A week ago, I participated in the inaugural Twitter Fiction Festival. I tweeted a short story I wrote live during the evening of this event. You can read the tweets by going to #goodnighttweetheart on Twitter, or you can read the short short below.
One tweet. That's all
it took to send my life spiralling out of control. One goddamn little tweet on
that magic social network pipeline. If I had only known it would lead to
murder, maybe I wouldn't have tweeted it.
My tweet: Anyone out
there live near the Starbucks in SE Edmonton?
The result: Six
replies. Two from jokesters who lived in Edmonton, Kentucky. I'm in Canada. The
other four I wasn't too sure about. Could be weirdos; could be lonely people.
There are a lot of crackpots out there—and I've met a few of them online.
Haven't we all?
I mean, I've had the "twalker"
(tweet stalker) who has followed me, RTd my tweets…and then hit me up for a "favor,"
only to get all pissy because I wouldn't give them my first born. I've had the
bashers who haven't liked my tweets. Aw, gee, too damned bad. It's a free tweet
world!
But on that day last
week, I had 4 tweeps. 2 turned into creeps. One ended up in Zimbabwe or some
such country. The other…well, there was my mistake. The other convinced me to
meet him at that Starbucks I'd tweeted about.
You ever get those
weird fuzzy feelings? You know, when you know something's not quite right? Well,
I did. I had all sorts of "warnings." But I was too stupid to listen
to them.
I met him at Starbucks
and my first reaction was: Holy ****! What a hunk! We went back to his place.
"For a drink," he told me. But I had other plans.
I tried to reign in my
urges, but as soon as he took off his jacket, my palms grew sweaty. I wanted
him. Hell, did I want him! I imagined him naked, on the bed, wrists and ankles
bound. 50 Shades of Grey, my ass. I'd give him a hundred, and he'd enjoy each
one.
Before I tell you what
happened next, you have to promise me you won't tell a soul. This is just
between you and me—our little secret. And if you tell, I guess I'd have to kill
you.
Now where was I? Oh
yes…the hunk on the bed, naked, tied up. Sadly it didn't go quite as planned. The
drug I slipped into his wine took too long to work and I grew impatient.
Patience never has been one of my virtues. Just ask my husband. Oh wait, he's
dead. Okay, ask my mother-in-law. Oh wait. She's dead too. Here's another
secret: I killed them both.
And on that night,
after a delicious chai tea latte date, I slowly undressed that hunk of a man, watched
as he stretched out on the bed, his mind trying to comprehend.
"I thought you
were just a sweet old lady looking for someone to talk to," he said.
I smiled. "I
know, dear. I do look like the grandmotherly type, don't I?"
He didn't fight as I
tied him to the bed. He couldn't. His drug-glazed eyes pleaded with me.
I held up my knife,
its sleek blade glimmering in the dim light. "I have something for
you."
Actually, it was more
for me than him. I had missed my old friend Death. It had been too long.
Like Dexter, I have my
own "dark passenger" that I just can't shake. Don't know if I want to.
Some call me a monster. Others call me a serial killer. But most people call me
Myrtle—Myrtle Murphy.
Want to get together
for a coffee some day?
~ * ~
If you enjoyed this short Myrtle Murphy Mystery, you'll find longer stories featuring the serial killer you'll hate to love in SKELETONS IN THE CLOSET & OTHER CREEPY STORIES, available on Amazon in
paperback or
Kindle, and on
B&N, Apple,
Kobo Books and more.
