There are worse things than being alone.
I'm not much of a prose writer, this I'm aware. I generally write much more poetry, but I decided to try my hand at writing some short stories. This is basically my second attempt ever at writing a short story, so forgive me if its unbearable. Also, I'm not really sure what's par for word count in short stories, but this one is around 2250. (And the title is more than likely going to be changing, I just came up with a working title on the spot for posting purposes, I haven't settled on one yet.) Don't be shy about posting, I want the good and the bad, everything is appreciated.
There Are Worse Things Than Being Alone.
He grabbed the white coffee cup with his left hand and slurped down the last of its contents. His right hand held a pen and it nervously tapped on a legal pad as he searched for words. This case of writer’s block was worse than any other he’d ever experienced. The waitress came over.
“You want summore coffee, hun?”
“Yeah, sure. I think I’m going to be here awhile.”
She filled the cup with fresh coffee and set it back on the table along with some creamer packets. He kept staring at the blank page as if the words were going to burst through from behind the pad. He set down the pen on the pad and grabbed one of the halves of the grilled cheese sandwich from the plate in front of him. He stuffed it into his mouth, taking in about half of the triangle in one bite. He chewed it furiously. It didn’t make him feel any better, but somebody needed to pay, and the sandwich was the closest and most available prey. This case of writer’s block was like no other. It had taken him through the gauntlet of emotions. He knew to keep writing, to work his way out of it. As a freelance writer, though, he didn’t really have that kind of time. He finished his triangular half-sandwich, then leaned back and rested his head against the wall. He stared at the ceiling.
He decided to try and tackle the pen and pad one more time, and when his eyes were on the way down from the ceiling to the table, he saw her. She was three booths down the line, and staring right at him. She had shoulder-length jet black hair, black thick-rimmed glasses, she was wearing a white tank-top, and she was holding a book in front of her but he saw her eyes looking straight at him. They made eye contact, and she quickly averted her eyes back to the book as to not be seen looking at him, but it was too late. He mulled it over for a second…should he go over? Should he just forget about it and get back to writing? He decided to go over to her table. He needed a break anyway.
He slid out of his booth and walked over to her booth.
“Jake.”
She looked up from her book.
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m Jake, what’s your name?”
“Andrea.”
“May I join you?”
“Sure.”
He sat down. She placed a bookmark in her book and set it to the side. It was Portrait Of The Artist As A Young Man by Joyce. He had read it a few years earlier, and loved it. They talked for two hours. Mostly about literature, and music, and general culture. They had many things in common. The conversation began to wane and Jake rose from the booth.
“Well, its been a pleasure talking to you, I guess I should be going now.” He began to walk to his table to attempt writing again.
“Wait.”
“Yeah?”
“Would you want to…maybe…keep hanging out? Perhaps somewhere else?”
Jake couldn’t remember the last time he’d really spent any time with anyone. His time was mostly spent either sleeping or working, without much time for anything else in between, including friends. He definitely didn’t have time for women. They were twice the investment of regular friends. It had been well over a year since he’d last been to bed with a woman.
“Did you have anything in mind?” he asked, though he was almost positive he already knew the answer.
“Well, not really…how about my place?”
Jake walked back over to his table and placed the money for his bill and the tip on the table. He grabbed his legal pad and his jacket and followed Andrea out the door.
Andrea’s apartment was not very impressive, but her record collection was. Jake riffled through her collection, she had all the great jazz standards. Plenty of classical, too. He stopped when he got to Kind of Blue by Miles Davis. It was his favorite.
“Can we listen to this?”
“Yeah, of course. Want some wine?”
“Always.”
Andrea walked over to the kitchen and poured two glasses of cheap Cabernet Sauvignon, and Jake started the record playing on Andrea’s record player she had sitting in the corner of her living room. The music started and Jake took a seat on the couch. Andrea grabbed both glasses of wine and joined him on the couch. She handed one glass to him.
“So what do you do?” she asked.
“I’m a writer.”
“Yeah? What kind of stuff?”
“Mostly freelance stuff for some political magazines. Some freelance and reviewing work for literary magazines. Stuff to pay the bills. I write a lot of poetry and short stories when I have free time. I’m working on a novel too.”
“Really? What about?”
“I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“Oh…okay.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a singer.”
“No ****?”
“Yeah. I sing at Blue Moon twice a week with a jazz trio. You heard of it?
“Yeah, been there once or twice.”
“You should come next Thursday and hear my band. They’re very talented, and people tell me I sing pretty well, though I’m not sure if I believe them.”
“Well, they’re paying you to sing, so I’m sure you must have some talent.”
“I guess that’s true.”
“Is that all you do?”
“Well, I have that regular gig, and then I take other gigs as I get them.”
“Is it hard to find jobs?”
“No, there are lots of bars and clubs around town that want live bands to play almost every night of the week. It’s a modest living for sure, but I love it.”
“Well, that’s all that matters.”
Jake sipped his wine and looked over at Andrea. She took a drink and then held the glass in her lap and looked down. She moved her finger around the edge of the glass and kept staring at her lap. Jake thought Andrea looked beautiful. He gulped down the rest of his wine and set the empty glass on the coffee table next to them.
“Andrea.”
