Jack Blundell

Storyteller from Scotland

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Monster

Two-tone shoes are back in fashion but these ones are well worn and the occupant so far from handsome that he seems predisposed to repulse all of those who have to suffer his misunderstood advances. This dishevelled freak whose mumbles provoke shrieks through the minds of all he clumsily greets is, unfortunately, me. My head drops and my eyes create channels over my knees and down to my socks that are revealed by rolled up cuffs that fill right up before running down into my soles. There’s a button missing from my double-breasted coat that wouldn’t really serve a purpose anyway except perhaps to keep a touch more of your draft at bay as you breathe past without even a courteous glance to confirm your utter dismay. Or disgust. Or that trust that went bust as I tried to explain how I felt but instead thrust an uneven folded-up excuse your way. As my fingers trace along the creased crest of my discarded hat that once lay at rest upon your head, I can only think of you as falling curls of apprehensive beauty and dark eyes that spoke truthfully beneath a green glint of devilment. I will always be sorry for the monster I am.

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