The Cracked Bowl

by Happas

Posted to Stories on 2002-04-25 15:36:00

The Cracked Bowl

Consternation at the thought of his own happiness swept downward into the lair into which all time blew – that heated fiery cavern, those shackled indices of time and chance, of hope, love and knowledge.

Dick Snide squeezed his penis tightly, his foreskin was to long, he could never escape it, no temptress, no brazen wench could ever alleviate, ever free or even fleetingly help him, it, escape the shackle, of his, its, own skin. ‘To much skin.’ He thought. ‘There is to much skin, not enough flesh, not enough bone, not enough marrow, just skin, skin, skin, to much skin.’

Dick Snide let go of the part of him that was most his self and wrapped the rest of him in a long dark overcoat. The rest of him that never failed to shock him, never failed because it was different. Always different always changing, never him. Even the recogniser of the difference was sometimes different, that goldfish bowl on his shoulders, with the fish, the gold fish; swimming around in water, dirty water. ‘To much food’ he thought. ‘ Always to much food, the waters dirty.’ And look now, some of the fish are even dead, they are floating on the top of the water and frightening the others.

Dick Snide walked. He walked the suburbs. His feet felt the wetness of the grass, of the earth. His whole self rose. He was looking now, looking for something to sate his self, to burn his self with joy. To empty his self into, to shatter his self, to leave his self, momentarily, as a walking pile of skin, skin, skin and a bit of flesh and some bones. There it was now up ahead. He could smell it, the pine smell, which was it for tonight, tonight it was to be a pine, ‘a pine tonight’ he thought and a smile tightened around his face, which in contrast to the rest of him – did not have enough skin. ‘It’s to tight’, he thought to himself, ‘to tight’; and he walked forward.

Dick Snide had arrived. He was there now, and in his dreams forever. He put down the gold fish bowl and the coat slid off him. And his whole self rose as the rest of his self faded into the nothingness of dumb matter. A pine tonight, last night a strange shrub, tonight a pine, tomorrow he thought, ‘maybe a eucalyptus’. He went forward into the pine. He writhed with the pine. He hurt the pine, cracked it, splintered it, engulfed it with his dead matter and smothered it as much as possible with his self. And the pine hurt him, it scratched his dead matter, it tried to hurt his self, but his foreskin was there, and it was long. ‘Oh skin, skin, skin, skin’, he whispered in the throes of lust, ‘thankyou skin, thankyou skin, thankyou for protecting my self’.

Dick Snide had nearly emptied his self. His self had nearly gone away, his self was getting ready to squirt out and away and away and on to the pine. His self was about to leave him with just the pain of dead matter and encumbered cock. His self now merged with the pine, his self rubbed and rubbed and rubbed and became a part of the pine, and his self came unto the pine and dripped down the braches of the pine and the smell could no longer excite the empty self. And he now had to once again pick up the goldfish bowl and put it on his shoulders.

Dick Snide moaned but did not weep. His hands reached behind and pulled some branches out of his clenched buttocks. He lay on the grass and looked up at the stars above the pile of skin, skin, skin and flesh and bone that was all that was left of him for the moment, he looked up at the stars and was not sad, even though his self was not there he wasn’t sad because he had had his self, his self was full and now was empty and he knew his self would come again. And he would always be either burning with the joy of his self or not sad like he was now.

But now, the clothesline swings and a female voice shrieks and yells terrible things at Dick Snide and Dick Snide moans and weeps with an unknowing doomed confidence. He stands up and shakes himself. And the female voice is joined by another male voice and they know Dick Snide and they don’t like Dick Snide. And Dick Snide moans and moans and weeps and weeps in filthy recognition.

And finally after many nights it has happened. Dick Snide knows it has happened. The bowl has cracked. The goldfish bowl has cracked and the dirty water is seeping out and Dick Snide is convulsing on the grass and no longer caring about his coat. The bowl has cracked and the water is gone and the fish are flapping about and dying. The fish are dying.

Josh O’Rourke





The Literary Kicks message boards were active from 2001 to 2004.