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[Olaf]

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Bigger ball’s, that's what's needed, one to keep us marching toward the destination in life. Another to keep our affections direct and clear as possible, all to easily the storm in the head becomes the storm in the heart. I knew a guy, Ed Lang, small stumpy blue eyed stutterer, who had to have an emergency operation, the cord of his epididymis entangled around his right testicle, as the swell increased, so did the pain. He called NHS 24, under the cold yellow sun of a summer night, while anxiously rolling the telephone cord between index and thumb. He had to go, the nurse assured, to get the cord untangled, if left to late, it would be lost. Some joked that his testicle had tried to commit suicide by tying the cord into a noose, for he was shy and unassuming in regard to sex; rumour has it he sails yachts around South America, with only a tiny surgical scar to remind him of that summer emergency years ago.

Another guy, the slightly camp, slender, brown-eyed olive skin Jonathan, 18 consultant of the vanity box, browning his skin, under UV light, he only had one testicle, his scrotum had a scar in the shape of a tiny mouth or a purse zipper. His epididymis had entangled round his left ball, before I ever knew him. After the operation, he could still get it up, enjoy the finer things in bed. His gender identity kit may well have been changed, but it had not corrupted his selfhood, rumour has it he lives somewhere in London, sharing only one thing in common with Hitler. Some joked he had enjoyed so much sex his testicle was sending him a warning against promiscuity. Now come my balls, cancerous; found out a month ago, I never examined them with the precision the medical propaganda demanded. Roll them, between thumb and index finger, no pain should come, if you notice any lumps visit your G.P. I never did roll them often - my man dice! My bowling puns. I hoped for merely a cyst, a cord infection, but no luck, after ultra sound, it had been confirmed, it had been written. Finally, strange Mother, something was growing inside of me.

As I lie on a hospital bed, window view, looking out over the city from the Royal Infirmary, a dark purple sky above me, I sigh nervously, amongst purple shadows. I consider the testicles, tucked beneath fabric and norm, a gallery of eyeballs. I laugh and snort, shaking my head with a wry grin, thinking of the immaturity of our shyness. Two balls, the Sun and Mercury, fixing the trajectory of my fate. Some barely care to air them. I imagine a scene from my childhood - eight years old, a summer naked, licking into a pink ice-cream, sand blows onto the head. I lick it without knowing, salt and grit corrupt the taste. I screw my eyes and scrunch my face like eating something sour and ugly. My Mother smirks- don't get upset over anything so trivial. My Father offers to swap. The strawberry ice-cream trickles through my knuckles and fingers, I throw it on the sand and let it melt, running on to ask my brother how life is in the water.

Tears well in the ducts, salt of nostalgia and neurosis, cheer up; you will be back again, for more days, months, years, decades. Think of the odds, to live to die, all whim and chance of the past the future, and the inability to get anything back from time, then the peace of the present moment. Then, two testicles call you one Morning into the bathroom, you roll the dice, and the odds are against you, and you hold your breath, and think of a holiday in Spain, squinting at the sun, eating an orange as the juice dribbles down the chin. Think of the firm buttocks of your teenage years, sprinting through the forest, and all the boys with buttocks that were perfect, and immortal. Think of the girls with long hairless white legs that you wanted to smooth with the care and caress of a clay sculptor. Here I am an invalid, barely a man, naked to the future.

The moment is an orange in the mouth. Eat it carefully or tear it apart. Everything has a limit. Really, it might not be so bad, only 45 minutes. Imagine the face of God: the penis = the nose. The eyes = the testicles. The mop of hair = the pubic hair. There is nothing to worry about. Write a season of love letters when this is over. Rub your balls together; roll them for luck, one last time. The Nurses have arrived. 'Mr Knight, the time has come, we must administer the anaesthetic.' I'm rolled out into the corridor, with a tranquilised smile on, holding back a drugged laugh. I hear the patter of bare feet upon the linoleum, the bare feet of a young girl, in white gown, with blonde hair and green eyes. She grips the bed, the nurses do not notice, she leans over and looks directly into my eyes, then let’s go and is gone. She terrified me, an apparition; I lapse into reverie, mumbling as I drift off: '...chandeliers of green grapes, chandeliers of red grapes, try some, please, delicious and cold.'

[Olaf]

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Any chance Admin could move this to prose section?

 

[red_sparrow]

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dude, i found your blog.

i'm so flattered.

[Olaf]

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Ah, it is you, thought so, glad you found it!1 Flattered, I'm flattered your flattered, X Keep in touch!

[red_sparrow]

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lol aww

[Nick]

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The title is cool.
 "I need bigger balls"- I'm going to use that line as much as possible during social intercourse in the upcoming days. When it gets sterile I will return for something else as potent.
Thanks, O.
 

[Olaf]

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I do like the title, and that first line, I suppose the rest is pish, Nick?

Mind you, this has been improve a bit since writing it....have a re-read if you care...

-I need bigger balls. or - Bigger ball's, that's what's needed...' - say that to anyone feeling self-doubt. Even woman. 'Bigger ovaries, that's what's needed...'

[Nick]

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Last night my wife told me this unseasonal cold is going to last for another month (already being called the coldest Florida winter in 100 years).
I looked at her with a serious face and said "I'm going to need bigger balls."
Arranging for my significant other to know a moment of laughter after working a 2 job day is what I do. Thanks for the assist, Olaf.
Haven't read the rest of the piece. Will get back to you on that.
Title still looks cool to me.

Bigger ovaries?- don't think that one will fly with the ladies.

[Olaf]

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Glad you managed to use it.

