Traditionally Published

He ran for his life. On that dark rainy night, he ran as fast as he could to keep them from catching up with him. He knew what they wanted, and there was no way he could voluntarily give it to them. The cost of such betrayal would be far worse than what the people chasing him would do. Still, he wanted nothing to do with them. So he ran. He ran as fast as he could, and he intended to continue running for as long as it took.

He spotted an old shack a few yards ahead and hoped he could make it there before they caught up to him. Inside, he hoped to find something he could use to defend himself. He tried the door, and as suspected, found it locked. He kicked it in, entered, and then looked around frantically for a weapon, never stopping to consider if anyone was there.

As he searched for a weapon, he heard someone fidgeting with the doorknob. They were trying to gain entry. Feeling trapped, he searched for a way out as he questioned aloud his decision to take refuge in the old shack. Just then, one of them broke through the door, pointed a gun at him and yelled for him to get on his knees. Everything faded to black after that.

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When Bennett got home that evening, he found a woman sitting comfortably on his living room couch. The only light in the room was from a small table lamp on a table beside her end of the couch. She was beautiful, sexy, and apparently smart. Ordinarily, he would have had all sorts of nasty thoughts coming home to a scene such as that. However, that scene provoked extreme anger. She was casually sipping a glass of Scotch whiskey. She had taken that Scotch from a $500.00 bottle of Johnnie Walker King George V. Bennett was a man who had to save for such extravagance. And he was livid.

“Good evening, Mr. Calwell,” she said provocatively. “Please, have a seat,” she said as she gingerly patted the cushion next to her.

“Who the…”

She cut him off.

“Not now, Mr. Calwell. Please, have a seat. You have a nice taste in Scotch, by the way,” she purred.

He exploded.

“Look, lady, I don’t know who you think you are, but,”

Obviously annoyed, she cut him off again, pulled a gun from her inside jacket, and ordered him to sit down. It surprised him at how quickly things turned in her favor.

She explained she was there to collect a debt from her employer, a man named Bo John David. She slid him a note. He took it, read it, balled it up in his hand, and tossed it onto the floor. It was his way of telling her without actually telling her she could kiss his bare, hairy buttocks. She kind of thought that was what he meant, as she calmly attached a silencer to her gun.

He looked on in defiance, as if taunting her to pull the trigger. She reached behind her back and showed him she had already found the bag of money she was there to retrieve. The expression of total disbelief on his face lasted mere seconds before his limp body fell forward onto the coffee table. She took another sip of the Scotch, gathered her things, along with the bag of cash, and casually walked out.

⁂

Freddie Johnson was 128 pounds of drop dead gorgeousness. Chiseled perfection is what she was. She maintained her 5 foot 4 inch frame through intense circuit training and stupendously healthy eating. She was responsible for so many divorces around town; it was hard to keep an accurate count. It was hard to keep an accurate count for everyone except Belladocious McNally, BM to his friends. Freddie was his friend.

Freddie and BM had a thing, an arrangement, a financial arrangement. He’d set her up with wealthy spouses. She’d work her magic, making them see how they didn’t love their mates as much as thought they did. Suggest a reasonable fee for not telling said mates about alleged affairs, and then split the proceeds with BM. It was a rinse, wash, and repeat operation that made her and BM a lot of fairly easy cash.

Todd Worthington was sort of born to be a victim. The groundwork for his latest bout with it was put into play on December 12, 1977 at 8:06 PM. Todd watched as they approached her, men and women. He watched as, one-by-one, they walked away from her in shame. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and he wanted her. She glanced at him and smiled. And just like that, he had already forgotten his wife’s name.

She casually walked towards him, looking directly into his eyes. He discreetly pinched his thigh to make sure he was awake. She was ten feet away, and he thought he’d lose it, five feet and he did. He turned beet red with embarrassment, as he knew without a doubt she knew what he had just done. She did and took it in stride.

“Hi handsome,” she purred as she approached. “How ‘bout we go get you cleaned up?”

She had the sexiest voice he’d ever heard, and he lost it again, that time with full on orgasmic convulsions. The poor guy didn’t know what to do, so he bolted for the door and never looked back. Freddie looked on in total disbelief that she could have such an effect on someone. Unfortunately, so did Todd’s wife, who witnessed the entire disgusting display.

Belladocious got concerned that after a couple of days, he had not heard from Freddie. It was not like her to squeeze a mark and not come home with the goods. He hit the streets, asking around about her. It wasn’t long before someone told him that a couple found her body floating in the river a day earlier.

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Wayne Stilmore was about as average looking as any guy ever was. He was a small framed, bespectacled fellow in his early thirties. He was just getting started on a writing career. Wayne wasn’t really reclusive, but he did thoroughly enjoy time alone, especially when he was actively writing. He was a true crime writer and, in his mind, he was pretty good at it. He had not yet found an agent and knew there was no hope of getting traditionally published without one. Wayne began feeling his dream would not come to fruition and became withdrawn.

