Chet's March Newsletter

THE INTERVIEW A surreal short story.

Mar 10, 2025

Right after this short announcement, you’ll find it.

Enjoy.

Apologizes for missing the February newsletter.
Life presented me with an unexpected interruption that affected my writing. I’ve gone through a major transition with reflection. I’ve reevaluated the future of my creative writing offerings.
While I love writing novels (with my third book due out later this year), publishing a book every 18 months creates long gaps without any new material to send out between releases. Also, books limit the range of varying topics, content, and themes to explore. So I'm expanding my newsletter offerings to include premium content short stories.
Starting next month, newsletters will feature a new short story ranging from psychological thrillers to surreal dramatic page-turners, varying in length. But they will always be written in my distinctive voice and style.
Words may flow freely, but the craft behind them represents countless hours of dedication that, like any skill, deserves recognition. And for those who connect with and enjoy my writing and wish to support me, paid subscription options and per-story donations will be available and genuinely appreciated
Free subscribers will continue. They will still receive an assortment of flash fiction, writing tips, social commentary, and occasional introductions on emerging authors and their opinions.
I remain dedicated to novels. But I’m excited to share these new short stories with you while I work on developing my novels.
Now…
Here’s my latest short story. FREE this month. A surreal psychological thriller with dark undertones of a man struggling under extreme stress. A descent into professional and personal collapse that ends with a Hitchcockian twist. If you’re a fan of Chuck Palahniuk, Bret Easton Ellis, or early David Lynch films, you’ll probably enjoy it.
2000 Words, about a 10 minute read.
THE INTERVIEW
He leaned back, tossed the report on his desk like a Frisbee. It slid through manila folders, pens, a bottle of Rolaids and slowly toppled my Starbucks coffee I had stupidly balanced on the edge of the desk. Except for the coffee dripping onto the expensive Persian rug, it was as quiet as a mausoleum at midnight.
The end of my first year on the job. Shirt armpits drenched in sweat. Mahesh Sharma, my boss, stared at me like a vulture about to pounce on a dead rat.
"And this is something you're proud of, Grant?"
“I…uhhh…”
Before I could finish, he returned mumbling to himself over the report,
tented fingers under his nose. "This isn't good, Grant. Not good at all.
I stared out the penthouse window at storm clouds. Tendrils of gray scud hanging from the dark West Texas sky reached out at me. I gripped my chest. A smothering sensation. An assault on my breathing. "Leave me alone." As soon as I whispered it, I glanced at Mahesh to see if he had heard me.
He was still head down in the report. But looked up. "What?"
I shrugged. "Nothing."
He nodded and looked over at Ingrid, his VP of sales.
All of a sudden, I felt it coming on. Panic Attack. Mahesh's indifference, his arrogance ticked me off and disturbed my equilibrium.
Oh, Christ. Oh shit. Here it comes. Panic attack.
The familiar tingling and numbness started up through my fingers, filling me with mental acuity: sharp vision, hearing, and quick but oblique thinking. I begin to detach from the scene. I'm now an observer, out-of-body reverie. I watched Mahesh scolding me while he stared at Ingrid, his VP of Sales. Focused in on her long legs perfectly slanted as she sits on a low leather sofa. Her black glossy hair pulled tight like her attitude. She's nodding in support of his berating of me. Maybe she wants to show off the size of her eggs to the CEO.
Fuck. She's throwing you under the bus, Grant.
I hold my head to try and soothe the headache I woke up with.
Take a deep breath, Grant. Calm down.
Slowly, I returned to normalcy, back to the real me, collected, on solid footing, and in control.
I gave Ingrid a side glance of disappointment. She frowned like she didn't understand. But she knew. Oh, she damn well knew what we did. It happened the day she hired me; we spent the night together in room 310 of the Lazy-J Motel. Why can't she just attempt some kind of support for the hard work I'd done all year?
With palms up, I mouthed-mimed to her, what the fuck?.
She frowned. Ingrid wasn't going to fall on her sword for me. That's when I knew I was getting fired.
Nothing to lose, Grant.
I shot a look at her. "Should we let him in on our little indiscretion, honey?"
Mahesh shoved his hands in his pockets. "Thanks for coming in, Grant."
Reality had its claws in me as I drove around aimlessly. Sarah wasn't the forgiving kind of wife. You're done for, Grant. The new house we just bought was set to close on Friday. And what about the new top-of-the-line Mercedes you bought for her birthday? And how will you explain that the planned Hawaii vacation is off? She married you for what you brought to the relationship. Security. Good income. The good life.
Divorce papers should arrive within a week.
I found a park and met a big homeless man in a yellow and green ball cap, playing Amazing Grace on a small shiny harmonica. He listened to my grief, saw tears, and whispered, "Don't brood over your loss. It'll only fill you with grief, regret and depression. We make mistakes, Grant. Learn from them. Never quit, never."
"And you know this how?"
"All the knowledge I possess everyone else can acquire, but my heart is all my own."
"That's profound."
"That's Goethe."
Rain began to fall. I gave him sixty-two bucks. All the cash I had on me.
"Thanks." Then added. "Living on the boardwalk ain't so bad, Grant. "You'll like it."
Driving home, I couldn't dismiss that omen. Homelessness ain't so bad. You'll like it.
Ten minutes down the road, I passed a bar, The Jackass Saloon. It shared a parking lot with the Lazy-J Motel.
After a clumsy U-turn, I pulled in and sat tapping on the steering wheel to the rain drumming on the roof. Is this where you belong? No more country clubs or boardrooms. I turned off the engine.
Just one drink. That's all. Just one for courage enough to face Sarah.
Then I felt it coming on again: lightheadedness. Amplified hearing, contrasted vision, seeing myself step out of the car.
Inside.
