Part Twenty-Four
To the Editors of NONzine, Mike: I wanted to thank you again for putting up with my preposterous toilet paper story for this better part of a year, for suffering my poor writing, and for putting your own business at such risk for having published it.
I am out of toilet paper now. The ink of my pen has dried in its tube. I don’t know when they will let me out of here, if ever. I am unbecome a man. I am still unbecoming. Perhaps when I become a man…
That sirenic voice and seductive silence were my undoing. Otherwise I believe I would still be free to mark the people of the world with their appropriate labels, to flitter about a butterfly lightly pressing each and every label to the shoulders of the human race. But they have locked your hero away, and I suspect there will be no “Free Labelman” chants outside of my institution, no movie stars pleading my case on Leno or Letterman or Oprah. No books, no movies, no New York Times. But one day I will make it to the roof and let loose the tendrils of my tale rippling through the wind on an overcast day. I will teepee the sky and the treetops with the story of Labelman.
This is the end of the roll. The end of the line. The last two-ply sheet. This is the point where I find that I have nothing else to say and must make a dramatic pause, take a dramatic sigh looking over the length of my work and realize that that is all there is. This is dumb. This was a bad idea. This is not worth the paper it’s printed on. This is my story. This is me. This is meaningless, pointless, fruitless. This is your poor pilgrim’s apparent lack of progress.
THE END
I am out of toilet paper now. The ink of my pen has dried in its tube. I don’t know when they will let me out of here, if ever. I am unbecome a man. I am still unbecoming. Perhaps when I become a man…
That sirenic voice and seductive silence were my undoing. Otherwise I believe I would still be free to mark the people of the world with their appropriate labels, to flitter about a butterfly lightly pressing each and every label to the shoulders of the human race. But they have locked your hero away, and I suspect there will be no “Free Labelman” chants outside of my institution, no movie stars pleading my case on Leno or Letterman or Oprah. No books, no movies, no New York Times. But one day I will make it to the roof and let loose the tendrils of my tale rippling through the wind on an overcast day. I will teepee the sky and the treetops with the story of Labelman.
This is the end of the roll. The end of the line. The last two-ply sheet. This is the point where I find that I have nothing else to say and must make a dramatic pause, take a dramatic sigh looking over the length of my work and realize that that is all there is. This is dumb. This was a bad idea. This is not worth the paper it’s printed on. This is my story. This is me. This is meaningless, pointless, fruitless. This is your poor pilgrim’s apparent lack of progress.
THE END
© 2006Labelman
2 Comments:
I was dumbfounded at the turn of your story. The romantic in me wanted Labelman and Melanie to end up together. I was saddened by and unprepared for the end. If the goal of a great writer is to leave your reader wanting more..... then you are indeed a Great Writer.
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the same time the berserkr and the beserksgangr was made illegal.
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