Jon Park

MY HEART WILL ALWAYS BE YOURS.

Jon Park

Stevie is like an open book. I sensed something was up earlier in the week. We’d be having a discussion and he would just zone out on me. He was probably thinking of you and your fake tits; you home breaking whore, that’s all you are.

We were happy in our own little world, until you got into his head and pants.

Stevie and I had been together since high school. He was your standard jock. Good at football and tinkering with cars, and pretty much nothing else. He wasn’t the sharpest knife in the set, but he was good and decent, and I loved him with all my heart.

I was a cheer leader. That’s how we first hooked up. I had a body to die for, then. I was three months pregnant for my prom and married to Stevie before I was nineteen.

Stevie dropped out of college and got a job working in a body shop, that was six years ago and now he’s the head mechanic. He’s real good with his hands, I’m sure your aware of that, bitch.

Live was hard early on, my daddy helped us out, set us up in a trailer home and gave me money when he could. Jessica was born into a happy home and Stevie adored her from the moment he set eyes on her. She’s just like him, with those dark, doleful eyes.

Life has been pretty good to us these past six years. Stevie would always buy me flowers and a card on every anniversary. I’ve kept every one of those cards and I pressed those flowers into my memory book, where I also kept my first baby scan and a lock of Jessica’s hair.

Just last night, I pulled those cards out and read what Stevie had written. “Tracey, I love you. My heart will always be yours.” Everyone ends with the same inscription, “My Heart will always be yours.”

Now, Miss false tits, you’ve come on the scene and you’ve destroyed all this.

It was just little things that got me onto you. Stevie started to come home later than usual from work. Before, he had been as regular as his morning dump. Home at five thirty, every night. I would always have a hot meal ready on the table for him and a cold one in the fridge. Then suddenly, the food was going cold and he would come home with some half arse excuse, not able to look me in the eye. That was the first sign.

Then he started taking a shower every day before he went to work and he would get me to iron his overalls, suddenly he was taking care in his appearance, something he had never done. What sealed it, was when he kissed me goodbye that morning. He was wearing aftershave to work. Doused in cedar wood. I guess that’s when I knew for certain.

So I had come into the shop that same morning and my suspicious where confirmed when I saw you, all glamourous with those big, false tits, stood behind the reception. You had been there a whole month and Stevie hadn’t mentioned you. I knew then what was going on and I felt my world collapse.

A girl friend confirmed it. She had seen the two of you at the bar and grill all cosied up. When she walked in, she said Stevie had jumped up like he had just been branded with a hot iron.

So I did what most wives would do. I checked his mobile phone while he slept. Sure enough I found the texts. You had been meeting at the motel just off route 41. Cheap place, but I’m sure good enough for what you two had in mind.

So I confronted him. He broke down in tears, telling me he couldn’t stop it, he had fallen for you, totally. We had married too young, it wasn’t my fault. He still loved me, but it wasn’t the same. He felt trapped.

I threw the card down that he had given me only two weeks ago on our sixth anniversary. The same inscription, “My heart will always be yours.”

“So, tell me,” I screamed, “Has she won your heart.”

He replied with just one word that devastated me.

“Yes.”

I knew I had lost him then and you had won.

He broke down and told me he was planning on leaving me tonight and was to meet you at the motel.

It was easy getting access to the motel room. I told the manager that it was your birthday and I had a surprise for you. He let me in the room and waited while I set the bag down on the centre of the bed. The bed you expected to be fucking on later.

As I drove back home, I wondered if you had found the bag and opened it yet. I could imagine the look on your face as your screams echo around the motel parking lot.

But hey, like Stevie said, you had won his heart.

The Magician

by Jon Park

Ray sat at the bar in the speakeasy and watched his next hit, the Magician, who was currently living up to his nickname, performing a card trick to a boisterous blonde, who squealed with delight as he made a playing card disappear from his hand and reappear down her cleavage.

Ray smiled to himself. He was witnessing the final performance of the Magician. He didn’t even know the guy’s real name.

The family had ordered the hit. And, today, Ray would be the Magician’s able assistant, helping him vanish, for good.

Why? Ray never wanted to know, his was just to execute the family’s request, quite literally, in this case.

The Magician rose from his table, sank his drink and planted a kiss between the blonde’s cleavage. Another squeal erupted from the blonde. “Just need to take a piss. Now make sure you’re still here when I come back,” he said.

Ray watched as his target made his way through the bar to the toilets at the rear of the speakeasy. Time to get to work. He sank his whiskey and followed, feeling the reassuring outline of the gun in his pocket.

Just as he went to push the toilet door open, the Magician came barging out and stumbled into him. The two grappled, until Ray’s upper body strength, courtesy of days spent in the prison gym, won through and he forced the Magician back through the toilet door. Ray shoved him away, creating space for him to pull the gun from his coat. He planted it square in the Magician’s face.