On a stool at a large horseshoe-shaped bar, a ponytailed college-age girl comes over and tosses a coaster down. Older than first thought, maybe late twenties. Tight Jeans, black scoop-neck tank top, Converse high tops. She's boho chic with a ring on every finger, an assortment of silver chains with glass trinkets, and wooden wodges dangling down her chest. Tattoos: one on her neck, several on her shoulders and arms. Oh, there's also a gun tucked in the back waistband of her jeans. She pours a whiskey and pushes it to over. "You're late."
"Late? For what?"
"Your interview."
"Interview?"
"Yeah."
"For what?"
"The job you just lost."
What the fuck?
"You are Grant Sutherland, Right?"
"Yes. But…”
"Okay. Drink up. Better to have one or two in you before you sit down in front of her."
Behind the bar is a big mirror. A man in a suit and loose tie stares out with a coy, clever grin.
That's you, Grant.
She watches me finish and wipe my mouth. Grinning, she pours another. And another. And another. Time speeds up.
The bar is full. Drinking, wild jeering, dancing. In the crowd is Mahesh and Ingrid holding hands.
The little bartender jabs a thumb over her shoulder at a hallway. "Back there. Door 310. Go. Get going now. Don't need to be any later than you already are." She nods. "Don't look back. Just keep on walking. You'll find what you're looking for."
"Looking for what?"
"Your job, silly boy."
Narrow hallway. Dimly lit. Doors right. Doors left. The whiskey is working. Walls breathing. In. Out. Like a creature in pain. Strange voices from doors ahead. Faint harmonica music. The first room on the left—310. It's locked. On the right—310. Locked. Locked. Down the hall, locked, locked, locked. Sweat burns my eyes.
No way out.
The hall grows tighter, smaller, and narrower the farther down it goes.
"They're waiting for you." She yells.
"Look. Where's the way out of here? Whatever your name is."
"Alley. My name is Alley. Like the alley cat in a dark place where duplicitous behavior lurks and atrocious things go clink in the night. That's me, Mister Grant."
"This is scary, Alley?"
She grabs my hand. Drags me into a dimly lit room, 310 in the Lazy-J. A man with gemstone blue eyes works over a woman on the floor. They're moving to the rhythm of a harmonica playing Rhapsody in Blue. The woman squeals. "Where have you been, you rat? You quit your job."
"Sarah? Here? Why?"
"You quit your fucking job. Our daughter is off to College. That was stupid. Our closing is on Friday. What are we gonna do now?"
Suddenly the walls crumble down. We're under a cone of light from a single light bulb hanging over the dark Jackass dance floor. At a small round table, Sarah sits, hunched over reading something. Music is fading in and out.
"Are you doing the interview, Sarah? Is that the sales report?"
She looks up. This is your death certificate, Grant. You're dead. You just haven't come to grips with it yet."
"No. Look. This is me, your husband talking to you. This isn't death. How can this be death?" Then Alley leans into me, pawing. I point to a giant of a man behind Sarah wearing a green and yellow cap. I point at him. "That's..."
Sarah interrupts. "Yes, that's right. You know him." She smiles. That's Big Billy. He apologized to me for killing you. Now we're together. He bought me for sixty-two dollars. Now I'm in love with him.
My jaw drops.
Billy begins playing a harmonica tune.
Alley walks up to him. Pulls her gun.
"Oh my God, Alley. No, no, no, don't. Don't.
Alley shoots Big Billy between the eyes. Then she shoots Sarah. Alley is calm, self-contained and relaxed. She leans over the table on crossed arms. She grabs my sobbing head." Calm down. How bout another whiskey?"
"Alley, why the fuck did you do that? You shot them. And that was my wife."
"She was already dead, Grant. What you did with Ingrid, well, that killed her." Then she grabs me. "Come on."
Rain has stopped. The evening air is damp and cool. Alley's strong for her size and pulls me along, mumbling, "We got some business to take care of before me driving you home."
"Look, Alley. Probably not a good idea. Sarah will get the wrong idea."
She gets us to the Mercedes. "Don't worry, Sarah is dead. You're dead. So I can do whatever I want with you."
"No. No. No. We're all alive."
"This is Nirvana, Grant. Camelot. Get ready for this. Something is coming, and it's gonna feel so good." She looks into my eyes and pushes me into the backseat. She smells like gunpowder and Skittles. A sultry moonlight appears in the clearing sky. She's magnificent in the rhythm of the United Airlines theme song. Nothing else matters now. Eternity is yours with this little barmaid, Grant. We don't need any place to live. Cardboard boxes on the boardwalk will be fine.
Big Billy pokes his head in through the window with the bleeding bullet hole between his eyes. Throws the harmonica at me. "And you believed that shit about Goethe?"
Alley's sweaty body shakes my senses. The pillow under my body was drenched in sweat.
On the nightstand...the radio clock says 5:25 AM in red. The traffic girl warns…expect heavy traffic on I-35 northbound, around the exits near downtown and the UT campus; delays at MLK/15th Street"…
Weather guy says …rising pressure system bringing clearing skies, temperatures in the high eighties.
My daughter shakes me. "Dad, wake up." When did you get home? Look at you. My god."
I blinked. "Where's your mother?"
"She didn't come home last night."
I looked at the time. Oh, shit.
Take a deep breath, Grant. Calm down.
I showered and shaved in a mad rush, mumbling…Impress Mahesh. Give him a good rundown on your year. You did good, Grant. You'll get a bonus.
In the lobby coffee bar, I grabbed a tall cappuccino. On the elevator up to the penthouse, my headache was killing me like a hangover. But you haven't had a drink in over a month. I swallow three Tylenol.
Mahesh and Ingrid separated quickly from a cheek-to-cheek discussion when I pushed into his office.
"Sorry, I'm late."
Mahesh took his seat, and Ingrid sat off to the side on the low sofa, avoiding a look at me. I set my coffee at the edge of his desk and dropped into the chair.
They stared wide-eyed, seemingly astonished at my arrival.
I fidgeted. Head pounding. Nervous. "Sorry I'm late. "Bad traffic. Bad, bad." I snapped open the briefcase for the sales report. My heart skipped a beat. Gasp. I looked at Mahesh. The report was not in the briefcase. But already on his desk. The briefcase fell from my lap. My breathing caught in my throat, and my heart missed a beat when I stared at what fell out on the floor. Lying in a mushy brown stain on the exquisite Persian rug was a tiny shiny harmonica.

