The Mouth-piece,

by J. W. Cassandra

This short story ensues after a longer omission. As I have mentioned, I will leave out some of the short stories. The story was written in 2009 yet and belongs to my anthology The Masquerade of Cycle of Existence. The story is fiction, all similarities are the result of chance. For the illustration, I chose a photo matching the book mentioned in the story. I hope you will enjoy the sarcasm and special atmosphere of the entire story. Have a good reading time!

The Writer and Poet

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 artisticly – 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…

After the Award Giving Ceremony

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 have 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 of his hand. Then he added in thought, "Indeed, what can he expect? Since they are that persons, who at least used to read the works of the contemporaries. So what to think of those who even do not read them and do not show any interest of them?"

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

Although Steve Smith (former mate of the kindergarten, that of school of music, gym, or school, as you like it, the proper one is being replaced) is how much 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 any time when 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 each other's foot, the piles of wrinkles on their faces ran to a thousand directions, as they were grinning of happiness, although how bald is this Steve, yet! And he combs onto the bald spot three hair crosswise – just can not he imagine to hide it by this? For, only the blind cannot see, and the tabbies with their baboon smile…

Idea, Idea, Idea!

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

Returning home, he threw down himself to the settee. He was puzzling about for a while, then he sat to 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 occupacy of envy steals some vividness in the mirror hanging opposite.

Phantom in the Mirror

Suddenly, he takes notice on some kind of apparition: in the mirror a milky spot is forming, such 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 ghost.

The writer and poet regains his consciousness fair at a blink of an eye.

In the meantime, the ghost takes a definite shape: it is not either a man, nor a woman but it is felt of it that it has might.

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

Spirit of Inspiration

"How-to-how?", the writer is stammering of 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 an other work of art, I will not help you any more, ever! Is it a go?"

The writer and poet was so much yearning for acknowledgement and for praise of the readership he would have been 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, 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.

All Publishable Works Shrink in Insignificance which He Wrote Useless

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, appretiation, admitting to elite wirter clubs did not make satisfied 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.

The Mouth-piece

"Do not try it!", the spirit of Inspiration warned him dark, 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 him more and more grim, scowling, from the mirror.

"If you do not suggest me works then I will write them by myself! Though, I am a writer, an artist! I do not want to be a mouth-piece any more!" 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 Flavour, the Aroma that is Owned by True Writers Only, Dissolved

The readers were disappointed in the writer and poet: what he wrote being forced to done to his utmost, he all 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.

A Lost Treasure Forever

Yet, the Inspiration have not come forth. Its spirit-shape has never occured in the mirror any more, 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 for 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 more to write. Since, the greatest value you must recognise, till 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.

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