The Mouth-piece,

by J. W. Cassandra

"Memory of Curring-Purrings, aka Cat-book"

This short story follows after a longer break. As I mentioned earlier, I left out some of the short stories. The story was written in 2009 and belongs to my anthology The Masquerade of the Cycle of Existence. The story is fiction; all similarities are the work of chance. I have published it earlier on the website www.updivine.com; for this reason, the story may be familiar. Nevertheless, I omitted the headings here and changed the illustration. For the latter, I chose a photo that fits the book mentioned in the short story. I hope you enjoy the sarcasm and the special atmosphere of the whole story. Have a good reading time!

The writer and poet was extremely proud of himself: after all, he is not anybody, but he is an appreciated, admitted by determinant literary groups, writer and poet!

It is true, his anthologies mostly gathered dust on the shelves of the libraries, his story books accompanied by tirades of stiffing literary critics, had not created even an orphan stir, his fairy tales – he just knew! – could only come out as weak trashes, his romance attempts with their wordings, edited artistically – what is the substance! – did not mean anything even for himself, on the writer – reader meetings, conferences after hot welcome and speeches of recommendations the promoters kept puzzling over if they would not have done better to announce a party billiards or poker, for it would be drop in somebody at least – after all, despite of these tiny annoyances, he is a laureate, granted by prize, appreciated in literary circles writer and poet…

Despite of the fact that on the ball arranged after the award-giving ceremony, all of his interlocutors proved that

1. either he or she did not read his work (rough, yob);

2. either he or she has read it, but, unfortunately, for his or her deep regret, mea culpa (this is the educated reader) – does not remember;

3. or he or she does remember but: what did the writer want to utter by that...; if the question does not hurt him, since he or she unfortunately did not understand or maybe, misinterpreted (all this was followed here by apologizings with downcast eyes, vibrating of eyelashes, half-smiles, glances aside, each of them by their temperament) …

"Yeah, well, what can one expect from these people?!" The writer waved his hand. Then he added in thought, "Indeed, what can he expect? Since they are those persons who are at least used to reading the works of their contemporaries. So what to think of those who do not even read them and do not show any interest in them?"

Although Steve Smith (former mate of the kindergarten, that of the school of music, gym, or school, as you like it, the proper one is being replaced) is how talentless, he cannot even speak, his style? – That had not been ever either, why would it be just now? His orthography is worth less than nil, well, yeah. He had not landed a prize even; he is not mentioned in literary circles, despite of this, his books used to be piled up in the bookstores whenever he publishes something, in addition, they are snapped up in a few days! They are sold like hot cakes! Although they are trash books, since they are full of mere sentimentality, snivel, see!, even his hogwash titled "Memory of Curring-Purrings, aka Cat-book" how ran out in a minute! And the inscription! Tabbies were treading on each other's feet, the piles of wrinkles on their faces ran to a thousand directions, as they were grinning with happiness, although how bald is this Steve, yet! And he combs onto the bald spot three hair crosswise – just can not imagine hiding it by this? For only the blind cannot see, and the tabbies with their baboon smile…

In addition, his own stand is empty… Now, but he will make sure of it!

Returning home, he threw himself on the settee. He was puzzling about for a while, then he sat at his writing-table, next to the text editor. May something come to his mind, for it seems so, his low comedy, "How to Play a Trick on the Boss?" could not find any competent readers.

Pen, paper, … chewing of the penholder… idea, Idea, IDEA, IDEA!!! This is needed!
He stares at the mirror, empty-eyed, seeing nothing.

He has been staring for a long, long time, at his pastry image, his loopy, stroke-prone, purplish, purple-blue face, his soulless gaze, in that, at the most, only occupancy of envy steals some vividness in the mirror hanging opposite.

Suddenly, he takes notice of some kind of apparition: in the mirror, a milky spot is forming, as tiny as a marble, then it starts to spread, to grow, it keeps growing, and by the time he wakes up, a being, keen-eyed, clean-faced being is watching him from there. A phantom.

The writer and poet regains his consciousness in the blink of an eye.

In the meantime, the ghost takes a definite shape: it is neither a man nor a woman, but it is felt of it that it has might.

"If you would like to, if you would like truly, indeed, to be a writer and poet who writes wonderful things, then I can help you," he turns to him.

"How-to-how?", the writer is stammering in fear. "Who are you?"

