It’s like Shakespeare...only in English.

“I like to think of myself as a man with a good head on his lap.” ~ B.S.

The Incomplete Worlds Of Billy Shakespeare | It's like Shakespeare...only in English.

Who’s Gonna Read This, B.S.?

short short stories

"The Pimple"
a story by Billy Shakespeare

Billy’s fingers rolled gently across his face. Feeling the coarseness of his unshaven face, sliding over the dimple in his chin, and brushing lightly over his lips. Something foreign and unpleasant touched his fingertip, and Billy’s thoughts immediately lifted from his note-taking to the new growth on his face.

A pimple, very large and painful when touched, had grown near Billy’s lower lip. Billy tried to remember if it had been there in the bathroom mirror that morning, but he didn’t think it had. It had grown within hours. Even for a pimple, that was pretty damn quick.

Billy’s face winced as he tried to squeeze it. It must not be very close to the surface, Billy thought while tracing the pimple’s outline with his index finger. He glanced at his finger and found no trace of blood. He had not popped it.

“If you pop them, Billy,” his mother was keen in pointing out to him, “They’ll make holes in your face.” Which was probably not true. Chickenpox made holes in your face, not acne.

Billy shot quick glances around the classroom to see if anyone else was looking at the tremendous growth on his face. The high school students around him reflected only vague, disinterested expressions. Even the professor seemed particularly lifeless. Billy returned to the crisis at hand. He could wait until after class and check it out in the boys’ room mirror. Patience, however, was not one of Billy’s few virtues. He squeezed it again.

The pain almost made Billy double over his desk. For the first time, a pimple had fought Billy back. He rubbed the area around the pimple quickly, trying to ease the pain. When it subsided a little, he tried again.

“Jesus!” Billy cried. Still no blood on his finger. The pimple was fighting back and winning! A few students around him lifted their tired heads, greeting his outburst with general apathy. When they turned around once again, Billy lifted both hands to the pimple.

A boil, Billy thought. It’s not a pimple; it’s a boil. He never knew you could get boils on your face, but it was certainly too damn big to be something as common as regular acne. Billy pushed his fingers around the growth and squeezed harder than he had before.

When his mother looked down at Billy in his casket, she noticed the excellent job the mortician had done with the make-up. You could barely see the pimple on his chin.