The Magician threw his hands up, “Hey man, chill. It was an accident; the floors in here are slippery. Let me buy you a drink.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Ray spat, as he checked the toilets were empty. He then forced the Magician into the first cubicle, using the barrel of the gun to move him back as far as he could go.

“Hey, listen, man. If that’s your girl out there, we were just messing. You know.”

Ray took a step back. He didn’t want blood or bone getting onto his coat.

“The family sends their regards,” he said, pulling the trigger.

Nothing. Misfire. He pulled again. Click. Click.

The Magician smiled. “Out of bullets, buddy.” And opened his hand. Six shells fell to the floor.

Before Ray could react, a blade flashed in a spray of red. His legs gave way, and he slumped to the floor.

The Magician meanwhile, did a disappearing act.

Art by Daniel Valentine-Model Mohammad Ihsan Auqib

BRIGHT EYES

by Jon Park

I had been pestering Dad since the first of October to get me a pumpkin. Sure, he was busy with work stuff, but all I wanted was one pumpkin to carve and put out on our porch. Was that too much to ask? But, as normal, he forgot and by the time Mom had rushed down to Walmart, they had sold out.

She returned with ice cream and a bottle of wine instead. I just sat on the porch, sulking. Grandma, who was sat on the porch swing, tapped me with her walking stick. “Your dad works real hard, Jimmy. Don’t you be so hard on him.”

Then Dad came out on the porch for a smoke. “What’s wrong with your face, Jimmy?” he asked. “So I was too busy earning a living to keep a roof over our heads, and now all you can do is mope around. So you don’t have a pumpkin to carve, why don’t you try improvising, rather than being such a miserable prick.”

When Dad went back in, it hit me. He was right. I would improvise.

So, on Halloween night, I had my carved lantern sat on the porch, the lit candles looking oh-so-cool, shining like coals in hell from the eyes. Once I had removed the top, it was easy to scoop the insides out. I was so proud I had used my initiative.

Mom came out on the porch. I waited for her to admire my work and compliment me on my improvised lantern.

“Jimmy, have you seen your Grandma, today?”

I smiled and guided her gaze to my masterpiece on the porch. Mom screamed like the proverbial banshee and just kept going.

This was the best Halloween ever. Dad came running and followed Mom’s shaking hand as she pointed at my lantern. He then lost his shit.

I’ve no idea why; Grandma’s eyes had never looked so alive.

Even the Dead Need Somewhere to Live

by Jon Park

Jimmy Franklin is thirty-four years old. A terminal bachelor, he lives in a two-bedroom apartment in the centre of Gateshead, just up from the new Tesco’s. Jimmy isn’t a people person. A professional loner, he avoids them as much as possible. Or, at least that is, the living.

You see, Jimmy has a special gift. He can see dead people. Just like that kid in the movie. Dead people, like dead naked Terry, who lies all day, every day, in Jimmy’s bathtub. Foul brown water covering his pale, bloated body. Whenever Jimmy comes to the bathroom, Terry will sit up, arms resting on the side of the bath and ask the same question.

“What’s the weather like out, Jimmy?”

“It’s pissing it down, Terry. Literally bouncing off the payments.”

“I knew it,” Terry shrieks with delight, splashing his hands down into the fetid water. “I can feel it in my bones, you know. They never fail me.” Terry, as if to demonstrate this talent, proceeds to hold his arms over the edge of the bath. Skin and flesh drips from them like wax down a burning candle.

Jimmy enters his kitchen. Here we find Old Man Frank, sat at a small table. Frank’s head is tilted back so the deep slash that has opened his throat is visible. A flap of bloody flesh dangles down onto his chest.

“You fancy a cuppa, Frank?” Jimmy asks, as he flicks on the kettle.

“Oh, aye, son,” Frank wheezes through the hole in his throat. “That would be smashing.”

Jimmy makes two cups of tea and joins Frank at the table.

In Jimmy’s spare bedroom, sprawled across the double bed, we find Dianne and Paul. Young lovers locked in an eternal embrace. Jimmy likes to come here and play with Dianne’s long blonde hair. Styling it, so it hides the hole smashed into the back of her skull.

At night, Jimmy likes to lie with them, pressing himself into Dianne’s back. She never objects, and sometimes he can feel her pushing back.

Finally, there is Barry. He sits in the ironically named living room. Wearing a pair of blood-stained overalls, his massive frame squeezed into an armchair.

Jimmy likes to sit with him, and together they watch movies. Barry’s viewing of the television doesn’t appear to be inhibited at all by the handle of the large screwdriver that protrudes from the center of his forehead.

It had surprised Jimmy how little effort it had taken to plant the screwdriver there. And the blood. It had sprayed everywhere.

Jimmy checks his watch. He knows Terry is on the turn. He needs replacing.

Pulling on his coat, Jimmy checks the pocket. He can feel the reassuring outline of the knife. Satisfied, he leaves his apartment to seek Terry’s replacement.

