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About This Author
 Kiya is a young woman with many interests. She's got a degree in Computer Science and Registered Nursing.
She's an avid reader and considers Stephen King one of her favorite authors.
She's also been known to pen one or two stories here and there, and as a proud moderator of Writing.Com, she invites you to check out her portfolio (and even better, to sign up today!).
Published Works:
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A Trivial Matter The words on the page swam before his eyes, almost mocking in their triviality.
“This blot is something that any young fellow might do,” said the Chief.
Oh, really, dear Chief Hopkins?
The jeer thundered through his skull, forcing trembling fingers to crush the page in his large, calloused hand.
He rose and paced to the window, staring blindly out into yet another dreary, wet night in Vauxhall. Raindrops clung desperately to the panes, pale blinds almost obscuring the sight of two officers dragging yet another drunkard into the station.
Thirty-five years, come June. Most of his life spent in uniform, protecting and serving the good—or not so good—people of Vauxhall. From the scrawny, eager seventeen-year-old waltzing into Chief Danford’s office—whose portrait still hung proudly in the lobby—begging to be recruited, to working his way up the ranks until he now occupied Danford’s chair, Hopkins had dealt with just about every situation the job could throw at him.
One had to grow a thick skin. And yet, after years of bloated corpses in every stage of decay, after consoling families who expected him to be policeman, priest, judge, and executioner all at once, it was never easy to swallow.
He was lucky Rebecca waited for him at home, ever the attentive wife. Still—
Brunner left a note saying that there was “a blot” on his life which could not be erased.
The blot.
Hopkins wiped his mouth with a trembling hand.
Max Brunner. Twenty-two years old. Death by poisoning. A suicide.
He’d seen the boy around town often enough—quiet, unassuming. Worked at Whitman’s Grocery. Most mornings he could be found stacking produce out front or manning the counter.
Lionel Brunner -his father - preached every Sunday at Vauxhall Baptist Church. Eleanor Brunner – his mother - taught at the elementary school. Upright citizens, both of them, and immeasurably proud of their only son.
With the blot, the voice jeered again.
Hopkins’ tongue felt heavy in his mouth.
Eleanor had been the one to find him. Mottled skin. Foam at the mouth from the arsenic he’d taken the night before.
The suicide note still sat on the table—damning proof of the reason for his death, and the very thing his parents immediately rejected.
Impossible.
He was betrothed to Emma McClintock. They would be married soon.
He would never engage in such sinful activities.
“My son is not in love with another man,” Lionel had roared, slamming his fist on the table. His rage stretched his features so tight Hopkins had struggled to keep him calm.
“The public cannot know about this,” the pastor insisted.
“And these three people he listed,” Hopkins said quietly. “Perhaps we should—”
“I don’t know who they are, but find them and make them silent. Spin whatever story you must for the press. You cannot sully his reputation—or ours—with the truth. We beg you.”
Of course, Hopkins thought bitterly. What could be worse than a respected pastor known as the father of a fairy?
Ah. The humiliation.
Finding the three names from Max’s note hadn’t been difficult.
One owned an underground pub on the Lower East Side, where Max often went. Another was a childhood friend who’d fled town within hours of the news. The third—
The blot itself.
Alan Cullen. Twenty-four. A miner. Swore like a sailor, yet collapsed into helpless sobs when told the fate of the man he loved.
“All we wanted was to be together,” Alan blubbered, snot streaking his grime-blackened face. “That’s all, sir. We weren’t hurtin’ nobody. He—he treated me like I mattered, y’know. I loved him. God, I loved him so much.”
Hopkins listened.
Hopkins ignored his better judgment and pulled the boy into an embrace, right there in front of two stunned officers.
When the press came, hungry for answers, he delivered his rehearsed lines.
Max was distressed.
He could not marry the girl he loved.
There was a blot on his life that could not be erased.
A trivial matter that weighed too heavily on his mind.
“This blot is something that any young fellow might do,” said the Chief.
Hopkins clamped a hand over his mouth as nausea surged. He barely made it to his private lavatory before vomiting the remnants of a late lunch—sandwich and coffee.
He sank to the floor and stayed there until the tears came.
Too loud. Too raw.
He was sixteen again, sobbing beside an outhouse after his father’s beating—caught with Bobby Johnson, the negro boy from the plantation down the road.
Bobby’s body had been found hanging from a tree the next morning.
Hopkins didn’t know how long he lay curled on the cold tile. Eventually, aching bones protested, and he dragged himself upright, splashing water on his face until he looked passable again.
There would be more Max Brunners. Many more. Some not even worthy of a headline.
And Hopkins would face them all, wearing the mask his office demanded.
For such blots would always exist—no matter how desperately society pretended they could be erased.
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Word Count: 852
Prompt: Pick one of these three articles and write a story or poem which "fleshes out" that report, creatively telling the larger tale which the article describes. One of your genres must be EMOTIONAL. Article Picked: Suicide's Blot Trivial 
Written For: "The Writer's Cramp 24th Birthday" |
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