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@William.
This is part of a short story I am reviewing for my writing MA.
Sitting on the floor of the loo, falling in love with dead boys and Duchesses, waiting to shit out my childhood, don’t tell me I don’t know how to celebrate in style!
When the searing shitting surge gripped me in the bowel I was glad. I folded in pain and still I was glad and then I shat and I was gladder still. And then I vomited. And still I shat. The ache in my stomach was so intense it was as if the fig juice had taken seed inside my digestive track. The fig tree that grew there was spearing me alive, releasing itself through my mouth and through my anus. I was like a hog on a spit. And then I cried out for my mother.