even more annoyed.

 

But why?

 

Why what?

 

Why would they be making you read my stuff?

 

That's precisely what I've been asking myself while my brain sweats blood at the torturous attempt to do so.

 

I'm impressed! I've managed to induce cerebral...

 

Impressed?! You selfish bastard. You've ruined my life.

 

Wait a second, i never forced you to read anything, not a single word of what I've written, so kindly quit blaming me for your terms of employment.

 

And your characters... You never even attempted to make them plausible. They're not even paper thin. They're like the sails on the ghost ship in the Ancient Mariner:

Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,

Like restless gossameres?

 

What ho, I’m impressed, you've actually linked my work to a great classic of English poetry.

 

No, i have not, you dunderhead. Just because i say you have the sensitivity of Macbeth’s toothpick doesn’t in any way, shape of form conflate your work with that of the bard himself.

 

Oh. Well, it still made me feel the warmth of proximity by malassociation, so thanks for that.

 

I mean, couldn't you be bothered to give them clothes, or an appearance, or anything vaguely resembling physical, personal attributes?

 

Er... Sorry to be a complete pain, Malcolm.

 

It’s not Malcolm, for Christ’s sake Twang.

 

Oops. Stanislav?

 

No.

 

Lee Harvey.

 

No.

 

Rumpelstiltskin?

 

Ha bloody ha.

 

Look, I'm not very good with names, ok.

 

You're not very good with people, period, prose neither, for that matter.

 

What a hurtful chap you are Em.

 

Em?

 

Bolism.

 

Damn you Twang.

 

I'm good with Twang. It works nicely thanks.

 

Well I'm not. You can take your Embolism and shove it where the sun never shines.

 

Ok Em. Look, if you're not gonna tell me who you're working for I'm not going to lose sleep over what your name actually is. Why should i?

 

Well, in that case we are at an impasse.

 

But haven't you ever wondered Em why they're so interested in my work?

 

Frankly no, i haven’t. I'm not paid to ask questions.

 

But if you're actually sweating blood...

 

That was hyperbole.

 

Hyper what?

 

Hyperbole. Oh never mind. You wouldn't understand anyway.

 

You’re probably right Em. I'm dreadfully thick. I don't seem to understand anything, really, or not the things I'm supposed to understand.

 

I've noticed. Then why, if you don't mind me asking, do you persist in writing this brain numbing blog.

 

I...

 

Yes?

 

I really don't know Em.

 

You don't know?

 

No. I mean, I just do what I do, really. Don't we all?

 

No, not really.

 

How do you mean?

 

I mean most people have a reason for what they're doing.

 

A reason?

 

Er yes.

 

Like what?

 

Like money, for example. They do it for money, to get paid.

 

Like you read and review work?

 

Yes.

 

And anything else?

 

Because it's fun. Because it makes them happy.

 

Ah ha.

 

But don't tell me, please don't tell me you write your blog because it's fun, because it makes you happy...

 

Funny.

 

Funny?

 

You know, in a funny sort of way I suppose it does.

 

Does what?

 

Does make me happy. Is fun.

 

No way. I refuse to believe you.

 

You refuse?

 

Yes. I can’t. How could anyone derive pleasure from something so utterly meaningless, so contemptible, so downright absurd.

 

Ah, Em, but that's where you're evidently mistaken.

 

I don't think so.

 

No, but in this instance I have the advantage over you.

 

You do?

 

Yes.

 

How?

 

Because I don't work for money.

 

I pity you.

 

Because I don't actually work.

 

Not so bad.

 

I create.

 

Choking noises as Em starts to asphyxiate.

 

And creating is a reward in itself.

 

Em seems to be having not inconsiderable problems breathing. Twang seems to be largely unaware of his difficulties. Then, for no apparent reason Twang slaps Em sharply on the face.

 

Hey! What the heck was that all about? Are you insane?

 

I might be Em. Honestly, I couldn't really say.

 

Rubbing his face tenderly.

 

You can't just slap people in the face. For no reason.

 

I know. That would hardly be right.

 

So explain yourself.

 

I can’t, really.

 

You can’t, or won’t.

 

I don't know. I don’t see the difference.

 

I can feel weals where your fingers were.

 

Oh wow, i must have slapped you pretty hard.

 

Gobsmacked.

