Chris Witter

In all the papers this week, one word: ‘Carbuncle’.


A: He, the young man carbuncular, arrives.

B: “Our towns are now under great pressure, with continued dissipation of resources and people fragmenting in our once close knit communities. None of this has gone unnoted.”

C: To Goneril (aside):

But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter,
Or rather a disease that’s in my flesh,
Which I must needs call mine. Thou art a boil,
A plague-sore, an embossed carbuncle,
In my corrupted blood. But I’ll not chide thee.
Let shame come when it will.

D: He was lounging upon the sofa in a purple dressing-gown, a pipe-rack within his reach upon the right, and a pile of crumpled morning papers, evidently newly studied, near at hand. As I approached, he turned sharply. “You are engaged,” said I; “perhaps I interrupt you.” Fixing me with a stare he demanded: “When?”

E: The President left via the carbuncular. As it set off, lifting over the city, he looked down at the crowds staring up, hands shading their eyes. A feat of engineering, a vision of the modern, the rising carbuncular, glinting in the sun, encapsulated the promise he felt he had made to his people. “I won’t let you down,” he whispered to himself.

F: Outside, as the news spread, a painfully circumscribed pathological tendency swelled through the subcutaneous zones. Some of those affected exhibited signs of insubordination and sloughing. Elsewhere the tendency went apparently unnoticed until, late in the afternoon, a general inflammation gradually became detectable. Moves were taken to mitigate its more serious effects.

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