HIGHLY COMMENDED
in the Frazzled Lit Short Story Award 2025!
Listen to Mark reading his story:
Johnny Moran is tryin to be funny. He wants to make Sharon McBride laugh so he’s makin jokes about my mum.
Hey Jay, is it true?
I try an listen to Ol science teacher Santini chattin about sunlight on plants.
Don’t be blanking me.
Only fools like fightin. I don’t wanna hit them but it’s the same on the estate, at home, in Maccy D’s, the top deck of the bus, walkin to the shops, wherever. Idiots desperate to flex what they got an show that they’re buffer than you, thinkin it earns them respect an blow jobs. Johnny Moran wants the baseball cap life, pimpin with his grillz an gold, thinkin he’ll cruise around in his open-topped BMW, hos in the back, ready to machete anyone that gives him side-eye.
The flexin is a billion times worse when girls are around.
If Sharon McBride didn’t have big jugs, no one would be fussed about her, I swear.
Oh no, she ses, he’s still blanking you.
She’s such a stirrer.
I know that if I do look at Johnny Moran something major-bad is gunna happen.
I mean to him, not me.
This psycho feelin has been like a sound system boomin in my head all week long. I’m okay when I’m cuddlin my cat, Flapjack. Cats have this magic about them that make you feel better when they nuzzle into you an purr. I don’t know how they do it. Shame I can’t stay in my room with her cos it’s when I unlock my bedroom door an step into the world that these basslines of war crank up an I wanna start bustin faces. Whenever I hear mum talk or teachers or the fools in my class, all I wanna do is knock their lights out. It’s not like I can chat to anyone about it. No one cares. They act like they do, askin how I am an givin me sweets an shit, but they don’t, not really. They’re fakers. The teachers. Mum. I know my bro, Mike, ses he’s gunna be back home once he’s outta prison, but I’ve been thinkin about how he kinda lived with his shady mates an ghosted me in the weeks before he was arrested.
I tell myself dad ain’t like them but I’m not so sure either, neither, cos where the fuck’s he gone?
People chat one thing, but it’s what they do that tells you the truth.
Apart from Johnny. He’s so dumb he can only chat about what’s on his raisin brain. He ses to me, Your mum finishes work when she gets out of bed.
Sharon McBride does her fake, extra loud laugh.
Ol Santini ses to her, Stop that.
I get off my stool an pick it up. Johnny raises his hands to defend himself but he’s too slow. He does a fish mouth as I jab one of the stool legs into his eye an smash him over the head.
I leap on him an dish out the murders beastin inside of me.
Mr Leonard orders me to stay seated by the door to the Headmistress’ office.
Don’t move, he ses. Mrs McNeil will be with you shortly.
Fools pass in the corridor smellin of chip butties. They see me on the chair in front of the Office of Pain. They point an shake wrists an one of them shouts, Someone’s getting expelled, an they burst out laughin before a teacher goin by yells at them. I realise it’s Robinson. The faker who said she was gunna speak to mum an try to meet her, promisin to help me. She stands in the corridor an she ain’t lookin at me. It’s as if she’ll catch diseases an I wonder if that’s her shame makin her scared, cos she’s another one of the liars.
I call out, Mizz.
She walks off like she ain’t heard me.
Do you care about my welfare, Mizz? Do you care about my welfare, Mizz Robinson? When are you gunna speak to my mum? When are you gunna meet mum for the coffee she don’t even drink?
Mr Leonard appears an ses in a firm teachery voice, Silence. Not another word. Do you understand me?
I don’t bother lookin at him.
I got more beasts roarin inside of me. Believe.
Mr Leonard knows about murders too with his coffin tie. That’s his real job. Buryin kids alive. The whole teacher act is a cover up. He ain’t here to educate. He’s here to exterminate. Diggin a mass grave for us paupers. This school is really a cemetery where hopes be dyin.
You are in serious trouble, Jason Smith.
They had to take Johnny Fuckadoo to hospital for stitches. The same A&E where they took Krish after Sara Zondi went batshit crazy on him, tearin out his hair in strips. Both beastins happened in Ol Santini’s science class. Madeline Booth ses there’s a hex on that classroom an blamed fools doin Ouija board shit.
