Happy April, all you readers and writers. Glad to have you back. Hope your year is going well as we trip into Spring.
Quote of the Month.
“April is the cruelest month.”
T. S. Eliot
This short quote comes from Eliot's masterpiece The Wasteland, where it evokes the misery of human depression. The opening line, April is the cruelest month is a literary reminder that suicide and depression rates are highest in the spring. This allusion was significant because it revealed infertility, one of the themes of his poem. While he explores themes of disillusionment and decay of modern society, his works also grapple with hope and the search for meaning.
My upcoming novel deals with dystopia. Elliott's poem is fitting as a foreshadowing of this gripping tale of lost love during a time of civil unrest. Hopefully, I’ll have it finished and ready to publish by the end of the year.
Any agents out there looking for a good story?
😳
Well, for now, here’s my new monthly short story.
A flash fiction psychological thriller. Only eleven hundred words. A short but fascinating read about the dangerous power of unchecked fantasy. With elements of supernatural horror that will leave readers with a chilling conclusion. But with psychological suspense over explicit violence. Gordo, much like Scottie in Vertigo or Norman Bates in Psycho, he mirrors psychological obsessions that drive the narrative. Hope you enjoy it.
Gordo n’ Becky
So, it was Becky who did it.
Shadows pool in the corners of this shitty little kitchen. I’ve been up all night working to finish a story I’ve been writing for weeks.
A breeze blows in through a broken window. I’m in deep thought about this new girl at work. Even though we work in the same HR office, and her desk sits across from me, she’s oblivious of who I am. Because I’m a nerd. A creep. Becky is refined. Oh so fine. Soft red hair, bright green eyes. She’s twenty-nine and single. From the first day I saw her, I’ve been in love and dreamed about us being together. So, yes, the story I’m writing is a fantasy about me and her. I'm going to marry her.
Let me explain.
I was given a gift at birth. A rare divine maneuver of transference. The ability to take someone’s imagination and turn it into reality. Many people have it, they just don’t know how to use it. It’s called Lexiforge. Don’t bother to look it up. It’s only known to the four of us left in the world who know how to trigger it.
We can’t bend a fork with lexiforge. Can’t crash a plane. But I can manipulate someone’s mind to do what I want them to do. Like unconsciously have them step off a curb into an oncoming truck. Or thoughtlessly walk into a lake and drown, like that nurse who ridiculed me once. Or that impetuous bus driver who crashed his bus into a building after he refused to let me on. But mostly what I’ve used it for have been minor things. Like a lawyer losing his license or a greedy landlord going to jail.
I'm thirty-nine. I’ve used my gift exactly twenty-seven times in my life. This will be the last time to use it. It’s getting late, I'd better finish…
The boardwalk is damp and chilly. I take her hand. She doesn’t pull away. I whisper in her ear. This is our time, Becky.
When words like that pour from my fingers, I visualize her smiling at me. I’m smitten, totally afflicted by her beauty. She’s beginning to accept me. Keep writing…
I whisper, holding her hand, I think it’s time. She shivers. I lay my jacket over her shoulders to ward off the cool evening breeze. I’m rich, Becky. I have a luxury penthouse. Let’s go there. We’ll have a fire. Share a nice bottle of expensive wine. What do you think?
She touches my face. Oh, I don’t know, Gordo.
What? Why did she say Gordo? I'm Gordon, not Gordo. I push away from the keyboard. This is my story. My writing. No other fingers on the keys but mine. I scratch my scalp. Bite my lip, confused.
This is Brad’s doing. He’s the sales guy who’s been sniffing around Becky at work, the tall, rugged, blonde guy with the rock-hard jaw and the brains of a dodo bird. He laughingly gave me the name Gordo in front of the whole office. Even Becky calls me Gordo now. How embarrassing.
I stare at the gun lying next to me. Then glare at a reflection on my computer screen of me looking increasingly haggard as the dripping faucet and flickering light overhead intensifies the outrage I have for him.
I don’t need a gun. I’m dealing with Brad my way. I’m writing a fantasy story for him that will be fatal. But right now this is my story about Becky. I own it. I write every word. But seeing the name Gordo appearing like that, what the hell? I hunch back down over the keyboard, chew on a bloody fingernail, and delete Gordo’s name and continue writing…
I take her hand, touch it to my chest. Feel my heart, Becky. Feel it racing when we are hand-in-hand. We’ll be together, raise a family.
We reach the penthouse. Her green eyes twinkle like diamonds in the moonlight when she steps out of her dress. I light a candle. She lies back, her beautiful red hair cascading across the pillow. You smell so good, Becky. Your eyes are so inviting.
She pats the bed next to her. I unbutton my shirt, pants fall to the floor. Her hands reach out. Come here, Brad.
What tha… I jump up. Am I going crazy? I pound the delete key and wring my hands. Okay, okay, pay attention to your fingers…
Becky whispers, come here. I want you in my arms. No one else will do. I can’t resist you, my love. She pulls me down gently beside her and coos, I finally have you, Brad.
BRAD? “Stop! Who’s typing that?” I pound the delete key over and over. I circle the little table, hands clinched like a mongoose looking for a fight,. This has never happened before. Maybe I’m rushing the protocol. Lexiforge takes discipline. The technique can’t be rushed. Every word, keystroke or pen to paper must be calculated and sincere. So, concentrate and write clearly…
She pulls me close, whispers in my ear. Don’t worry. You’re so strong. Look at those muscles. Almost as big and strong as Brad’s.
WHAT? I scream at the computer. Becky, my name is Gordon. You love me, not Brad. He’s gonna be gone. You know that. I close my eyes. She stares blankly at me. I dawdle over the keyboard and drag fingers through my hair. This isn’t happening how it should. Brad is interrupting my fantasy. But relax, he’s about to crash in his car. That’ll be the end of him.
So, forget him. Regroup. I need to slow down. Concentrate, conceptualize, and invoke supreme insistence with patience for Lexiforge to work. Now, let’s hurry and finish this last scene…
I take her hand, lean over and kiss her on the neck. She smiles,
thank you, Brad.
CHRIST! Now I’m angry. Furious.
It's okay, Gordo.
I fling my arms in the air. "This is my damn story, Becky. As beautiful as you are, you're making this unbearable." I grab the gun. I know what I have to do. Kill the bastard with a bullet.
There’s a knock at the door. I answer to a police officer. Two more behind him. “Are you Gordon Von Werner?”
“Yes, Officer.”
"Do you work at Larsonian Electronics?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know a Rebecca Hill? And a Bradly Sterling?”
“Uh, why do you ask?“
"Well, we found their bodies at the bottom of a cliff. Miss Hill was driving. Would you know anything about this, Gordo?”
“Becky. Oh, Becky. My God. The fantasies, they’ve collided…”
Check in next month for a new short story. Be safe out there. Read or write something good today.
Well, her choice, I would say. ;)
Thank you for the story!