Prologue and Chapter 1 from Jack Strong and the Red Giant
Prologue
The
boy pulled the bundle of furs close as the last of his fire
rocks went out.
He
couldn’t stop shivering. It was getting colder and colder every day
now.
Outside
he could hear the Nagwhals calling, their shrill whine bouncing off
the ice falls, reaching deep into the cave.
He
was so hungry. He hadn't eaten in days.
Beneath
the pile of rotten fur he held onto his brother, now stiff with cold.
Down
the tunnel he heard a long, piercing shriek and a loud splash.
Moments later a big silver head followed by a long silver body
squeezed itself out of the darkness and slid towards him, its huge,
jagged teeth snapping at his rags.
A
yell and a lunge and it was all over.
He let go of his brother as the Nagwhal tugged his stiff body back
down the dark tunnel.
He was alone now - the last boy alive on a long dead planet.
The boy shivered, and waited for the Nagwhal to come again.
Jack
slammed the front door shut and quickly ran up the stairs. He went
straight into the bathroom, locked the door, and looked into the
small mirror by the sink.
It was worse than he feared.
There were swishes and squiggles of red, black, blue, green, and
orange marker pen all over his face.
He panicked.
Not wanting to be seen like this by his mum and dad he turned
on the taps and frantically began to scrub his face with a large,
yellow sponge. It took almost twenty minutes of feverish scrubbing to
remove every last mark.
After he finished dabbing himself with a towel, he walked across the
landing, entered his small, sparsely decorated bedroom, and slouched
upon the bed.
He had lost another pen fight.
When it was other children fighting though, they didn’t seem to
come away as badly as he did. It was supposed to be one against one,
yet as soon as he said he wanted to fight there were five or six boys
and girls holding him down, scribbling and scrawling all over his
face. He kept shouting at them to stop, but they just laughed and
giggled, their pens thrusting and jabbing.
Jack looked into the mirror one last time. Just for a moment he hoped
that his birthmark had been washed away too, but one look told him it
was still there: stretching all the way from his forehead to his chin
like a big red smudge. Wiping his blue eyes dry, he put on his
glasses, neatened his short brown hair, checked his face again for
pen marks and left his bedroom.
The
smell of food was now emanating from the kitchen and wafting up the
steep flight of stairs.
Eager to see what was for dinner, he quickly rushed down the stairs,
almost tripping over on the way and ran, much to the consternation of
his Mum, through the living room into the kitchen.
He was so hungry.
His mind raced with the many possibilities: hamburgers, roast
chicken, pepperoni pizza, sausages - anything so long as it was
delicious, and what was more - lots of it!
His heart sank.
Upon the kitchen table was a pan of slightly burnt pork chops, along
with some stringy onions served in some dark, black lumpy gravy.
There were also two plates of soggy carrots and peas, as well as what
looked like a big dish of lumpy mashed potatoes. Next to these were
also some heavily buttered slices of white bread and a bottle of
tomato ketchup (the store's economy brand). His dreams of coming
home to a plate of crisp, chunky chips and a moist, oven-cooked
pizza, or else a plate of yellow, creamy curry had vanished yet
again. Why couldn't he get something better for a change?
But
he was hungry, and so he sat down across from his mum and dad and
said nothing. He then grabbed a knife and fork from a small pile on
the table and began to eat. Though as the peas and carrots were soggy
and lacked salt, and the mashed potatoes well everything, his dinner
mainly consisted of making some rather messy pork chop sandwiches.
This was of course after he had spooned-off the streaky onions, given
the pork chops a good helping of brown sauce, and pulled off some
little bits of mold from the bread.
A few minutes later and it was time for dessert.
His mum, cheeks reddening, put on some ragged, grey oven gloves and
brought out a hot, steaming dish of …gooseberry crumble!
He couldn’t believe it.
Not gooseberry crumble again!
Jack hated gooseberry crumble. As far as he was concerned, it was
quite possibly the most disgusting thing on Earth, being nothing
better than sour, green, slimy goo.
“Why can’t we have something else for a change?” he suddenly
shouted out loud, anger rising in his chest. “I hate gooseberry
crumble. It’s horrible!”
“Nonsense Jack!” replied his mum, in a soft, kind voice. “It’s
good for you. It helps you grow into a big, strong lad.”
“No, it’s not!” he spat, getting angrier “I hate it, why
can’t we have something different for a change?”
“Now Jack,” interrupted his dad in a stern voice “Be nice to
your mum, she’s been cooking your dinner for a long time.”
“I don’t care! I’m sick of it! All we ever eat is gooseberry
and rhubarb crumble. Why can’t we have some ice cream for a
change?”
“It’s healthy!” his mum continued “Besides we’ve loads of
gooseberry bushes in the back garden. We can’t let them go to
waste. You don’t know how lucky you are. People would love to have
what we have!”
Jack made a face, grunted again, but thought better about answering
back.