The realization that not everyone who wanted to write actually made it to publication combined with the thought of failure took a toll. His writing style had changed and suddenly had taken a turn towards the dark. His wife, Amy, noticed right away and asked him about it. He convinced her he was just in a mood and working through some things. She did not question him and assured him she’d support whatever style he landed on.

But what he was going through was more than a mood. He knew it and so did she, but she loved her husband and gave him room to work things out. She never critiqued his writing, but enjoyed going into his studio after he fell asleep to read his latest works. She thought he was an excellent writer and that the industry was passing up on a good one. But, unlike Wayne, she also knew that the industry was struggling and there were few opportunities for unknown authors. She tried to convince him there were other avenues to publish, but he was set on the traditional route, and that was all he wanted. She understood and didn’t press the issue.

Wayne began spending more time in his studio. Writing had become an obsession. He was withdrawn, unshaven, and had developed a smell. Amy was, of course, concerned. She would bring him food, but he rarely ate enough. He began drinking in the morning and kept at it throughout the day. His writing had become even darker. She vowed to stick by him as he dealt with his crisis, but she had lost faith that he would get through it alone. And then it happened, and she knew she would no longer have the option of just standing by.

Amy went to bring Wayne coffee one morning, but he wasn’t in his studio. She thought maybe he had gone back into the house, but she did not see him there either. She went back to the studio and saw that his car was gone. It appeared he had been out all night. Concerned, she called his cell. The call went to voicemail. She left a concerned message, expecting an immediate response. There was none. She waited a few minutes and then called again. The call went to voicemail. It was as if he had turned his phone off.

Amy was back in the house when she saw Wayne’s car pull up. He went straight to the studio. She went to greet him and what she saw shocked her. He was ragged and dirty and looked exhausted. She ran to him, asking if he was okay. He pushed her away, saying he needed to be alone. There was a look in his eyes that frightened her. She wanted to confront him but decided it best she go back to the house and give him room. A few minutes later, she saw him drive off again. Her curiosity was off the charts and he she went back to the studio to snoop.

He was working on a new novel. She began reading it and thought it strange that she felt she had read it before. A villain was chasing a man through the woods. He eventually caught up with him and cornered him in an old shack. Just then, she saw Wayne’s car coming down the street and quickly put things back the way they were and skirted back to the house. Wayne went straight to the studio.

That evening, they dined together. He looked better than he had in the last few days. He had cleaned himself up and looked as though he had turned a corner and getting back to normal. She was happy for him. And then he looked at her, staring as if studying her. His stare was intense, and she’d never seen him like that. He spoke quietly, intensely, and directly. She didn’t recognize his voice.

“Honey, I would prefer that from now on you stay out of my studio.”

She was shocked. They never had boundaries, and it offended her he would say such a thing.

“I will not,” she fired back. “We’ve never had boundaries. That studio is ours, and I will not allow you to claim it as yours alone, Wayne. What is going on with you?” she demanded.

He looked down at the table as if he were a kid who had just gotten scolded by a parent, and in a way, he had. Without saying a word, he pushed back from the table and went back to the studio. It was a strange moment, and Amy was rightfully concerned. She remembered what she read in his new manuscript and vowed to get back to it and read more. There was something strange about it, and she was certain she had seen the story before.

A couple of days later, Wayne left again late that afternoon. Amy used the opportunity to continue reading his manuscript. She thumbed through it and again it shocked her that what she read was like something else she had read before. It was about a man that was found dead in his house. Someone had shot him and his body slumped over a couch and had fallen over on a coffee table.

She put both hands to her mouth and gasped as she remembered where she had read those stories. They weren’t stories at all, actually. They were news reports of recent murders in the area. She gasped again as she began thinking the unthinkable.

“No, no, no,” she mumbled, as she hastily turned away from the pages.

And then she saw it and began shaking in fear. On the edge of Wayne’s desk, in clear view, was an open bottle of Johnnie Walker King George V. She panicked as he described the bottle in his manuscript as something a female assassin was drinking in the victim’s home the night he died. Amy began sobbing as her fear had taken over. She ran back to the house and bolted the doors shut as she tried in vain to convince herself she had not just discovered her husband was a killer. And just then a news special report flashed on the TV screen. She turned the volume up.

It was a news report stating that a couple had found the body of a female victim floating in the river. She panicked as she heard Wayne’s car pull up. She peeked out of the window to see him going to the studio. He looked like crap and appeared to be drenched. In an all out terror, she called the police.

⁂

Wayne sat perfectly still and looked straight ahead throughout the entire trial. He showed no emotion whatsoever and never once looked at his wife. Each day, officers would lead him into the courtroom in shackles and he would just look straight ahead. The prosecutor laid out a case against him as he read the pages from the manuscript that portrayed in perfect detail each crime.

Amy attended each day of the trial and she cried silently as she thought back over the last few months. Wayne had gone through profound changes in his quest to become a published writer. And now that he had made headlines, now that he would spend the rest of life in prison, literary agents were coming out of the woodwork offering insane amounts of cash for the rights to his manuscript. Wayne had met his goal. He had found his way to get traditionally published.

K.R. Eaton - Traditionally Published

Short Stories by K.R Eaton