For the past seven or so months I've been working on a novel. (Yes, I know that every single douche with a blog says that, but it's true) The past couple of months I've barely written a word, since I've written myself into a pretty horrendous corner.
So instead of working on my book like I should be, today I got bored and wrote a short story instead, part of which follows.
Jack looked up and choked on his warm, flat beer.
“What. The. Fuck?!”
There was something stuck in Jack's throat. An invisible, sickly swollen thing that made him feel like he was sucking in frantic gasps through a straw. Something was wrong with his heart too. It was trying to escape, break free from its corrugated bone cage and head south for the border.
Jack's heart, armed to the teeth with gatling guns and a fine cigar, rips through
the southern border security office, under the watchful guard of Mildred Peters (aged 73).
There were no survivors.
Jack's heart spends the rest of its life in Corona soaked tourist bars.
A monument is raised in Mildred's honour.
It receives over twelve visitors per year.
"Fuck her!" the heart was screaming behind a thin layer of muscle, skin and wispy chest hair. Jack never let himself care; he was too good for that sort of shit. Why should he care whom Amy wants to be with? If she wanted to be seen with (that prick) Frank then what business was it of his?
"None whatso-fucking-ever!" he could hear Amy’s voice rattling in his head.
But here he was. Stuck standing there holding her drink and looking on while Frank Garratt slid his hand into Amy's back pocket and gave her arse a casual squeeze. Jack's hand squeezed too, squeezed Amy's drink overflowing it all over his favourite shoes. Jack loved those cheap arse canvas sneakers. Amy's intricate disturbing little pictures lay scattered across the outside. Babies with chainsaws for arms, a woman vomiting up a beach ball, cows giving birth to deck chairs. Amy’s one of a kind works.
No one liked Amy. No one except for Jack.
She was too (interesting) loud.
Too (truthful) rude.
Too (confident) peculiar.
Too (gorgeous) asymmetrical.
So why the Hell is Frank's meaty, stumpy hand allowed anywhere near Amy’s magnificent frame? Frank was definitely in Jack's list of Things He Wouldn't Mind Shooting into the Vacuum of Space with a Cannon.
Things on this list include but are not limited to:
Everyone who makes "you're/your" errors
Everyone with those "My Family" car decals
Frank Fucking Garratt
Everybody liked Frank. Everybody except Jack.
Frank was “that guy”.
A cocky. Womanising. Bastard.
Everything that Jack wasn’t.
Now here Frank was, ripping away the one thing that Jack enjoyed about his life. Jack was trying not to take it personally. He doubted that Frank even knew he existed. Why would he? Jack was a flea compared to Frank. A speck of dust with no considerable characteristics or outstanding features. But Jack had Amy. They were perfect for one another in their own impossible way. Amy spiralled outwards into the world, bending everything and everyone she touched around her will. People became fixated while simultaneously becoming sickened by her. She was a horrific car crash in slow motion, and everyone had come out to see it occur.
Amy laughed and turned her head, her eyes locking with Jack's and he wondered if he thought hard enough he could make her head explode.
Jack's testimony would be well received.
There was no law for making someone's head explode via psychic abilities.
The judge and jury would all agree that Amy was being inconsiderate.
The jail sentence would be minimal.
From the feel of it Jack’s stomach was attempting to turn itself inside out as his gaze flittered over Amy’s features. Features he had seen a hundred thousand times but had never really observed.
Eyes (green large).
Hair (auburn ringlets).
Nose (pointed thin).
(soft wet). On Frank’s.
Jack’s heart could feel it all the way from that Corona soaked tourist bar in Mexico. It lurched forward with a groan, turning pale, sliding off the barstool and onto the filthy floor, hopelessly flopping around on the ground like a dying fish.
Jack’s eyes closed as the sweaty, stale beer and tobacco smoke stench overwhelmed him. Bolting out of the door and into the cold night, all he could do is run while the still image of Amy’s lips locked with Frank’s burned into his mind. Rounding a corner into a filthy alleyway, Jack tore off his favourite shoes and hurled them into a nearby skip. Slumping against the cold brick wall, he hung his head in his lap, wishing he could be just about anywhere else in the world.