"I am the Inspiration". The being is breathing in the mirror. "You have some writings that are quite good. Shall I say, your omnibus titled "Shelf of Lousy Goods" is not bad. If you would like to, give it a try! I help, and you will write something that is suggested by me. If the writing fits, you may write more others, much more better than the first one. And then you will become a genuine artist, an authentic writer and poet. But do not forget: if you make a bargain with me, you can write only those writings for publication that I suggest for you! As soon as you try to publish another work of art, I will not help you anymore, ever! Is it a go?"

The writer and poet was so much yearning for acknowledgement and for praise of the readership he would have liked to inscribe, to be famous so much, that he drove the bargain.

Then the spirit of the Inspiration invaded him and, the poet wrote by its help such an exquisite, music-styled poem that he himself shuddered at its beauty, as he was reading it after finishing. And, the bargain being driven, the ghost encouraged him so: "You will create more exquisite works of art, you will see it, in all literary genres and forms, even you may become a poet laureate, an author founding a school, an authentic author and artist! Only do not forget: you are authorized to publish solely the inspired works of art, in addition, only those of them that I allow you!"

The poet scarcely heard the admonition; he was in such an eager fever, in a fever of creating yet more, even more perfect works of art, the 'opus magnum', although he would have done better to tune in.

As to the Inspiration, it disappeared from the mirror.

Then, it happened that the writer was flooded by better and better, in addition, more intriguing and compelling ideas: he wrote dramas, fairy tales, novels, poems, he created in more literary genres, like short stories, long short stories, essays – so, the Inspiration told the truth that night when it appeared.

The art works suggested by it one and all, indulged the readers with substantial notions, thought-provoking messages, rich imageries, so that the readers from that time kept pressing on each conference, the writer and poet's books were snapped up from the bookshelves, the publishers competed with each other for him, the theaters billed his dramas more times, his art works were translated into the most familiar languages of the world one by one in turn, his romances were screened…

Fame, glory, money, appreciation, admitting to elite writer clubs did not satisfy the writer and poet, since he felt that all that the Inspiration nods, it may be published, was worth nothing. Neither any literary genre, nor any of his works of art are not worthy of those that he lines on the paper sick, being in fever, with fingers worn to wounds, for the typing on the text editor is too slow compared to inspired flight, even for message, art level of his all publishable works shrink in insignificance beside art level of those and message of those that he wrote useless since it is knowable only by him and by some intimate friends – the general public can it see never. "Nevertheless, it would be the real thing!" He thought.

"Do not try it!" The spirit of Inspiration warned him darkly in the mirror.

But, the writer and poet published his novels appearing in series, titled Spirit of Inspiration and Art on philosophy, since he felt that this is the important work.

"You know, I feel I am only a mouth-piece!" He sighed to the Inspiration who kept looking at him more and more grimly, scowling, from the mirror.

"If you do not suggest to me works then I will write it by myself! Though I am a writer, an artist! I do not want to be a mouth-piece anymore!" He chucked arrogantly.

"As you wish!" And the Inspiration disappeared from the mirror.

And the writer and poet tried indeed to create something by himself. Chewing of the penholder… scribbling… waiting for ideas…nothing. Nothing. NOTHING. He looked up. The mirror stared at him, blind, and remained mute.

The readers were disappointed in the writer and poet: what he wrote was forced to be done to his utmost; he failed; the poems lost their forms, the words turned out of themselves, the sentences fell apart, and they have not formed any more. Epithets, adverbs, phrases lost their magnificence of Muse; they formed into ordinary, vulgar, worthless text… the colours faded in his descriptions, the original atmosphere slipped away, the flavour, the aroma that is owned by true writers only, dissolved; his style lost his colour as the summer washing-dress, he chased scraps of rags of his style, lost their colours as castles in the air, till he realized: he is not able to write any more, if only letters or diary, at most.

Despite of being a man, he burst out in tears. He cried, blubbering, sobbed, cursed himself for his fiddle, then he burst into poignant laments, so he begged the Inspiration to return to him.

Yet, the Inspiration has not come forth. Its spirit-shape has never occurred in the mirror anymore, and the writer sobbed in vain:

"I will be rather a mouth-piece, oh, Inspiration, only feel pity for me! See my suffering, my unutterable torments! May you return to me only once again! I will rather listen to you, I will be a mouth-piece, and publish only those you have sanctioned, only could I see you to appear once again!"

The Inspiration secluded itself, and the writer could no longer write. Since the greatest value you must recognise, until you own it, anyway it remains a lost treasure forever…

Written by J. W. Cassandra, 09/07. 2009.
Translated by J. W. Cassandra, 22/01. 2020.

All rights reserved. ©