She looked up from her lap. Jake closed his eyes, leaned over, and began to kiss her. Andrea extended her hand and tried to put her glass down on the table. She kept fumbling around until she felt the table solidly under the glass. They kept kissing. They kissed for almost an hour. Jake took off Andrea’s shirt and removed her bra. She had magnificent breasts. They were not too big, not too small, perky, with excellent pink nipples. Andrea was by far the most beautiful girl Jake had ever been with. They made love right there on the couch. The sex was intense and passionate. Satisfied, they both got dressed and sat back down on the couch.
“More wine?” she asked.
“Always.”
Andrea got up and walked over to the kitchen to fix more wine. Jake watched her as she made her way to kitchen. She really was beautiful. She walked back to the couch with two full glasses of wine in hand. She handed him of them and began drinking the other immediately.
“Hey, do you have anything to do the rest of the night?” she asked.
“No.”
“Well, some of my friends are having a party tonight at our friend Bill’s house. I was thinking about going, would you like to come?”
“Will there be drinks?” It wasn’t that Jake was an alcoholic or needed to score a bunch of free liquor before he’d agree to be around people, but he always had a little anxiety around large groups and the liquor helped him loosen up a little.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Sure, I’ll come.”
They finished up their wine, checked themselves out in the bathroom mirror to make sure they didn’t look too disheveled, and then went downstairs and got into Andrea’s car to drive over to Bill’s.
Bill’s house was quite fancy. Two stories, all brick, garage, and a very healthy sized front yard and back yard. There were six cars parked in his driveway. They parked the car on the side of the road, parallel with the yard. Andrea lead the way into the house, and she was greeted by quite a large uproar from the drunken party sitting in the living room. The living room was quite large. Three sofas were arranged in the middle of the room making a square missing one side. There were cubist paintings on the wall. A fire was roaring in the fireplace, and some light classical music was playing over a very nice stereo system.
“Who’s your friend?” one of them asked. He was a tall man, six foot three, quite burly with red curly hair and a freckled face.
“This is Jake. I met him at the diner on tenth.”
“Welcome Jake. I’m Bill.” Bill extended his hand for a handshake. He had a firm grip. Jake’s hand felt a little sore after the handshake. A chorus of welcomes filled the living room as everyone welcomed Jake and introduced themselves. Jake took a seat on one of the sofas and talked with the group for a while. Bill stood up from the couch holding an empty glass.
“Jake, you drink?”
“Yes.”
“You want some wine?”
“Always.”
Jake sat on the couch and continued to chat with all the people. He would glance over at Andrea from time to time on the other couch. She was deep in conversation with the man on her right and she couldn’t have looked any better. Jake was having a great time. The people were great, the conversations were great, and he really liked Andrea. bill walked out from the kitchen carrying several drinks.
“Drinks for everybody!”
Bill handed Jake his drink first. The glasses were very nice and the wine was quite expensive. Everybody sat on the sofas and drank the wine. They talked about everything. Everybody seemed interested in Jake’s writing. He assured them they’d all be getting copies of his novel as soon as he was finished. Jake was soaking in the atmosphere. He felt energized for the first time in a long time. He knew as soon as this night was over and he went back to writing, his writers block would be over. He walked over to the other couch and sat next to Andrea. They cuddled together. The night was young.
Officer Murphy was the first on the scene. He had gotten a call from a concerned citizen early that day about their neighbor. The man complained his neighbor had people come over and their cars hadn’t left the house for three days. The officer tried to explain this wasn’t something one should be calling the police for, but the man on the phone insisted his neighbor had people over all the time and this was a highly unusual situation. Having nothing better to do, Murphy decided to go to the house and check it out. He pulled up to the house, and it was just as the man had described it. Six cars in the driveway and one parked on the side of the road. Murphy pulled his squad car over behind the car parked on the side of the road. He walked up to the front door and gave the doorbell a ring. There was no answer. He knocked on the door several times.
“This is the Police. Open up, please.” There was still no answer.
Murphy walked to the side of the door and looked through the window. There was a very thin covering on the inside of the window, but Murphy could make out shapes sitting on the couch in the living room. He continued to pound on the door.
“THIS IS THE POLICE! OPEN THE DOOR RIGHT NOW!”
Still no answer. Murphy radioed for backup. Another squad car pulled up behind his within minutes and the officers decided to barge in and find out what was going on. They kicked the door. It didn’t budge. They kicked it again. Still no dice. A third kick finally caused to door to give way and it flung open into the living room with a loud crash. There were several broken wine glasses lying on the floor in front of the couches and wine spilled everywhere on the white carpet. There were eight people sitting on the sofas. Some of them had tipped over wine glasses lying in their laps, covering their pants in wine. Some of them were hunched forward with their torso lying on top of their thighs. The other were leaning backwards with their heads hanging backwards off the back of the sofa. Some of their mouths were closed. Some of them were open. Everybody’s eyes were closed.
The officers needed a minute to get over what they had just seen. It took everything they had in them to not throw up in the living room. They went into the kitchen to get away from the scene. On the counter next to the stove were a few empty wine glasses and an open wine bottle about one quarter full. Behind the wine bottle and the glasses was a clear glass jar about the size of one of the wine glasses. It had a tight lid on it and no label except for a piece of masking tape placed on the bottom of the jar. The officers picked up the jar to look at that piece of tape. It had writing on it, written in light ink.
It simply read, “Cyanide.”
