Short story: "Something about Mary"

See also my previously posted original short story, "Sanctum". Here is a short story I just wrote today:



"Something about Mary"

Mary was waiting for destiny. Maybe it already came and left. She twirled around the drink in her hand. The stem of the martini glass, dangling between her index and middle fingers, felt as smooth as the as the dark bar counter — and cool to the touch. He was standing there, talking to the woman in red. How could he move on so fast… how could he just forget me? These questions Mary asked herself. Destiny never came; Mary's former love never again looked at her. She walked the road of the anybody, the everybody. She forgot she was a somebody, an individual, a person. Saturated in society's expectations — of marriage, of love, of wealth; becoming a gray in the poles of black and white. Forgetting about the past, not caring about the future. Mary lived a life not even fit for a looter of happiness. She drank herself to death; drove drunk and the police didn't care, oblivious to the legal violation as long as her top buttons were undone. Countless messages left on the answering machine of alleged friends and supposed family. No answer, no call back. Mary sat there, wallowing in her self-hating delusions, waiting for even one call or one buzz; just waiting for a sign that someone, anybody, gave a damn about her being. She died eleven flips of her floral monthly calendar after that day at the bar, aged thirty-two. Nobody cared.



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Short story: "Sanctum"

Here is an original, fictional short story I have written, Sanctum:

Mark Johannson parked his sleek silver Audi in his three-car garage. He did not know why he had such a large garage, he only owned one car and planned to keep it that way—that is, after the divorce. He did not like the vastness of the garage because he only put his one car in it, so the rest of the space was empty. It gave him the spooks. Of course, people close to him in his office said everything gave him the spooks.

Mark had been a partner in a Baltimore law firm for years, and he got good pay. He was a good lawyer but outside of the courtroom he was less aggressive. He liked the feeling of a judges chambers, of course often he was in one for something he cared not for (like missing a trial deadline or needing to argue a motion). The courtroom is where he felt at home, which is why he had much of his house modeled to look like a courthouse when he bought it back in '92.

His favorite and the most authentic-looking of the rooms was his study, designed just like a judge's chambers. With a hallway to the kitchen and right near his porch, he spent much of his time at home in his study. A few years after purchasing the house he had two more doors added to his study, making it more accessible.

He always kept those study doors locked when he was not at home; Mark didn't know why, but it gave him a sense of security. "My chambers are for me and only for me," he always said to himself. Today his chambers were not only his, for as Mark walked into the main hallway of his residence, one of his study-room doors stood ajar. Confused and startled, Mark approached his favorite room.

Stepping slowly into the study — like a limp animal or a child sneaking down from her room to get some sweets — Mark was relieved when he saw his office in its normal condition, or so he thought. No bookshelves were disheveled, no drawers pried open, no paneling ripped off, his safe in the same condition, his office looked the way it was when he left it earlier that day. Mark was under the impression that he had just forgotten to lock up his door, but that had never happened before.

All of his feelings reverted back to fear when he glanced to his desk. His legal pad of paper, the one with his trial notes (among other things), was missing. Mark further stepped into the room. His computer was dented, looking as if it had imploded, and many of the keys on his keyboard were gone. As he started opening his drawers, Marked noticed his computer backup CDs were scratched and broken. Good thing he was paranoid, or as he liked to say "security conscious", to keep backups in his safe too.

"The safe!" Mark muttered, as he dashed to catch a second glance at his security box. The safe seemed to be in perfectly normal condition (as it was when he scanned the room just a moment ago). But as he was further examining the safe Mark felt a figure looming over him, breath on his neck, a shadow other than his own projected on the wall, and what felt like a gun against his head.

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