My Captivating speech, by Johnny App.


Johnny’s cat, mittens.

Johnny stood tall, took a deep breath, and walked to the front of the class to give his oral report on the creative exercise his teacher, Mr Thrittle had set out for them.

12 years old, nerves tense, sweating like he’s 50, overweight, and walking uphill with weights on his back, Johnny clear his throat and throws a solemn look over his peers, feeling them settle, and waiting for him to begin his enduring monologue. Blinking twice, Johnny starts his story…

A warm summers night, still 23°c at 8.30pm, late December. A shadowed figure walks alone down a deserted ally, kicking small rubble into the walls on either side, only to burst into even smaller fragments.

Feeling his breast pocket on his windbreaker, he draws a lighter and brings it to life with a couple of short spins of the flint, illuminating a door concealed in the dirty brickwork between opposing walls of the shops in front.

Knocking 3 short raps of his knuckles, he draws his pistol from the waistband of his worn jeans and takes a step back, waiting patiently for the peep hole to slide open, and a volley of questions to be fired in rapid succession.

Breathing heavily, the dark stranger runs a hand up the back of his neck and over the top of his head, swiping his hair to the left, keeping his eyes clear. Fumbling his lighter again, he flips the top of a rumpled pack of Winnie’s, and draws the last half crushed cigarette and puts it to his thin lips, drawing heavily, savouring the sweet taste of tobacco and the firm support of the filter.

Feeling his heart slow down he drops the glowing eye and its stalk to the ground, crushing and ripping the softer parts to bits as he twists his foot into the earth below. Soft scratches of locks over wood, metal against metal, and the soft scrape of seal gliding over the concrete as it moves inwards, spilling a dull, golden light into the dark world around the dark man, Jimmy.

Barely a moment passes before Jimmy whips the butt of the gun in his right hand backwards, into the mountainous nose of Jerry ‘Big Nose’ Douglass, crushing it in one fell blow, blood stemming from the open wound that was his gargantuan honker.

Crying out with a somewhat smothered groan, he staggers back against the wall and falls to a heap. Turning his face up with his eyes streaming, nose jagged, and blood seeping into his gaping mouth, Jimmy fires a silenced round into his right eye, finishing the miserable existence of, Jerry ‘Big Nose’ Douglass.”

At this point, the teacher cuts him off with a harp reprimand, “Johnny, you will stay after class. That wasn’t appropriate for this class, nor any students your age. Go to the principal.”

Work in progress?…

I don’t think it is, its going nowhere. Just a half hearted effort. Maybe another time Johnny 😦

Posted from somewhere amongst the tangled interwebs….


3 Comments Add yours

  1. Maybe my memories are wrong, but I never thought of winnies as being sweet. I don’t smoke anymore, but I was Dunhill smoker back in the day 🙂 12 year olds should not be using the word fuck…crack up. Can’t wait to see where this is going.


    1. It’s sweet enough for my toxic tastes 🙂 port royal is lovely too 🙂

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Dodgy story…A long time ago I used to get a taxi co to buy my smokes and deliver them. I couldn’t drive because I’d had a blood clot removed from my brain after a car accident. I always asked for Dunhill blue and they always got red – 16’s (?). My head swam and I’d feel nauseous every time…memories 🙂


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