Ok, so here's this week's writing project. I may do one or two more, since it's only monday night.
Inspirations for this include Rich and Andy's 24 Hour Diner, events at The Thirsty Mind coffee house, and some other authors that have long ago merged with my subconscious. No, the speaker is not me, nor is it Jackie the Spade (or is it?).
As usual, if you don't get it or don't like it, I don't care.
If you have anything useful to say, your comments are always welcome. I posted this without proofreading or researching, and it's certainly a living work.
Oh, and I know it's short. Part of this "challenge" is the posting of incomplete works than I can later develop if I want.
"A Short Story about Bookclubs" (Presently Untitled)
Jack’s eye began to twitch. A deep hatred was building up inside of him, boiling in his stomach, and for one brief instant he was gripped with on overwhelming distaste for humanity. It climbed the back of his throat with such surprising tenacity that he was forced to swallow it back in a burning wave, leaving behind an uncomfortable sting that lingered just long enough to tickle his gag reflex. His eyes watered behind crimson lenses, the twitch evolving into a steady pulse. Above his trembling gullet, a disturbed smile began to lose its feigned integrity. The coffee mug in his hand began to shake quietly, threatening to release its scalding contents. His heart began to beat quickly. His foot anxiously punished the floor. Less than ten feet away, the source of his angst continued its unforgivable practice of existing.
The women’s book club frequented this coffee shop regularly, and Jack always followed. He followed to bear witness. He followed to be disgusted. He followed to shake his head, to gawk in disbelief, and to bite his thumb at ignorance. He spilled his latte when they praised a harlequin novel. He had chocked on biscotti at the dismissal of Jonathan Livingston Seagull as a childish work. He had endured countless discussions of misinterpreted works, devoid of any analysis beyond the superficial, by arrogant and ignorant pseudo intellectuals. The approval shown for character development in The Divinci Code had made him shed tears on his croissant. He had heard every word, and still he listened. He attended every meeting as an unknown guest, invited by and accompanied by a silent rage.
God, how he wished he had heat vision. The simply ability to project highly powered lasers from his pupils . . . that’s all he wanted. It would be the perfect crime. No forensics expert would ever arrive at such a conclusion; no witness would ever be believed. No matter how one looked at it, heat vision was the perfect murder weapon.
Jack didn’t have heat vision, and this frustrated him greatly. While he could easily overpower a handful of middle-aged housewives, he would never be so foolish as to cause such a scene within his favorite coffee shop. It was crowded, after all. The mug in his hand was also a fairly impractical weapon, even if accompanied by the three inch blade in his pocket knife. Actually, it was two and seven-eighths inches, but it didn’t matter. He honestly didn’t care much for the knife anyway. It never held a decent edge, further dampening Jack’s fantasy. It would surely be dull after only a few stabs, leaving him with only the mug. He could perhaps bludgeon the rest with a heavy book, hypothetically, which would satisfy his sense of poetic justice.
He would select a particularly vapid piece of literature, at least half as thick as his victims to ensure a dependable weight. It would be something the club had read, of course, such as Bride Changing Hands. That would be perfect. He would laugh while he did it, cleansing the spoiled pages in their blood and taunting them.
“The ending was quite a surprise, wasn’t it?” he would ask. Or perhaps,
“Really, how could he do that her?” He’d mock them, all right. He’d ask the questions they never asked.
“What did you think of the imagery in chapter twelve? Did you think it was effective?” He knew they had no concept of imagery to begin with, but they had never discussed chapter twelve at all. It was terrible, like the rest of the book, but it was at least worth discussion. Like all the trash they had read and enjoyed, they never discussed the interesting chapters. It wasn’t surprising, with their disdain for the experimental.
Oh, he would have to experiment. A cliché murder would be unbearably hypocritical. The coffee mug might be useful after all. Paper cuts! Jack had never heard of anyone bleeding to death from a paper cut. It had to be possible though, right? Some hot espresso would probably serve to improve the blood flow. Espresso! The espresso machine sat across the counter from Jack like a child’s toy chest: full of possibilities. Everything in the shop suddenly came alive with thousands of untold capabilities. The lights, the furniture, the artwork, the consumables . . . even the other patrons suddenly held an odd quality of potential. Jack’s leg beat on nervously, his composure slowly melting from the inside. His mind was racing and his breathing seemed too slow for his lungs. He felt the edge of his seat beneath him; he feared he was losing his balance on it.
Relief came immediately. The women rose suddenly to gather coats and exchange pleasantries. The next book for discussion was announced: The Thirteenth Apostle. The date for the next meeting was set, following the usual interval, and the women floated out of the shop. Their voices followed after them. Jack let out a deep breath and took a sip from his coffee, grimacing at the cold and bitter liquid. It tasted horrid, but he finished it thoughtfully before collecting his own things and leaving. He allowed himself another sigh of disgust as he passed through the door, turning the corner as he moved toward the local bookshop.
La Fin.