Besides, he was still hungry and there was a red hot jug of steaming
yellow custard on the table. Still not wanting to eat the gooseberry
though, he got hold of a large, wooden serving spoon and attempted to
scoop off the top of the crumble from the green goo underneath.
Immediately his dad stopped him.
“Jack, what have we told you about taking all the crumble?” Leave
some for us!”
“But daaaaaaad!” he whined.
“But nothing,” he said, his brown eyes almost poking through his
glasses “Stop being selfish, and think about other people for a
change!”
And that was the end of that. Sulking, Jack dejectedly put a small
dollop of gooseberry crumble in a chipped dessert bowl, followed by a
couple of large spoon-fuls of hot custard.
He ate it in silence, gulping it down, mouthful after mouthful. The
quicker the better he thought. In order to avoid tasting it he tried
to surround as much of the disgusting gooseberry as possible with
either the custard or the crumble. This didn’t work very well
however and every now and again a big, slimy wedge of gooseberry goo
would get stuck at the back of his throat or else at the top of his
mouth, causing him to wince and grimace.
Once he had finished, he got up and tried to leave the table, eager
to watch some T.V, only for his dad to stop him. “Jack, don’t
forget it’s your turn to wash up today!” he said, irritated.
“Oh, come on dad,” he said. “Give me a break! I want to watch
some TV.”
“No, it’s your turn. Your mum has cooked the tea, so now you must
wash up after her. Besides, it's the summer holidays now; you’ll
have plenty of time to watch TV in the coming weeks.”
“Okay, whatever.” Jack muttered under his breath.
“What did you say?” barked his dad.
“Nothing.”
Jack made his way to the kitchen sink and gripped the washing-up
bottle tightly, squeezing out a green jet of washing-up liquid into
the sink. He then turned on the hot water, and watched as a mountain
of frothy, white bubbles arose like an island from the foaming sea.
“Jack!” his dad shouted again, “Don’t use too much washing-up
liquid. It all costs money. You only need to use a little.”
“I knooooooooooow!” he bellowed back sarcastically.
Still his dad continued. “Well then make sure you wash them
properly this time. Last time you didn’t do a good job, and your
mum had to wash them all again!”
With that they both left for the living room.
Still annoyed, Jack began to wash-up, flinging the cups, plates,
pans, and cutlery into the sea of bubbles. Not wanting to think about
the pen fight again he did the wiping and scrubbing as quickly as he
could. He didn’t care about any correct order or way of doing
things; he just wanted to get it all done, and to get out of the
kitchen as quickly as possible. He just flung them in the drainer one
by one, stacking them haphazardly on top of each other until
eventually a Mount Everest of pots, plates and pans arose from out of
the drainer at least a foot high.
As soon as he finished he burst into the small living room, eager to
watch some TV, where a man in a grey suit was talking on the news
about the latest tourists to blast-off into space.
He was just about to plonk himself on the sofa when a sound like
thunder came from the kitchen.
Craaaaaaaasssshhhhhhh!
Everybody sat up and turned around.
“JACK, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?” his mum and dad bellowed at once.
They all rushed into the kitchen like a herd of stampeding
wildebeest. All over the sticky, yellow lino floor were an assortment
of broken cups and plates as well as several pans and a great many
knives and forks.
“Oh, Jaaaaaack!” his mum whined, “How are we going to replace
all these? We haven’t got the money!”
Even he for once was lost for words.
“B-b-b-but I didn’t mean it!” he finally stammered,
embarrassed, feeling sorry both for himself and for them.
“Didn’t mean it?” His mum bellowed back, “I’ve told you
before about not rushing the washing-up and stacking them properly.
Why can’t you listen, you STUPID boy?”
“I’M NOT STUPID!” He yelled back, the anger now becoming a
flood. “I was only trying my best!”
“TRYING YOUR BEST!” she spat. “You never try your best. All you
do is please yourself and make excuses.”
“No, I don’t. I’m always helping out with the washing up and
making cups of tea. Why can’t we have a dishwasher like everybody
else?” He demanded.
“Because we can’t afford it. I’ve told you bef..”.
“RUBBISH!” He shouted. “I’m SICK of being poor! I’m SICK of
living in this run down house! I’m SICK of these second-hand
clothes! I’m SICK of not going abroad! I'm SICK of SCHOOL! I'm SICK
of this FACE! But most of all I’m SICK of YOU!”
He didn’t mean to say this. It just slipped out. He couldn’t help
it.
“That’s enough, Jack!” demanded his dad “Stop shouting at
your mum. Apologise to her at once. She does a lot for you. Clean
this mess up and then get to your room!”
“NOOOOOOOOO!” He roared suddenly, “I’m leaving and I’m not
coming back!”
With that Jack stormed past them, knocking over a potted plant on the
way, and left the house, slamming the front door behind him. They
tried to follow, shouting and bellowing. But it was no use. Like a
fox he ran away into the evening as fast as he could and didn’t
look back.
He
would never see his parents again.
If you want to read further just click on "Jack Strong and the Red Giant" below for the link ...
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