The Only One00:34 Dec 26 2019
Times Read: 406
The Only One
Jack swept his long fringe to the right and away from his eyes. He looked in the mirror as he did so, proud of his 'blonde locks'; as his Mother described his hair.
From downstairs She called his name and, he chose not to hear her.
Jack stepped quietly toward his bedroom door, which he opened, a little.
“That boy,” he heard his Mother say to someone, “he'll be the death of me. I know he's in. I even know what he'll be doing...” There was silence a moment, as she paused for breath.
“He'll be sitting before that machine of his, typing away for hours. And you know what Joan?”
“Ah,” Jack mused, “it's Joan, her friend from the factory.”
He closed his bedroom door and turned back to face his Apricot Xen. The last thing he'd heard his Mother say still rattling around in his head: “He sits there thinking he's writing the next great novel. I'm sure that he thinks he's one of the characters in his owl little stories, at times.”
His Mother was wrong.
Jack knew that.
He had learned in class that there were only six basic plots and none of them fit his own life experience, he believed.
“None, nix, nada...” he mused aloud, now conscious of the sound of pots and pans clattering downstairs.
'Subtle she isn't,' the young man sighed, turning his head to look at the monitor, atop his Xen 286
Many of his friends had a peecee that ran Windows 3.1 in colour and, operated via a hand-held device called a mouse.
He had his old green-screen machine, Jack mused ruefully.
Jack wasn't moaning: he appreciated what he had.
He didn't appreciate writers block though.
Turning from his door to his bed, Jack frowned as he looked to his rumpled duvet. He should've made his bed before going to college. By not doing so, he had given Her the opportunity to nag him: not that she needed an excuse.
'After all,' he'd decided ago, 'it's part of her job description.'
He paced, walking a few feet, then back toward his machine and, he grinned.
'If it was the case,' he mused, 'she does her job well...'
Running his fingers through his fringe, Jack recalled the first evening he had attended Comic Class.
The tutor had greeted him warmly, with a handshake; all long-legs in blue-jeans, a red and black check shirt of heavy cotton, the sleeves rolled-up, wide smile with dimples and, long dark curly hair, reminiscent of the guitarist Brian May of Queen.
Originally there had been several Comic Classes throughout the country, Glasgow, London and Liverpool had been the last, when Jack had joined the one in Colquitt Street, Liverpool.
“And, what brought you to class?” 'teach' had quizzed, as they had shaken hands.
Jack had panicked momentarily. Why was he there? Just how could he say, “Because I thought that it might be interesting.' As simple as that.
Instead, he answered from the heart, “Perspective, direction...”
“Well, that's something that one can learn,” he'd told Jack, in an enigmatic tone.
Then, pointing to an empty place among those already there, 'teach' had suggested, “Why don't you take a seat...”
So Jack had sat as 'teach' had coughed twice, into his balled-up hand.
It had garnered the response he had sought, as his class of student became quiet.
Then he had smiled – a mouthful of bright white tombstones, that illuminated the room with it's warmth.
“Look at you,” he'd begun, “Each of you sit in your rooms in the early hours, writing away, or drawing, or simply having idea's of things yet to be...”
As 'teach' had spoken, there had been an intensity to his carefully chosen words that made Jack want to listen.
“Each of you sitting there before me sits there in the early morning, writing, or drawing, or scribbling away; each of you thinking , you're the only one, sitting there in the early morning, creating...” 'Teach' had paused for a long, dramatic second of silence, then added, “Well, look around you. Each of you look to the person next to you... You're the same. You all sit there in the early morning, creating...”
Again he had paused, then pointed at each of them, all of them and yet, no-one particular, as his right-fore-finger swept round the room in a slow arc, from left to right.
“Each of you is an 'only one', thinking you're the only one who understands.”
Again there had been an interminable delay, as his words sank in with each class member.
Again his finger had arced around the class as before and 'teach' smiled a wide toothy smile, as he said to his students, “Basically, you're a class of 'only ones'.”
On his journey homeward that evening, Jack had decided that he liked the term that 'teach' had used as he liked the idea of being an 'only one', feeling it described him well.
“Jack!”
His Mother's screech from downstairs drew Jack from his reverie.
It was teatime.
“Good,” Jack said, feeling as though he hadn't eaten since the day before and, he ran downstairs, taking the steps two at a time.
And although tea was simple, it was one of his favourites – two Findus crispy pancakes, filled with cheese, chips and peas.
The sauce that leaked from each morsel of breaded pancake was piping hot and dripped onto his chips and peas.
He liked cheesy peas, with chips.
And, although the cheese sauce had somehow blistered the roof of his mouth, Jack did not mind, as he had Birds Arctic Roll to follow his meal; cold ice-cream in warm sponge. He loved it.
A kid he wasn't, but Jack did like his Saturday treats with Mum.
“I'm going to Mrs Lancaster's later...” She told him as he finished eating: “will you be alright on your own?”
“'course Mum,” He assured her, “I've got some writing to do for class.”
His Mother snorted at his words, as she dried her hands.
“I'm having a piece of fruit-cake with a cup of tea, before I go out...” she paused briefly, then added, “would you like some?”
“Yes please,” he answered, as he stood and began to put away the dishes his Mother had washed and dried.
“Will you be out long?” Jack asked, trying to sound casual: the house seemed so big and empty, since his Father had left them.
“We might go dancing,” his Mother told him, ruffling his hair with affection as she walked passed him; “So, if I'm not back by twelve, you got to bed, alright?”
“Yes Mum,” he answered flatly, running the fingers of his right hand through his hair, to bring his fringe back into place.
But, his Mother was not back by twelve and, Jack did not go to bed.
Instead he sat at his desk, typing out the new script he was working on, for his classes end of year project, a comic called Open Minds.
He'd been going to the evening class for three terms and, this was the second issue he had contributed toward.
All of a sudden a sound from outside caught his attention. There was a loud wheezing, groaning sound of something materialising in the back garden, then the sound of breaking glass.
Jack rose and parted his bedroom curtains, to look outside: where the greenhouse had been, a tall blue box stood, with a light atop, the flashed a blue-white light intermittently.
Wide-eyed, Jack turned to look at the few toys he kept on a shelf above his desk, on which stood his Denys Fisher collection figures of Leela, The Fourth Doctor and the robot dog K-9, as well as The Tardis, all from his favourite teevee show.
He returned his gaze to the blue-box outside and wondered, “Who will come out?”
COMMENTS
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Crowscat
22:04 Dec 28 2019
Now I am left wondering who came out :) I hope you will continue this story! I have missed reading you dear Angelus