As you navigate life’s road, you dream of what lies ahead. You wish for a chance to bond with others and succeed in the things you decide to do.

 

To reach your destination, you travel a route with many stops and hope for a long and fulfilling journey before your time on Earth runs out. However, the bumps in the road can lead to unexpected consequences, as becomes evident in . . .

 

 

So You Want To Be A Writer

 

     Writing was my passion, but life got in the way. I became a successful accountant, married my high school sweetheart, and raised a son and two daughters—all of whom have prospered.

     Life should have been great, but it wasn’t. I regretted not following my desire—becoming a writer. I tried writing a book in my early thirties. However, it remains in a file on my computer, doing absolutely nothing.

     I’m fifty-six years old and recently retired. I planned to explore new opportunities with my wife, but she left me. She died in her sleep a year ago. She was the love of my life and now I have nothing.

     I stared out my kitchen window into an empty world. My kids lived in three different states and their lives were busy. What the Hell should I do now? I thought. Traveling the world with my wife was one dream we shared. But doing it alone or with someone else left me cold.

     I needed to find something to focus on. The idea of becoming a writer at my age frightened me. I did believe I’d be good at it. But how good I didn’t know. And you have to be famous or extremely lucky to get your works published by a company in today’s world.

      My mind wandered, trying to figure out what I was meant to do. And then the phone rang. I picked it up and said, “Hello.”

     “Is this the residence of Connor Marks,” a male voice asked.

     “Yes, and I’m Connor Marks. How can I help you?”

     “You can’t, but I can help you.”

     “You can? How?”

     “What do you want most in life?”

     “Besides reuniting with my wife who passed away last year?”

     “Well, yes. I’m sorry I can’t bring her back. Is there something else you might want?”

     “I dreamed of being a writer.”

     “What kind of writer?”

     “A mystery writer. Probably one who creates plots where people die.”

     “”So your focus is on cemeteries?”

     “How did you arrive at that conclusion?”

     “You did say plots—funeral arrangements, cemeteries.”

     “Okay, but that wasn’t what I meant.”

     “Did you write an obituary for your wife?”

     “Yes. Why are you asking me that?”

     “Was it printed in a newspaper or posted online?”

     “Sure. Aren’t they all?”

     “Then you’re a published author.”

     “That’s awful! You’re not serious? Are you?”

     “You said you wanted to be a writer. And now you are one.”

     “Obituary writing is a morbid profession. It’s all about death,” I moaned.

     “Not exactly. While this is true in a sense, there’s a difference between an obituary and a simple death notice.”

     “How can that be? Death is death—dark and dreary. You can’t pretty it up,” I said.

     “Well, maybe you can,” he responded.

     “How?”

     “What separates the two is that the former tells a story about a person’s life. And, as is the case for most creative things, the Devil is in the details. Namely, that an obit does not only reveal what a person did during their lifetime, but who they were, how they lived, and what they meant to the people closest to them.”

     In a weird way, he made sense. “I have to admit, at times, I do read obituaries, some of which fascinate me. It would be an honor to produce a final tribute that preserves a person’s life story and creates tangible closure for the family and friends of the deceased,” I said.

     “So you do have a ‘deadly obsession.’” He laughed in a way that sent chills through my body.

     “I’m not sure what you mean. . . . Who are you, anyway? And why are you asking me these questions?"

     “I’m someone with a Devilish interest in you.”

     “That’s a bit eerie,” I blurted, still confused about where this was going.

     “How did your wife die?”

     “In her sleep.”

     “Are you sure?”

     “What are you getting at?”

     “Did you need a reason to write an obituary and become the writer you always wanted to be?”

     “Are you suggesting that I murdered my wife?”

     “Well, did you?”

     “I can’t take any more of this. I don’t know who you are or where you’re going with this conversation, but I’m finished.” I pushed “Call Over” and dropped the phone on the kitchen table.

     “Killed my wife? No, I couldn’t have. I loved her,” I muttered.

     Then the doorbell rang. I went to the door and opened it. There was nobody there. I stepped out on the porch and looked around. What I saw was a package on my doorstep, wrapped in black paper, with no name or address. I didn’t want to touch it, but I seemed propelled by a force beyond my control.

     I knelt down and cautiously removed the paper. I saw a black book, with bright yellow words, engulfed in red flames, on its cover. “Oh, my God!” I yelled. I couldn’t believe what I saw. The title jumped out at me—“My Deadly Obsession: Writing Her Obituary—A Murderer’s Confession.” I began to shake uncontrollably. The author’s name, in bold, yellow print read, “Conner Marks.”

 

 

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