Two stories by David Mcmullan

Two stories
by David Mcmullan

Madman Apologises to a Painting

Mona Lisa, don’t be so glum, girl, and cheer up. I see you and give a nod and wink and you don’t smile. Huh? Why don’t you smile at me no more?

Where has that curl on them lips got to? Why don’t it come no more and just a blank sad look? Is there a frown? Huh, you miserable woman!

I don’t get the sound of frown. I moan and you moan. The world is hanging on the broom. I swept up teardrops.

What chased that smile off your face?

You ain’t so pretty no more.

Hey, was it me? Did I do something? All these questions I ask you constantly (but why don’t you just smile? All you gotta do is give me a smile, one smile!). But one smile is all I need, all I ask for, all I deserve. Surely you can give me that!

Am I a monster again? Am I a jealous fool?

Ah, yeah, I drank too much and made a fool of myself again, and now I’m back, groggy and humble and apologetic, though I don’t know what it was I done! Tell me, tell me! I throw my hands up in the air and lean and shake, crazy, confused and full of paranoia. I shrug and hang my head, just for you.

(Did I do dat? Ah, smiles don’t fall. Day don’t, do day?)

Do you smile for other eyes? Why the questions? Just answer me or smile to me and I’ll leave you alone, I swear. I just wanna see the passion, girl. I just want some love in the picture. I can’t stand gloomy days, dark and dismal, full of despair and stress and grey doom, great hanging contemplations for me to lament on, visions that make me shudder and sweat and frown forlorn.

Ah no, girl, you look so pissed off about something. Upset. I just wanna get that face off ya. Then tell me. Is it something I done? I can’t handle you ignoring me all the time and being silent, and you got a right muddy face on you today, love!

Baby, angel, darling, honey, sweetness, please, I’m begging you.

Why don’t you just tell me and I’ll make it better, I’ll make it up to you. I’m sorry. I’m a fool, a clown, an idiot and madman, maniac, lunatic without a clue. But it was my wild friends, it was them, it was the town, the city, the world, the bleak harsh-bone life that forced all the upside-down smiles and red eyes, tears on cheeks. Ah…

(Dit was dem dat did dit! Dem dat done da deed!)

Yeah, yeah, yeah…

Blah, blah, blah…

You know my jazz, you know my soup!

I knew how sad everything just was when I came bawling into the world. See? Lisa, that’s why babies come screaming into the world and life, coz they know, and they never asked to be born or to live! Ha, see?

They remember the comfort snugness of the womb, then they come to a place of suffering and loss and tragic looming thinking.

No more waiting, waiting, waiting, hanging in the gallery. This is a portrait, kid! The broken stick, the hook, the heart-shape, the look.

Come on, and we can both smile again.

I never meant to do what I done.

I was the one.

That made you lose your smile.

Please, forgive me.

Mona Lisa.

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Her Mole is my Dad

Man, her impurities, her blemishes, her ugliness. This woman before me, she is wasting away, rotting right before my very eyes.

‘Why am I on a date with you?’ I ask in my head. ‘I’m so attractive and you have that growth on yer face, and it keeps looking on at me and giving me the fear!’

I was waiting for it to speak to me; it looked like it wanted to.

I drink my fifth drink and wave a hand at some waiter punk. The woman keeps on talking woman language, woman words.

As her lips move I close in on that fucking mole, the thing still staring right back at me. ‘Okay mole, it’s just you and me now, buddy! What you got to say, huh?’

Big brown, dark splot of lump flesh. Like a sinister splodge of chocolate. That growth is the world. The world is shit.

I know I am drunk but the mole speaks to me. I lean in closer, just to hear. ‘Huh, whassat?’

‘Don’t you recognise me?’

‘Get lost, mole!’

‘I’m you father,’ it says in strange liquid, dulcet voice.

The thing knows I have issues with my father. That lousy, cheap, bastard mole. And right how I wish to just bite at the thing and tear it off in my teeth.

The woman keeps on talking away, still playing footsie with me, still one hand on my knee trying to get to my fly. But that creepy mole is my dad! Ah no!

For a second I try to comprehend how drunk I am that facial growths claim to be blood relatives. For a moment I try to imagine what kind of scene will take place in a matter of seconds in this busy restaurant as some drunk writer leans over to a girl he is eating with and takes a chunk outta her face.

What will they think then? When a guy goes mad? What will the world think?

Who cares? That mole must be taught a lesson!

So lean over with my teeth chattering. ‘Hey baby,’ she whispers, thinking I’m moving in for some kissy-kissy action. She’s got no idea.

But I’m getting closer.

I just wanna see my dad!

Come here, father…

Author bio:

David Mac is a 30-year-old rare and mythical bastard on the edge of British society, but an English gent. He lives in a small room in Bedfordshire with a slinky cat. He rides forklift trucks and drinks wine. His flash fiction and poetry has appeared in Ambit, Mud Luscious, Monkey Kettle, This Zine Will Change Your Life, a poetry anthology called Angel’s Breath, plus Clockwise Cat.