Or…

Buy me cup a coffee? Thanks.
FYI, subscribers. You have exclusive rights to view my stories in their entirety here. If you happen to see the THE INTERVIEW posted on the open Substack, it will only be a teaser posting featuring just the opening. Substack readers wishing to read the final pages, hopefully will link to my Substack for the twisted ending. Please help me build my list of readers. Share this with your friends.

Here’s me in the gym, working off those few extra pounds.

Okay, that’s about all the personal stuff about me you’re gonna get this month. 😘

And thanks to Rachel from Houston, a loyal follower. She said my last short story “ACCEPTANCE “ resonated with her. She loved it. I appreciate all comments.

Quote of the month.

“Let us be grateful to those people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.”

Marcel Proust

Be safe, be happy, and write and read something good. Join me again in April.

Share my newsletter with your friends.

Chet's March Newsletter

THE INTERVIEW A surreal short story.

Welcome new readers and writers. If you’ve heard about my new short story, “The Interview, and looking for it, you’re in the right place.

Right after this short announcement, you’ll find it.

Enjoy.

Apologizes for missing the February newsletter.

Now…

THE INTERVIEW

The end of my first year on the job. Shirt armpits drenched in sweat. Mahesh Sharma, my boss, stared at me like a vulture about to pounce on a dead rat.

"And this is something you're proud of, Grant?"

“I…uhhh…”

Before I could finish, he returned mumbling to himself over the report,

tented fingers under his nose. "This isn't good, Grant. Not good at all.

I stared out the penthouse window at storm clouds. Tendrils of gray scud hanging from the dark West Texas sky reached out at me. I gripped my chest. A smothering sensation. An assault on my breathing. "Leave me alone." As soon as I whispered it, I glanced at Mahesh to see if he had heard me.

He was still head down in the report. But looked up. "What?"

I shrugged. "Nothing."

He nodded and looked over at Ingrid, his VP of sales.

All of a sudden, I felt it coming on. Panic Attack. Mahesh's indifference, his arrogance ticked me off and disturbed my equilibrium.

