My thanks to Lev, who overpaid for two Russian translations of Stephen King novels, and to the young lady who purchased a novel based on the TV series Alias. Here's an excerpt from a short story, His Destiny, that has received more than 15,000 hits at buzzle.com. It is part of the A Hitch in Twilight collection.
Reluctant, short of breath, he opened the trunk, slowly, and shined the flashlight inside. The dark-haired woman's crumpled body was there amid broken glass, as he'd feared. He stifled a sob, quickly closed the trunk, and gazed about, fearful someone had seen his dark secret. He awoke abruptly, cold, nauseated, shivering despite the number of blankets atop him. He closed his eyelids tightly, trying to chase the frightening image, which remained vivid. The hair at the back of his neck was wet, as were his armpits and the back of his knees. It was four AM. It was the fifth consecutive night he'd been awakened at this precise hour. Tears came to his eyes. He was frustrated and baffled. His study of Freud, who claimed dreams were wish-fulfillment, had been useless. He could not imagine what wish would be fulfilled by the murder of a woman who was a stranger to him. He dressed quickly, everything at his fingertips in the tiny studio apartment. He set the three locks at his door and tiptoed down three flights to the lobby. He had difficulty opening the building's large outer door, the wind blowing furiously against it. The night was frigid, the area deserted. Light shone in only a handful of the windows of the apartment buildings that lined the street. His teeth were chattering as he approached the small car. The knot in his chest had his tall, wiry frame hunching, as if he were carrying a weight about his neck. He took a flashlight from the glove compartment and opened the trunk, slowly, respiring heavily, breath visible and filling the air. Although he feared it a concession to madness, he felt compelled to check. He was no longer able to assure himself: It's just a dream. It was too real to be false. He sighed upon finding the trunk empty. Again tears filled his eyes. Why was he having this dream? It made no sense. Why wasn't he having dreams of his mother's long, agonizing death by cancer, which still, after two years, often occupied his waking hours? Unable to sleep, he tried to analyze the dream, which he'd been having periodically for months. He was unable to bring the woman's face into focus. He knew only that she was dark-haired, which made sense, as this was the type to whom he was most attracted, dark like himself, his Greek heritage. Even the car was a blur, as only the trunk was seen. He sensed, however, that it was his. Was he only to discover and not murder the woman - or did he want her dead? He cringed as he recalled the venom he'd felt for the women who'd spurned him. Living alone the last two years had not afforded the fulfillment he'd expected. Would bitterness drive him to murder? Had he already killed while sleepwalking? Again he was nauseated. The alarm sounded just as he'd been about to drop off to sleep. His breakfast consisted of several cups of black coffee, heavily sugared, as his mother had liked it. As he was dipping a cookie into it, a roach crawled across the table. He squashed it with the flat of his fist, grunting maniacally. He sprayed and sprayed and was unable to get rid of the vermin. He feared he would be stricken with cancer before they were vanquished. He did not perform well in the classroom, mind and body too tired to summon the energy to inspire high school students to an appreciation of Plato. They stared blankly, apparently too bored even to misbehave. He questioned whether he'd ever been a good teacher. He was afraid the nightmare was affecting his waking hours. After dismissal he went to the school library to research works he would be covering in weeks to come. Before he knew it, night had fallen. He despaired. He hated the early darkness, the long nights. He longed for spring, daylight-savings-time. During winter he liked to get home early and turn the lights on to chase the gloom. "Excuse me," he heard as he approached the main exit. An attractive, dark-haired woman approached. "My name's Barbara Cohen. I'm the new dance teacher. I was wondering if you'd mind walking me out to my car." "No," he said, tense, voice sticking in his throat. He was unable to offer more than one-word responses to her small talk. Fortunately, she was glib. They did not suffer a lengthy, embarrassing silence. He'd decided to stop trying to communicate with women, having failed with several approaches. He did not think he was unattractive, but he believed he lacked whatever the opposite sex was seeking. 35, he doubted he would ever marry. He was sure the young woman thought him odd, and he wasn't sure she wasn't right. Could all of them have been wrong?
Visit Vic’s sites:
Vic’s Third Novel (Print or Kindle): http://tinyurl.com/7e9jty3
Vic’s Website: http://membershttp://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature/
Vic’s Short Story Collection (Print or Kindle): http://www.tiny.cc/Oycgb
Vic’s 2nd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/6b86st6
Vic’s 1st Novel: http://tiny.cc/94t5h
Vic’s Screenplay on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/cyckn3f
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