The Cruelest Month

By Victoria Durm

The Creative Café Cabal presents its first ever anthology. this group of five talented writers bring stories of the cruelest month.

Inside these pages, the reader is taken on five different journeys. They are all linked by one common thread:they are all cruel In some form or fashion.

There are many genres representation in this collection. There is no doubt in the authors'minds That every reader will find something they will like!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victoria Durm
• Release date: May 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458052032

Victoria Durm

Hi everyone! I'm Victoria Durm, and I am very happy to be here. I am 30 years old, and on my way to become a published author. My first short, "Redemption" is up and being tweaked here and there.I write YA Fantasy and Fiction with emphasis on the paranormal (vampires, werewolves, and Faeries), and magics.

Book preview

The Cruelest Month

A Creative Café Cabal Anthology

Published by Victoria Durm at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Creative Café Cabal

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

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APRIL is the cruelest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

The Waste Land – The Burial of the Dead

Published 1922 by T.S Eliot (1888 to 1965)

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Contents

Foreword

Clerical Error by Tom Fowler

Endless Summer by Nyckei Harris

Careful Wishing by Victoria Durm

A Month Without that Dick by Amanda Alamain

Exposition by Nick Davis

About The Cruelest Month Authors

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Foreword by Tom Fowler

It’s surprisingly hard to decide on a theme for an anthology. Factor in a handful of different writers, all working in disparate genres, and the challenge meter ramps up. Our group, the Creative Café Cabal, decided we would release our anthology in April (yeah, I know, but we almost got there!) and thus, we wanted a theme centered on the month. April showers, as the saying goes, bring May flowers. They also bring a dearth of inspiration. We found similar spring-has-sprung themes and dismissed them all before recalling a great line by T.S. Eliot. April is the cruellest month, Eliot wrote (adding the second L, I suppose, because he lived in England) in The Waste Land. Cruelty was something we could all get behind—in the literary sense, of course—and so we had our theme.

My mystery story Clerical Error leads off the anthology. It features private investigator C.T. Ferguson, who investigates the violent murder of a young secretary at the behest of her older sister. Batting second is Nyckei Harris, with Endless Summer, a look at a gritty, parched, and (of course) cruel post-apocalyptic future. Next, you’ll read Careful Wishing by Victoria Durm, which takes the old maxim of be careful what you wish for because you just might get it and applies it to a pair of desperate children in an orphanage. Amanda Alamain’s A Month Without That Dick is next. It’s a very real look at the subtle and not-so-subtle ways people are cruel to each other in relationships. Last, but certainly not least, Nick Davis gives us Exposition, a look at the zany and cruel ways writer’s block can manifest when a deadline looms (and passes).

While we examined cruelty in our stories, we decided to stop there. The proceeds from the anthology you’re reading are going to the author’s favorite charity. Right now, we’re a group of writers who all want to make it big. We’re going to keep doing these anthologies, regardless of how big any of us get, and they’ll always be for the benefit of a charity (or charities). Enjoy the stories, revel in the cruelty therein, and know your purchase is benefiting a deserving charity somewhere.

Thank you for buying our first anthology. We hope it doesn’t scare you off from buying our future releases.

The members of the Creative Café Cabal: Amanda Alamain, Nick Davis, Victoria Durm, Tom Fowler, and Nyckei Harris.

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Clerical Error

by Tom Fowler

Someone who has been in the PI business—especially someone who operates within my unique parameters—has seen plenty of people at rock bottom. After a few times, it becomes easy to recognize. The bags under the eyes, the down-turned lips, eyes constantly cast down, the dreary tone to the voice—these are all telltale signs. Add to that a tangible feeling of misery and you have someone who’s hit rock bottom and doesn’t have any idea how to start clawing back up.

The woman who sat on the opposite side of my desk was just such a person.

She had come to my Federal Hill home and office a few minutes ago, after calling me earlier in the day. When she arrived, her eyes looked red and puffy and I could tell she needed a tissue. I offered her one once we were in my office. Thus far, I’ve managed to avoid getting snot on my good furniture and I want to continue that streak. She cried, I sat and waited, then she recovered enough to throw the tissues away and sit down.

Someone killed my sister, she said. My baby sister. She dissolved into tears again. I held out the box of tissues and she plucked another. After a few minutes, she tossed that tissue into the wastebasket, wiped her eyes, and took a deep breath. I’m sorry. I thought this would be easier.

It’s not supposed to be, I said.

She sniffed and nodded. You sound like you know.

I’ve had some experience.