Oh, Christ. Oh shit. Here it comes. Panic attack.

Fuck. She's throwing you under the bus, Grant.

I hold my head to try and soothe the headache I woke up with.

Take a deep breath, Grant. Calm down.

Slowly, I returned to normalcy, back to the real me, collected, on solid footing, and in control.

With palms up, I mouthed-mimed to her, what the fuck?.

She frowned. Ingrid wasn't going to fall on her sword for me. That's when I knew I was getting fired.

Nothing to lose, Grant.

I shot a look at her. "Should we let him in on our little indiscretion, honey?"

Mahesh shoved his hands in his pockets. "Thanks for coming in, Grant."

Divorce papers should arrive within a week.

"And you know this how?"

"All the knowledge I possess everyone else can acquire, but my heart is all my own."

"That's profound."

"That's Goethe."

Rain began to fall. I gave him sixty-two bucks. All the cash I had on me.

"Thanks." Then added. "Living on the boardwalk ain't so bad, Grant. "You'll like it."

Driving home, I couldn't dismiss that omen. Homelessness ain't so bad. You'll like it.

Ten minutes down the road, I passed a bar, The Jackass Saloon. It shared a parking lot with the Lazy-J Motel.

After a clumsy U-turn, I pulled in and sat tapping on the steering wheel to the rain drumming on the roof. Is this where you belong? No more country clubs or boardrooms. I turned off the engine.

Just one drink. That's all. Just one for courage enough to face Sarah.

Then I felt it coming on again: lightheadedness. Amplified hearing, contrasted vision, seeing myself step out of the car.

Inside.

"Late? For what?"

"Your interview."

"Interview?"

"Yeah."

"For what?"

"The job you just lost."

What the fuck?

"You are Grant Sutherland, Right?"

"Yes. But…”

"Okay. Drink up. Better to have one or two in you before you sit down in front of her."

Behind the bar is a big mirror. A man in a suit and loose tie stares out with a coy, clever grin.

That's you, Grant.

She watches me finish and wipe my mouth. Grinning, she pours another. And another. And another. Time speeds up.

The bar is full. Drinking, wild jeering, dancing. In the crowd is Mahesh and Ingrid holding hands.

The little bartender jabs a thumb over her shoulder at a hallway. "Back there. Door 310. Go. Get going now. Don't need to be any later than you already are." She nods. "Don't look back. Just keep on walking. You'll find what you're looking for."

"Looking for what?"

"Your job, silly boy."

No way out.

The hall grows tighter, smaller, and narrower the farther down it goes.

"They're waiting for you." She yells.

"Look. Where's the way out of here? Whatever your name is."

"Alley. My name is Alley. Like the alley cat in a dark place where duplicitous behavior lurks and atrocious things go clink in the night. That's me, Mister Grant."

"This is scary, Alley?"

She grabs my hand. Drags me into a dimly lit room, 310 in the Lazy-J. A man with gemstone blue eyes works over a woman on the floor. They're moving to the rhythm of a harmonica playing Rhapsody in Blue. The woman squeals. "Where have you been, you rat? You quit your job."

"Sarah? Here? Why?"

"You quit your fucking job. Our daughter is off to College. That was stupid. Our closing is on Friday. What are we gonna do now?"

Suddenly the walls crumble down. We're under a cone of light from a single light bulb hanging over the dark Jackass dance floor. At a small round table, Sarah sits, hunched over reading something. Music is fading in and out.

"Are you doing the interview, Sarah? Is that the sales report?"

She looks up. This is your death certificate, Grant. You're dead. You just haven't come to grips with it yet."

"No. Look. This is me, your husband talking to you. This isn't death. How can this be death?" Then Alley leans into me, pawing. I point to a giant of a man behind Sarah wearing a green and yellow cap. I point at him. "That's..."

Sarah interrupts. "Yes, that's right. You know him." She smiles. That's Big Billy. He apologized to me for killing you. Now we're together. He bought me for sixty-two dollars. Now I'm in love with him.

My jaw drops.

Billy begins playing a harmonica tune.

Alley walks up to him. Pulls her gun.

"Oh my God, Alley. No, no, no, don't. Don't.

Alley shoots Big Billy between the eyes. Then she shoots Sarah. Alley is calm, self-contained and relaxed. She leans over the table on crossed arms. She grabs my sobbing head." Calm down. How bout another whiskey?"

"Alley, why the fuck did you do that? You shot them. And that was my wife."

"She was already dead, Grant. What you did with Ingrid, well, that killed her." Then she grabs me. "Come on."

Rain has stopped. The evening air is damp and cool. Alley's strong for her size and pulls me along, mumbling, "We got some business to take care of before me driving you home."