Cosmic Constipation

These days, the route up to Abra Doon's small stone cottage on Bridestones Moor is heavily militarised. Where once there was a winding, pot-holed country lane navigable only by sheep and the good-tempered, there now lies a broad, slick black tarmac expanse to enable the manoeuvres of tanks, missiles, and personnel. Driving up there, I lost count of how many checkpoints I had to pass through just for one fifteen-minute interview.

They were precise about the duration.

I had arrived early. A wet slate grey dawn smudged the night behind a spikey skyline of blacked-out military vehicles. Floodlights glared at me every fifty feet as carbon copy soldiers, all hyper-serious and monosyllabic, demanded I prove every molecule of my being had been sanctioned for entry.

At the final checkpoint, I had to abandon my car, put on a bright yellow hazmat suit and walk the remaining one hundred feet up to Abra's cottage alone.

Her small ramshackle house looked like something plucked from a storybook, entirely at odds with the steely, militarised forest around it. A twinkling glow trembled through the window— delicate, homely and wholly different from the stark white lights on the path behind me.

I walked towards the house through a picket-style gate. I could see the garden had once been well-tended. A dry-stone wall skirted the perimeter, and a neat golden shale path led to a cherry-red front door surrounded by a rainbow array of empty flower pots.

When I reached the door, I clunked the iron knocker. It was far heavier than I expected, and I hurt my wrist.

I rubbed the pain and waited.

From behind the door, I could hear the shuffling sound of slippered feet and the metronomic thud of a walking stick. As the sound drew closer, the air around me began to tighten. It felt as though the cold, wet dawn light was closing in.

Abra Doon opened the door with a smile. I looked down at her, shocked by how small she was. It felt almost comical that a tiny, grey-haired wisp of a woman with big blue eyes could be at the centre of all this military activity.

Yet, there she was, mighty in her fluffy pink housecoat.

"Hello. You must be James", she said. "Do come in."

I followed her into the kitchen, my legs moving like they were incrementally gaining lead, my neck straining to keep my chin up.

"Please, take a seat," Abra said, pointing at a rickety chair with a colourful patchwork cushion on it. "You will be more comfortable seated, although I warn you that when you leave, you will have to crawl out. It's better that I tell you that now." She smiled sweetly as she spoke.

Bemused and feeling as out of place as Big Bird, I sat down. Abra sat opposite. Behind her, the edge of an ill-fitting pantry door flickered with the same trembling light I had seen approaching the house.

Pointing at a large green-cosied teapot on the centre of the table, she said, "I would offer you a cup of tea, but I am afraid you would not be able to drink it. So sorry, but everything in this house has grown far too dense for your normal human constitution."

She went on to pour herself what looked to be a typical English Breakfast tea.

"So, James, I suppose you want to know what has happened here?"

I tried to say yes but could not get the word out. I went to cough but couldn't get the air or energy to clear my throat. The weight of the room was crushing me. I swallowed and then, in a peculiarly squeaky voice, managed an "Ughhhh."

Abra giggled, then said, "It's a very straightforward story."

With my chin now completely pinned to my clavicle, I rolled my eyes upward questioningly.

"It all started with a case of constipation." She grinned cheekily to see if her statement elicited a reaction.

I grunted, now utterly unable to speak.

She shrugged and continued.

"So, I'd been backed up for a month. Dreadful business. I was frazzled by it."

Behind her, the pantry door began to pulse light around its frame.

Abra smiled, "He knows I am talking about him, don't you, Frazzle?"

The edge of the door shone with a bright beam of pearlescent light at the sound of what was seemingly its name.

"Good boy, Frazzle," Abra called out, looking at me wryly over her teacup. "I tried a whole range of remedies. At one point, I even considered surgery. I was completely desperate to poo!"

From behind the door, Frazzle's light flickered.

"Come now, Frazzle, we both know there is no gain without pain."

Reassured, the light returned to a more solid state.

"Anyway, having heard about my situation, my good friend Rani paid me a visit, bringing with her ingredients for an old Pakistani recipe, which she swore could unblock an elephant."

Abra paused to top up her tea.

"Oh, James! What a marvellously pungent concoction. As she made it, I could have sworn heaven itself had opened to pour to earth its fragrance. It was so fiery and passionate. Before I tasted it, I knew it would do the trick. I cannot describe the relief I felt when that night before bed, I farted so loudly I registered on the Richter scale."

Abra pointed at a fracture that ran the length of the kitchen floor.

"I slept like a baby and woke the next day having shat myself, during the process of which I had birthed the first human-made star."

I could feel myself sliding off the chair.

"Oh!" Abra put her cup down and stood up. "I think it is time you left. I wish you could meet Frazzle." Then, rubbing her belly, she said, "Do come back. I am due another, and this one feels like a girl!"

That was the last thing I remember before a white strobing light and darkness.