Vision: A Play in One Act

"Hey, tons of fun," he squealed at Belinda, unwrapping a tiny treat.

Belinda just sat on her uncle's lap and began to gently puke and wheeze like some kind of trashy ER nurse. It was her way, and it was sullen, honest. The treat was luscious. Marshmallow coated pickle, drizzled in warm mink fur. Belinda wanted it badly, but knew her uncle only too well.

"You smell of raisins and sadness," he burbled as the thin wafers penetrated his meat-brown lips. "I need you to find the secret things which I have lost along the way."

Belinda hopped up onto her hooves and scurried off to seek the Ray-Bans and dill powder ostensibly stowed away in the cupboards and oat bins of the yard. It was also her way to smoke cigarettes. She commenced thence.

How tan her limbs were and twice as long. Sliding her pudge into the crevice of the oat stores, she fumbled in the soft mud until its soft rind found her digits. Plumply, she wrenched the lonely sausage from its resting place and tossed it toward the sunlight. It was the cleanest, meatiest haggis. And just like that, it was guzzled.

Pumping fists and chattering, she returned to her horsefaced uncle and exclaimed, "Doth meat finds me well-pleased, sir!"

Nothing.

And again, "Yonder meat is indeed pleasurable to my palate, good sir!"

Still nothing.

Louder, "Meat finds me well, liege!"

Gently she lifted her uncle's sticky palms, yearning for a response.

None would come. He was deaf now.