A Portrait of Pain

Graham's Gripe

'She was attractive even for an angel. So it's not surprising that she had a line of [~~idiots~~] suitors lined up for marriage. She found it like super difficult to choose which man-angel she would marry so her father sent out word "whoever whomever wins the Angel Olympics also wins my daughter's hand." So you know all the man-angels got together to impress Angela's dad . . .'

Graham didn't read a lot, with the exception of Spiderman comics. He didn't write a lot either, that shit was for nerds. But he was soon unequivocally absorbed in the world of Angelesco that he'd created on a whim. The strange plumed pen flitted over the pages, regurgitating words.

Suitor 1 made sparks fly from his hands, which delighted Angela and agitated her father; Suitor 2 got a parliament of magpies to do stunts in the sky; Suitors 3 through 10 performed equally impressive feats; but it was Suitor 11 who, by simply seizing Angela by the waist and kissing her passionately, won the approval of both the girl and the girl's father. Suitor 11 and Angela lived as kings and queens of Angelesco happily ever after.

Graham was astonished to find how much time had passed since he'd started writing the damn thing. Jeez Cheesewhizz Christ! A lot of the other losers had already left, including Brownie. He gathered his stuff up and scrambled over to Mr. Davies' desk.

"All done, young man?"

No, I'm standing in front of you with my notebook because I've a bee in my bum. "Yes, sir," was all Graham said.

"Good boy, you may leave," said Mr. Davies, taking his notebook. "I hope you were sincere. I promise this kind of thing really helps troubled kids like you. I'll let you know my thoughts on what you've jotted tomorrow."

Troubled? Me? Crap on you! "Thanks, sir," and Graham left.

Next day Graham was joshing around at recess with his pals when the bell rang and Mr. Davies entered the class looking a right fit combination of smug and enraged.

"Settle down, class," he said. "I have something interesting to present to you all today."

A collective groan went up in the class. Interesting for an English teacher meant analysing why the author mentioned the curtains were blue in stanza four.

"No, no, I know what you're thinking," said Mr. Davies. "But this is truly something you all need to hear. Graham, if you will come up here."

Graham frowned.

"Come on now, don't be shy."

Graham went up to Mr. Davies. Mr. Davies handed him his notebook, open to the page where he'd scribed his story the day before.

"Read that out to the class, will you?" said Mr. Davies. "I insist."

Graham's frown deepened. Why -? But of course. Pride poked him in the ribs. His teacher thought his story was so incredible and heartfelt he wanted all his classmates to know they were sleeping on the 21st Century Faulkner.

"Er, sure," said Graham, peering down at his curious friends. He could see Brownie on the leftmost aisle, beaming like this were Labour Day or something.

"I asked Graham to write an imaginative story for his Special Ed yesterday," announced Mr. Davies. "I trust you're all mature. So. This is what he came up with."

Graham read: " 'Once upon a time in the land of -' Uhm . . ."

"Go on," urged Mr. Davies. "You were brazen enough to write it down."

"But, sir-"

"No buts, Master Author! I want you to read every last word out to your classmates, or I will have you suspended. I've already had a word with Principal Sharon."

Graham gulped. And Graham read.

" 'Once upon a time, in the land of Dickcockani, there lived a piece of shit called Turd.' "

Graham paused.

All his classmates were gaping at him open-mouthed. All but one. Brownie was still beaming evilly.

"Don't stop," said Mr. Davies.

"But sir-"

"Do you wish to be suspended?"

"No." Graham felt a lump rising in his throat. He had genuinely worked, for once, on something and somehow everything had gone wrong.

"Read," grated Mr. Davies, putting an awful lot of load in that one word.

So Graham read on. The story only got more and more inane - from Cocktail's quest to find lube to Butthole's reunion with his wife Toilet. It managed earning howls of disgust and laughter from his fellow classmates.

Brownie laughed hardest of all, the whole while running the cursed feathered pen through his greasy hair.

Graham remembered that he had never returned the pen. He shivered as he saw something animalistic, something inhuman, burning behind the Indian's beady eyes.

Maybe rumors were not always false.

Just wrote this for no reason, is it any good? ☠️