Outta Here

Friends, 

There comes a time in a writer’s life  

• When the well has run dry  
• When his allusions no longer allude 
• When his alliterations all amount to anon, alas 

• When his dangling participles no longer dangle 
• When he rides upon his pony on his boat out at the sea 
• When his metaphors mix like olive oil and wine, and ponies and boats 
• When the plots plod and piss away into putrid puddles 
• When his sentences meander in a cacophony of meaninglessness 

• When his motif is a motif is a motif like a rose is a rose is a rose 
• When there’s no there there  
• When he only tells but never shows 
• When his paradoxes no longer paradox (is that a paradox?) 
• When his similes are like sneaky snakes that slither and slide and slip away 

• When his oxymorons are like morons in a ballet 
• When his symbols don’t come knockin’ when the van is rockin’ 
• When his humor no longer laughs 
• When his satire no longer stings  
• When his oeuvre is exhausted  

• When the sentence reaches an end, period 

And so it is, my friends, I am resigning and retiring from my short and extinguished career as a writer. A career that expands over fifty short stories, a couple of long short stories, and a short novel, all with a readership that numbers in the low double digits. 

That’s why I’m outta here. 

My decision is final and irrevocable. 

Unless I think of another story. 

Hasta la vista, 

Johnny Clack