For the first time since this woman came into my office, she smiled, though it was fleeting. The smile of someone who realized they had found a kindred spirit, then realized they shouldn’t look happy at someone else’s misfortune. Some people can’t enjoy schadenfreude. I haven’t even told you my name, she said.

I get paid by the hour, I said.

Now she showed a real smile. That’s the reason I came to you—you don’t get paid at all. I’m not sure how you manage that. Her intonation made that a question, but once she saw that I had no interest in answering, she moved on. Anyway, my name is Laura Reynolds. She looked at me for a moment before thrusting her hand out. I opened my desk drawer and pushed a bottle of hand sanitizer her way.

C.T. Ferguson. I nodded in her direction.

I already knew that. She flashed another genuine, if brief, smile.

I’m never one to miss an introduction, I said.

Laura folded her freshly-sanitized hands in her lap. She wore a drab pair of jeans, a sweatshirt that had seen one too many days painting the house, and a white pair of logo-free tennis shoes. She looked about 30, though if I had to guess, I would say 29. Going with 29 has never gotten me slapped. She fidgeted in the leather guest chair. I’ve never talked to a detective before.

It’s something I try to avoid, too.

You’re trying to make me smile . . . I appreciate that.

Actually, I was being serious.

She looked at me and blinked a few times. You weren’t a policeman before you became a private investigator?

I winced. God, no.

Oh. I just kind of figured you had been.

Most people do.

I guess I should just tell you what I came to tell you. My sister is dead. Someone killed her. Laura sniffed again, but I didn’t see any tears coming. The police haven’t been able to figure it out.

How long has it been?

Exactly three weeks. It happened on April fourth.

The police are probably still working the case.

I’m sure they are. They tell me they are. They say a new lead could turn up anytime. She sighed and shook her head. I’m tired of waiting. Maybe I’m being impatient, but I want justice for my sister.

I could sympathize with that desire. Do you know what happened?

Someone beat her to death outside her house. I saw tears well in Laura’s eyes. I don’t understand this. She didn’t have any enemies. Everyone loved my sister.

Someone definitely didn’t. I’m going to find out who it was.

Laura nodded. A tear slid down her left cheek. Thank you.

I took out a notepad. I didn’t write down a lot of what people said, but I figured they found the illusion comforting. I’ll need to know everything you can tell me about your sister that might be important.

***

Hope Reynolds had been just twenty-four years old when she died. Finding information about her was easy. The only other Hope Reynolds in the Baltimore metro area could have been Laura’s grandmother. Hope had gone to Poly High School, graduated from the A course, and went on to earn a Bachelor’s from Towson. She had gotten a full scholarship, which had no doubt been a boon to her struggling family. Since graduating, Hope had worked as the secretary for Dr. Mark Price, the Chief Oncologist at Johns Hopkins Hospital.

I found all that out in less than five minutes. Finding out information about people has always been easy. I know the legal and illegal places to look. The illegal ones are often much better. I learned the science of computers in college and the art of compromising them during my three and a half years in Hong Kong. The information I found would be useful, but it also wouldn’t be nearly enough. I needed to see what the Baltimore police had discovered.

During my first case, my cousin Rich, now a detective with the BPD, had left his computer unattended with me at his desk. I snagged his IP address and then convinced the BPD’s network that my computer was one of its own. Ever since then, I’ve had full access to the BPD’s resources. Every now and then, they come up with something to try and keep me out, but it never works. Hackers always have an advantage over the people trying to keep them at bay, especially if those people are civil servants.

The BPD had been investigating Hope Reynolds’ death since it happened. I scanned the crime scene photos and had to take a few deep breaths to keep my gorge down. I’ve seen a few dead bodies in my day, but this one had been brutalized. Hope Reynolds had a very pretty face and whoever killed her had smashed it into an unrecognizable mess. Her body showed numerous bruises, and the coroner’s report documented broken ribs, a broken shoulder, two broken arms, and the destroyed face.

Someone obviously hated Hope Reynolds. I told her sister I would find out who that was. I decided to start with the police.

***

The family hired you? Rich said. We sat at his desk. He drank a cup of coffee from the squad room. I brought my own vanilla latte. Once, early in my illustrious career, I made the mistake of drinking the squad room coffee. My stomach spent the next three days recovering. I didn’t know how Rich managed to choke it down.

Older sister, yeah, I said.

That case is a bitch. We got no one who looks good for it. You talk to anyone, the girl should have been in the Holy Name Society.

Someone disagreed—quite strongly, judging by the crime scene photos.

Rich frowned. You looked at the crime scene photos?