The Cliché Collector/ Alchemist: Issue 2

Welcome…

 

Today, the Alchemist begins his work, converting clichés into gold. Hand in the damned clichés or don’t peep into the Alchemist’s lab ever. Too proud to hand in the clichés via comments? Inbox them, then, and everything will be all right.

 

I realize that I’m more alert reading with the pince-nez of scepticism. While that has been helpful, and indeed fulfilling, it hasn’t been much fun, having no one to share with. By making the process interactive, I believe I could have all the fun I desire and still keep in sight a noble goal. What? >:)))(((:<  

 

Clichés have the tendency to appear innocent, but you must take them for what they are ─ the garbage of composition. Spare them and die. Grammar Nazis and linguistic snobs will give you a free funeral. Lucky you!

 

[The lab. ALCHEMIST enters, flourishes two skeletons out of his hat].

 

Skeleton one ─ HIS NAME RINGS NO BELL

 

ALCHEMIST: [Shakes head]. Very bad. These bones have no prospect of resurrection. You rest your hope on them ─ in vain. Crack your head for new bairns or toss your pen in resignation. Who weds names with carillon, anyway? I will tell you one thing ─ not an answer to the question, though: Skeleton one is a scum of obscurity; a stone unknown; his name is a rag, a wet rag.

 

[Looks meditatively at the second specimen] ───

 

Skeleton two ─ I WILL DRINK TO THAT

 

ALCHEMIST:  [Shaking with laughter] A bibulous generation! Lantier brought-ups; hopeless new clowns in L’assommoir! [Peers out the window, finds an inebriate stumbling down the street, bawling like a Boomtown Rat. Tiptoes out of lab and kicks inebriate in the buttocks, sending him reeling into the gutter. Reenters lab, smirking]. That should teach him. Eh, where did we stop? Ok. [Sneezes]. Skeleton two would have a seat in the hall of the living if it (hmm…, well…,) simply celebrates an accomplishment/ achievement or, at least, shares in a toast. Toast. You will have to do it quickly: Toast itself is hurrying off to Cliché Street.  Lantier ended badly. You will, too ─ if you drink to that.  

 

Clack! Clack! Boom! Boom!! Boom!!! Hey, what’s that? What’s happening?  Don Sheq (Shek**) and his boys? Abdul Clack-Clack speaking? Oh my lab! [Flees]