 

But why?

 

For the same reason i write my blog.

 

?

 

It just seemed the right thing to do. Like i said, I’m not much of a thicker, Em.

 

So you’d just slap anyone because it felt right?

 

Well no, yes, i don't know, i can't say. Who do you work for by the way?

 

Actually, i have to admit i was having a little trouble breathing.

You were?

 

Yes.

 

And now you're better.

 

Yes, much better thanks.

 

So that's one problem solved, and you know what?

 

No, i can't read your mind, can i?

 

It was fun.

 

You’re off your bloody head, that's what you are, Twang.

 

You're probably right, but at least I'm not dead.

 

Huh?

 

You are.

 

What?!

 

I think it's only fair to say that i see the shadow of death on you.

 

The shadow of death? You're kidding, right?

 

Do i look like I'm kidding?

 

Not really, no.

 

That's precisely it, Em. It's rather spooky. I've never really seen anything quite like it before, but yes, without a doubt it's the shadow of death. It makes me wonder why you're still actually alive.

 

Listen Twang, this has gone beyond a joke. It's very ill natured of you to insinuate i might be in some kind of mortal danger. You should show more sensitivity.

 

Yes, I expect you're right Em. I just blurted it out without thinking what I was saying. I hope you're not upset.

 

Upset? Me upset? You just told me you saw the shadow of death upon me and you expect me to be happy?

 

Oh dear. It's getting worse.

 

What is?

 

The shadow of death.

 

Shut up Twang. This is unacceptable.

 

Em howls, obviously afraid of something he can see.

 

Would you cut that out. Cut it out. Now, i said. Cut it out.

 

Em howls like an unearthly banshee for another minute or so and then stops, unexpectedly. Panting. Em is shocked beyond words. The howling seems to have gone right through him. Beads of cold sweat on his forehead.

 

Sorry Em. I couldn't help it.

 

What on earth was going on? You scared the life out of me.

 

Yes. Me too, but it seems to have passed.

 

What exactly are you talking about, Twang?

 

The shadow of death.

 

This time Em isn't joking.

 

You mean to say...

 

It was gathering all round you, like it meant to consume you, and i was terrified, so i started to howl. I never meant to scare you, Em.

 

And? What then?

 

As i howled something inside you seemed to stir. Some inner force. Some inner creature.

 

Yes?

 

Yes, and the shadow of death suddenly wasn’t so sure, and i howled and the thing inside you really got up on its feet, like a lion, and roared, and that's when i quit howling as the shadow vanished, completely.

 

OMG.

 

Well, now you’re safe. I guess it’s your spirit force. It’s prepared to fight. It’s chosen to live. It's chosen life.

 

I...

 

You feel it, don't you?

 

I...

 

Looking round with a growing sense of wonder.

 

Yes. I believe i do.

 

Amazing. Congratulations Em. Congratulations Dan.

 

Dan? Come to think of it, yes. That's me. You seem to have a knack with names.

 

So we were talking about my pitiful prose.

 

Yes, we were, weren’t we. When's the next post going to be?

 

Huh?

 

I think it's gonna start making sense now i have a little context.

 

Really?

 

Don’t get me wrong, Twang. It's still going to be execrable, but something tells me i need more of it.

 

But what about your critical analysis? You might be able to give me some pointers, to improve my style...

Style?! Suppressing a snort. No, I don't think that's even remotely on the cards Twang. Soldier on. Perhaps you’re in the process of developing a style and method all of your own. We’ll see. Perhaps, from the chaos of your feckless prose a dancing star will be born. In the end, who cares.

Huh?

 

Prose, verse – the world is utterly dysfunctional, is it not?

 

It appears so.

 

But your spirit awakening yell – your cry from the other side cuts out the middleman, doesn’t it!

 

Er...

 

Supposing we’re able to reconnect to Spirit, whatever that might be, whatever that entails...

 

?

 

Supposing we're able to experience once again directly the other side of is.

 

The what?

 

The other side of is – the side that we lost when we fell into the abyss. That would be it. That would be the end of prose of verse, but we'd be back again in the driver’s seat...

 

The what?

 

Back in the driver's seat of conscious-ness, or awareness, or story itself, with a capital S.

 

Ah... good.

 

 

 

0=1

fecklessly