farceurs of babble…

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Fox in a Cul-de-Sac

Fade in:

Fusty living room. Crepuscular light.

Loud swelling radio chatter, multiple frequencies: reports of war, a horse race, cricket scores, market updates, easy listening music, someone reciting maths.

A woman affecting classical statue poses. A man sitting on an easy chair reading a newspaper.

W: What did the news have to say today, dear?

M: There were poems received from cyberspace. They popped up for two seconds and were cantilevered out of sight to another spot for later reckoning.

W: What? What are you on about, dear?

M: The poems came at the seating of the regent… underneath her rococo underpants… there was gaseous effluvia…

W: Are you ok, dear? Are you not feeling yourself?

M: Oh, the court was stoic while the noxious twankery spread through the room. But who was keeping count, the farceurs? They were arrivistes!

W: My goodness you’re running a fever.

M: Leave me be! Where was the Count? Oh yeah, mounted on the lady in waiting.

W: My god! What are you on about?

M: Oh, yes! Wading in the darkness behind the draperies! How to gruntle her highness — with her head in a sling — when like a fox in a cul de sac she’s hounded — penned in like a boar between arches — to the end of the line she dons her monocle without that paterfamilias aplomb! She croons! She croons a Bing Crosby scat-a-tat bo-see-do.

W: Nevil! Sit down! Put that back—

M: Oh, do make some sense?! You flatten my patience with that utter garble of yarbol warbles. Please, please, please let me get what I want

W: What on earth do you want? Sit down, and put that back in your drawers!

M: Some sense from you! A semblance of balance — a discernible emprise! Don’t be a silly wicket, spewing snubberdigibblets of nonsense and frou frou foo!

W: Nevil! Pants back on!

M: Don’t be a slugabed, you say! Oh, don’t be a sluggard… Or! You’re a braggart all drugged up with words… well, I’m free to walk about without pants, without fear of brigandage and without your loquacious bagpipes of babble!

W: Stop.

M: Won’t stop.

W: No, stop.

M: I won’t.

W: Well. Don’t.

Fade out.

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“It’s a job. It’s not a hobby. You don’t write the way you build a model airplane. You have to sit down and work, to schedule your time and stick to it. Even if it’s just for an hour or so each day, you have to get a babysitter and make the time. If you’re going to make writing succeed you have to approach it as a job.”

— Rosellen Brown

About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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