And hey, if all you like it the title and the first sentence, don't bother with the rest...I mean did you just read the title and the first phrase and think, that's enough for me. hahah I'm not Shakespeare, but what I write may well be as boring.

Keep your balls in full swing!

[Nick]

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Just read the first paragraph. That is some funny stuff. Know a guy who once did a backflip. Landed on the balls of his feet. The balls in his sack bounced on his heels. Soon enough the swelling started. Went to the doc. They cut 'em out. Met him when the bag was empty. He was working out his next set of luggage. Was leaning towards silicon. I suggested brass. Explained that when he ran the rubbing together friction would build up an electrical charge and lightning would shoot out of his ass. He seemed unconvinced. We both left the monastery and went our separate ways before he made a decision.
Will read more of your piece later. It is long. I tend to get lost in long if I do it all in one read.

[Nick]

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Read all of it. Now I see what some folks have been on about when it comes to you. Y'all do have a flair with the quill.
So what are you looking for by way of crit here, lad? 

[Olaf]

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What bits are weak? Does it really work?

That sort of thing.

[Father Luke]

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What bits are weak? Does it really work?

That sort of thing.

Rewrite it and omit needless words.

[Olaf]

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needless words?

True enough. Less is more.

Mind you, what words are needless, is open to different reading.

[Nick]

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   Bigger ball’s, that's what's needed, one to keep us marching toward the aim the trick the destination in life. Another to keep our affections direct and clear as possible, all to easily the storm in the head becomes the storm in the heart. I knew a guy, Ed Lang, small stumpy blue eyed stutterer, who had to have an emergency operation, the cord of his epididymis entangled around his right testicle, as the swell increased, so did the pain. He called NHS 24, under the cold yellow sun of a summer night, while anxiously rolling the telephone cord between index and thumb. He had to go, the nurse assured, to get the cord untangled, if left to late, it would be lost. Some joked that his testicle had tried to commit suicide by tying the cord into a noose, for he was shy and unassuming in regard to sex; rumour has it he sails yachts around South America, with only a tiny surgical scar to remind him of that summer emergency years ago.

   Another guy, the slightly camp, slender, brown-eyed olive skin Jonathan, 18 consultant of the vanity box, browning his skin, under UV light, he only had one testicle, his scrotum had a scar in the shape of a tiny mouth or a purse zipper. His epididymis had entangled round his left ball, before I ever knew him. After the operation, he could still get it up, enjoy the finer things in bed. His gender identity kit may well have been changed, but it had not corrupted his selfhood, rumour has it he lives somewhere in London, sharing only one thing in common with Hitler. Some joked he had enjoyed so much sex his testicle was sending him a warning against promiscuity.

   Now come my balls, cancerous; found out a month ago, I never examined them with the precision the medical propaganda demanded. Roll them, between thumb and index finger, no pain should come, if you notice any lumps visit your G.P. I never did roll them often - my man dice! My bowling puns. I hoped for merely a cyst, a cord infection, but no luck, after ultra sound, it had been confirmed, it had been written. Finally, strange Mother, something was growing inside of me.

   As I lie on a hospital bed, window view, looking out over the city from the Royal Infirmary, a dark purple sky above me, I sigh nervously, amongst purple shadows. I consider the testicles, tucked beneath fabric and norm, a gallery of eyeballs. I laugh and snort, shaking my head with a wry grin, thinking of the immaturity of our shyness. Two balls, the Sun and Mercury, fixing the trajectory of my fate. Some barely care to air them. I imagine a scene from my childhood - eight years old, a summer naked, licking into a pink ice-cream, sand blows onto the head. I lick it without knowing, salt and grit corrupt the taste. I screw my eyes and scrunch my face like eating something sour and ugly. My Mother smirks- don't get upset over anything so trivial. My Father offers to swap. The strawberry ice-cream trickles through my knuckles and fingers, I throw it on the sand and let it melt, running on to ask my brother how life is in the water.

   Tears well in the ducts, salt of nostalgia and neurosis, cheer up; you will be back again, for more days, months, years, decades. Think of the odds, to live to die, all whim and chance of the past the future, and the inability to get anything back from time, then the peace of the present moment. Then, two testicles call you one Morning into the bathroom, you roll the dice, and the odds are against you, and you hold your breath, and think of a holiday in Spain, squinting at the sun, eating an orange as the juice dribbles down the chin. Think of the firm buttocks of your teenage years, sprinting through the forest, and all the boys with buttocks that were perfect, and immortal. Think of the girls with long hairless white legs that you wanted to smooth with the care and caress of a clay sculptor. Here I am an invalid, barely a man, naked to the future.

   The moment is an orange in the mouth. Eat it carefully or tear it apart. Everything has a limit. Really, it might not be so bad, only 45 minutes. Imagine the face of God: the penis = the nose. The eyes = the testicles. The mop of hair = the pubic hair. There is nothing to worry about. Write a season of love letters when this is over. Rub your balls together; roll them for luck, one last time. The Nurses have arrived. 'Mr Knight, the time has come, we must administer the anaesthetic.' I'm rolled out into the corridor, with a tranquilised smile on, holding back a drugged laugh. I hear the patter of bare feet upon the linoleum, the bare feet of a young girl, in white gown, with blonde hair and green eyes. She grips the bed, the nurses do not notice, she leans over and looks directly into my eyes, then let’s go and is gone. She terrified me, an apparition; I lapse into reverie, mumbling as I drift off: '...chandeliers of green grapes, chandeliers of red grapes, try some, please, delicious and cold.'

Broke the original where you introduce your balls. Also indented all paragraphs.

Does it work? Hell, I was gonna groin knee ya when I met ya just by way of showing how convincing the piece is.