Mary is Jimmy’s next door neighbor. Mary has a special gift, too. The gift of smell. It was Mary who called the cops.

DEEP

by Jon Park

Mavis Brown knew her young neighbours’ marriage would not last. Call it feminine intuition. She had never warmed to her neighbour Carol with her short skirts, high heels and hydraulic chest. When Mavis’s husband Charlie had passed, three years ago, the hussy had turned up at his funeral wearing a skirt so short if she’d sneezed you could have checked her tonsils. No respect, Mavis had been mortified.

Carol’s husband Sam, however, was a lovely man. He reminded Mavis of Charlie, quiet and considerate. A gentle giant with puppy dog eyes. Mavis adored him. When Charlie passed, Sam had helped her sell his car and regularly checked in to make sure she was okay. Every Friday, he would drive Mavis to Morrison’s in Jarrow so she could do her weekly shop. Insisted on it, saying it was their date night. Mavis looked forward to the couple of hours they spent together, enjoying his company. She didn’t feel so alone in the world knowing Sam was just next door. The man was a saint who lived with a sinner.

Only last Sunday, Sam had been good enough to run her down to the local garden centre to buy some plants to finish off her borders. Carol had answered the door, made up to the nines as usual, wine glass in hand and sarcastically called to him. “Sam your mothers here.”

Sam had been embarrassed and had apologised profusely for the comment. Grabbed his car keys and pushed past his drunk wife and helped Mavis into the car.

Carol was well known down in the village. Especially their local pub, the Dog and Parrot. When Charlie was alive, they would call into the pub every Saturday night to play bingo. Carol and Sam would already be in the pub. Carol would be two sheets to the wind, sucking away provocatively at the straw in her drink, flirting with any bloke who happened to be in her vicinity, while Sam would be sitting drinking his pint with a face like thunder.

Charlie was even under her spell. “Why don’t you just leave her be,” he would say, “She’s just having a bit of fun, woman.”

Having fun, Mavis thought, she was like a cheap whore looking to turn her next trick.

So, it came as no surprise, just days after their trip to the garden centre, Sam called round. His eyes puffy and red, sobbing his little heart out.

Mavis had ushered him inside, “What’s happened?” she asked, ensuring he removed his muddy shoes before guiding him into the kitchen.

“She’s gone, Mrs Brown. I don’t know what to do.”

“Who? Whose gone my lovely?” Mavis asked.

“Carol. Gone, left me. Told me she’s met someone else, and they are planning to move to New Zealand. Said she’s had it planned for weeks.” Sam rubbed his massive hands through his hair. Mavis noticed the deep scratch on the side of his neck and a blood stain on the collar of his shirt. He let out a cry like a wounded animal, deep from his soul. “Oh, what have I done. I loved her, really loved her. What should I do, Mrs Brown?”

It took all of Mavis’s resolve not to say, “You’re better off without the little whore, son.” Instead, she gave him a hug. She had heard them arguing the night they came back from the garden centre. The shouting had gone on for some time. When Carol began to scream, Mavis had turned the television up.

After an hour or so, Sam rose from the table. “I better be getting back home, Mrs Brown. Carol will be….” and he stopped himself. His eyes filled with tears. Mavis hugged him. Looked into his dark eyes and said, “You listen to me Sam, you’ll get through this. You need to keep busy, keep your mind occupied. You know where I am if you need me. It will all work itself out, you hear?”

He had nodded, “I know what I need to do”, and he had left.

Early the following morning, Mavis was woken by a noise outside. She checked her watch, it was 5:48am, the sun was just beginning to rise. She got out of bed and crossed to the window. It was Sam, down at the bottom of his garden. Mavis pulled on her house coat and went down to the kitchen. She made two cups of tea, checked he was still out there and made her way down to where he was stood. The Blow Flies hit her before the smell did.

“Morning Sam,” she said, trying to brush the flies away. “I’ve brought a cuppa for you, love.”

Sam just stood, in a trance, staring off into the fields that surrounded their properties. Flies crawled across his wet cheeks, but he paid them no attention, more covered the dark stains on his t-shirt.

Mavis placed the cups down on the lawn, brushed at the flies that were now feasting on her bare legs.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Sam said. “She just wouldn’t stop. When I close my eyes, I can see her face. I can’t erase the memory of it all.”

Mavis touched his arm and spoke gently to him, “Course you didn’t, son. But sometimes we must bury those memories so deep we can begin to forget them. Or at least deep enough so’s the flies can’t get to them.” Mavis took the spade from Sam, pulled her house coat up so it covered her nose and began to dig. Deeper.

Jon Park lives in the North East of England and loves to write. His story “Too Tough to Die,” appeared in Gabba Gabba Hey, an anthology of fiction inspired by the music of the Ramones published by Fahrenheit Press in 2021.

He loves loud music and plays guitar badly. If you meet him, you will need to shout.

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