(The following piece of literary tomfoolery continues the story from my thesis.)
The shadows had it in for us: they squiggled out from the superstitious corners of a house that had a mind to creak but not to foretell or indicate, warn or presage. It made noises, sure, but the higher meanings came from without. Mulberries, distending but not falling from her house’s palisade of weeds, fused into crusts to stop her pinching fingers. Likewise she had ceased updating the Constabulary Poets blog as a living testament to her aborted career, a stillborn interface with the solicitors of her wit. She was done posting her replies. Unsure of whether this was the end, her admirers grew wary of her weblog’s subject matter for its hints of exploitation….
Thus went the novelty of a public-personal correspondence, Dolores’ fame having extended all the dramatic council she could afford. Meanwhile the Alterity stage threw out echoes, eating up the air of an empty theater as she baked and cursed back home. Stage lights were snaked out and distributed to the hoary multitude who toured the dirt roads blasting deer with vulgar illumination.
Tragicomedy, farce, her recent notes on Antigone, a plotted fiasco in a broiling kitchen, linguistic mutinies bashing her dry—how could I not be affected? If there was a word anyone could’ve spared, it was rubbish. For the manner in which James now sits—in a floral grey armchair with one arm sharply angled, bridging his brown hair to the back of his ear whilst the other, just off the arm of the chair with his elbow stabbing into his side (so that his green bottle of beer all but levitates)—has impressed Dolores with a sense of division. He is, in fact, cut in half. In the orange of an adolescent bedroom, the round knobs of a chest of drawers glare upon his cheekbones to set his mouth in an angry occidental scowl. If his pate remains a hovel then his eyes are lozenges of hemlock—with which to assimilate himself into the text.