The Journal of Junior Chunk [Of Standing Stones and Heavenlies]

By J. Elk-Baptisté

The Journal of Junior Chunk
[Of Standing Stones and Heavenlies]
Hate--that's what you're holding in your hand.
A selection of journal entries that I'm forced to sell.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. Elk-Baptisté
• Release date: Dec 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370538454

J. Elk-Baptisté

J. Elk-Baptisté the author of The Story of Tump, many short stories, poetry and lyrics. He and his family reside in Tasmania.

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The Journal of Junior Chunk

[Of Standing Stones and Heavenlies]

J. Elk-Baptisté

Copyright 2016 . Elk-Baptisté

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, and locations are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

The book contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into an information retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photographic, audio recording, or otherwise) for any reason (excepting the uses permitted to the licensee by copyright law under terms of fair use) without the specific written permission of the author.

This edition published by J. Elk-Baptisté

All rights reserved.

First published 2016

Dedication

You'll do.

Hatred bounces

E. E. Cummings

The Journal

[A record of private stuff, which I'm forced to sell]

Hate—that's what you're holding in your hand. I don't care who you are these words are dangerous. Continue reading and a powerful negativity can drill to the depths of heart and soul and there's no way out. There's no vaccination or antidote, these words will corrupt both mind and spirit—they can wound and destroy. You may take a deep breath, pause and consider whether you wish to proceed. Should you replace the volume back on the shelf you got it from? Ask yourself, do I feel the need for every type of wicked lie, every imaginable gut-wrenching horror and unspeakable obscenity influencing my life?' No? Well, you're a grown up aren't you—old enough to decide how to spend your time? It doesn't matter to me if you read it or not—there's no cheap manipulation—no arm-twisting going on here. I'm a straight shooter and would never mess with you. My name is Junior Chunk and this is my journal. It's a ball-grabber from start to finish and to reiterate: I don't care if you read it—just don't try stealing it.

No sugar coating. Every last one of us is called to account and mercy is thin on the ground.

True that.

Beaufort

Beaufort is a town of sorrows and should never have been born. It's a poisonous hole, situated on Van Diemen's Land, the largest of the three remaining landmasses set in the Southern Ocean. It lies at the point closest to the location of the lost island continent of Terra Australis. People go missing from Beaufort all the time and most of those missing are children. They never return, which means that the number of inconsolable parents here is large. Beaufort? Nope. Can't think of a single nice thing to say about it.

Terribad!

Father

?

Mother

She knows best. It's a universally recognized, but all too often neglected truth. It's something we all know, but we forget, don't we?

Mine uses expressions such as: Cut the mustard and difficult child, and when she does so, I have a problem. Can't say why, just do.

Hates

There are certain words, and, as example, there's that word genre. What kind of thing is that? Mouth-garbage! Repeat it at speed and sanity is risked. Go ahead, be my guest and try it. You'll know I'm right.

Nuff!

Except... Monstera deliciosa. Tropical vine having roots that hang like cords and cylindrical fruit with a pineapple and banana flavour. Oh, really?

WTF?

Interloper and meat

"Pleasantries are fine things as far as fine things go, but what about the meat? There must be meat—raw meat on the bone—lots and lots of it and right from the get-go!"

I could not believe my ears. Her words were uttered in supercilious tone. She was unaware of my presence and so had not actually aimed to hurt, but in all honesty—meat on the bone? Raw meat—after rudely trespassing upon my territory?

She'd snuck into my room with the purpose of going through my stuff and it was not long before she stood there in the corner, propping herself against a wall. With my journal in hand she perused page after page. She hovered there as the proverbial bad smell and it went on for ages.

I was in my wardrobe pretending it was a coffin and imagining what being buried alive must be like. Peering out through a crack in the door I listened and she continued muttering.

Moving forward from that time has not been easy. Words can stick. Hers did. I felt doomed, sentenced to suffering eternal embarrassment.

I can forgive and I have and it's big of me. Despite the shattering of self-confidence, I've managed to pull myself up. The task of keeping faith was begun in the instant of those words registering—before the point of total annihilation was reached—and by dint of hard work in areas of positive affirmation, success is mine. Again my words sing. They ring forth as the sonorous chiming of bells sounding throughout an envisioned valley of clearest light. No longer do I bear up under the intermingled, anguished cries of wives, mothers and children. There was a cave-in at the mine and many souls were trapped underground, but then—in the nick of time— valiant rescue attempts were rewarded with success.

It's a Friday

Yes it is.

First entry. New volume. Stick the date at the top.

Should I title this entry? Don't see why not.

Time to begin. Man-up and get right into it. Oh boy!

7. 12. 59: Post apocalypse.

Beelzebub

Of whom do I write? Of my father, Frank Chunk the monster—that's who.

Hiding behind the walnut tree, watching him split firewood.

He stands before the heap, surveying it. He mumbles the words of an impromptu song and if words elude him gaps are filled with whistling and then sound comes out as nothing better than a hiss. Never mind though, because it's just a little made up song of summertime, of a parched riverbed and a girl named Tamzen Oakie, of her dying beneath the bridge just outside of town where it crosses the Shoane.

After breaking through the railing the vehicle plummeted to the dust below and pain aside, the last thing Tamzen knew for sure was the fact of so much dirt and grit filling her mouth and her eyes. She thought of the likelihood of angels showing up. If any swung by, wanting to take her away with them, she would not see them in all their radiant glory.

The River Shoane is cursed and that's been true since time immemorial; she's cursed from bed to banks and far beyond. Her waters can be sweet to the taste, but a sour reputation feeds on the knowledge of her owning responsibility for far too many misfortunes. There's a dam upstream and even at the best of times she runs at nothing better than a miserable trickle. If the Shoane were a person, maybe you'd find yourself sympathizing with her sorry state.

Setting aside the shovel and leaning it against a nearby tree, then slapping calloused hands together, Senior spits juicily to one side and then, wiping away flecks of errant spittle with the back of a hand, he notes its whiteness, its thick consistency. He mops at his brow. A drink would be welcomed.

The heap just keeps growing; it's of humungous size and is added to daily. He sure knows how to swing an axe; it's the one thing he's good at. Every so often he takes a break and pauses and grins and it's a private sort of grinning. It's no flashy thing, because some time ago several teeth went AWOL; they worked loose and departed their places at the front of the mouth. They dropped into the tin cup he takes his tea from. They were not the true biters; those are still securely anchored at the sides and the back.

The axe is blunted and so later on a mill file will be used. The sound produced in working metal is soothing to Senior's spirit. Certain unwillingness is there.

Thinking.

So...

Teeth on edge. The breathy sound of mindlessness; a sound made by a serial killer, released from custody to menace unwary normals. Allowed back into the community by practitioners of a treacherous legal system—a steamed up berserker on the lookout for easy pickings—any innocent party will do. Anything: A chair, which won't stand straight, a friend, replete after a first drink, a wife's too loud sighing at the sink. A dog does just fine. Next door's cat knows to vacate our territory when Senior's about. The white cockatoo is not so lucky, stuck in its cage in the kitchen it's not going anywhere and the unfortunate bird