Do you know where your mother is? ses Mr Leonard. We’re trying to reach her.
Ha-ha.
Joker.
I’m empty. The same as those shelves in the budget supermarket on the estate on Sundays, where people walk around the aisles, carryin their baskets with stupid expressions cos there ain’t nothing left, wishin they had the moolah to go to Sainbury’s.
Is your mother home, Jason? Her phone keeps going to voicemail. How can we reach her?
I don’t speak.
Edgar arrives, carryin his rucksack.
You’re his friend, right? asks Mr Leonard.
Yes, sir, ses Edgar.
Are you okay to sit with Jason while we try to contact his family and get some assistance here?
Sure, ses Edgar
It’s imperative he stays right there.
Yes, sir.
Mr Leonard goes back into the office to use his big words when chattin about graves with Mrs McNeil, who is a Born Again, Bible bashin Christian who hates poor people.
Jay, are you okay? ses Edgar.
I never get that question. What is, Okay? It don’t matter if I am or ain’t okay. Don’t make no difference. I know he wants me to talk. They all do. If people aren’t tellin you to shoosh, they’re on at you to talk. There’s no way to win.
He takes a pack of Monster Munch from his rucksack. Here, do you want some? he goes, tearin it open.
My stomach is pinchin an foldin. It hurts like fuck.
Edgar holds the pack in front of me. Take them, he ses.
I want to but I can’t seem to move my hands.
I heard what you did, Edgar ses.
I don’t chat, cos, like, seriously, why bother?
Edgar rummages in his bag an pulls out a chocolate bar. What about this? he ses. You like these, Jay, don’t you?
He don’t know how badly he’s temptin me with his bribes.
It’s going to be okay, he ses. I’m sure you won’t be expelled. Everyone knows what a loud mouth that freak Johnny is.
I reckon the word, Okay, should be banned.
Edgar slips the chocolate into the pocket of my jacket. We sit there an he starts to understand that I’d like to chat if I could cept it’s best for me to stay on mute. I know they’ll have to bring in support services an do their safeguardin shit. I reckon they’ll do a visit to mum’s flat an when they see where I’m livin, they’ll be tellin me that puttin me in a Home is for my own good.
Edgar reaches over. He wants to hold my hand. I flinch at first. His touch is such a surprise.
It’s alright, he ses.
He puts his hand around mine. He’s not stressin about fools seein us an I’m not sure I give a fuck. Whatevs.
As words go, Alright, is better than, Okay.
Mrs McNeil’s voice booms from her office. She ses, Mrs Smith, we need you at the school immediately I’m afraid. Yes, Mrs Smith. It’s your son, Jason.
Edgar ses, You should come back round to mine. We can play Fifa. You’ll come over, won’t you? Mum likes you and will cook us food again.
McNeil ses loudly, Your son has been involved in a major incident. You must come to the school now.
You can eat as much pakora as you like, ses Edgar.
Mrs Smith, it’s difficult to make sense of what you’re saying. Do you understand what I am telling you?
Mum ain’t Mrs no more.
I think about how Ol science boffin Santini bangs on about beauty of the universe shit in his lessons.
In between us launchin nuclear war on each other.
Edgar squeezes my hand.
I wanna be in bed with Flapjack—the two of us together forever an ever.
I kind of know for a fact that I won’t see Edgar after today. I’ll be another one of the school’s disappearin acts.
I close my eyes to see large planes fly high above in the stratosphere, droppin hundreds of bombs that glide down through the air like prehistoric birds an land on the school, explodin on the brick buildins an the portacabins. I watch one crashin through the ceilin an blowin up at my feet in a hot flash of white light, blastin us to smithereens… Shadows on walls… Atoms… Base elements.
Oxygen. Nitrogen. Hydrogen. Evil carbon an some other stuff.
Everyone fusses an acts buff, but that’s all we are.
Mark Burrow has published a novella, Coo, which is about an alcoholic turning into a pigeon in a world where people turn into birds (Alien Buddha Press). His short stories have appeared in a range of titles, including AEOS Magazine, Punk Noir, Flight of the Dragonfly and Underbelly Press. He’s been nominated for a Pushcart Prize (by Frazzled Lit) and Best of the Net (prose and poetry). He lives in the south of England.
I really, REALLY love this one!