The P Word
By Debbie Burke
Midnight was the deadline.
Gregor Pascale was losing it.
No, if he was honest, he had already lost it.
The ability to grab words from the air and spin them into gold. Stories that carried readers to distant worlds, twisted them into clever knots of plot, made them fall in love.
Words that turned into Edgars, Pushcarts, even two National Book Awards. Shelves full of plaques and crystal statuettes engraved with his name: Gregor Pascale.
Yes, he still got ideas. Usually, a fleeting thought that disappeared like whatever item he'd gone upstairs to fetch but forgot by the time he reached the top landing.
How many trips had he driven somewhere, only to lose track where he was going or why he needed to go there?
So far, he'd always been able to find his way home. So far.
Afterwards, he'd sit in the car in the garage, wondering. Then his glance would fall on the package he'd meant to mail, or the grocery list, or the card for the dentist's appointment, and, too late, he remembered the reason for his trip.
It was too late for a new story. He no longer possessed the comprehension of words nor the focus to meet the deadline.
At the computer, he surfed the net, searching for inspiration. He scanned dozens of published stories but couldn't make it through the first paragraph without stumbling into that increasingly frequent fog. The words didn't make sense, no matter how many times he read them.
He'd met every single deadline for more than 40 years. Editors depended on him for stellar work that won prestigious awards.
But he could no longer meet their requirements.
Like a maggot moth emerging from a chrysalis, an idea came to him.
Never before had such a thought occurred to him. Never.
But he was desperate.
Online, he searched back in time, through decades of long-forgotten stories by little-known authors, until the cover of a 42-year-old mystery anthology caught his eye.
He read the poorly scanned pages of the first story. It was good. For once, the words made sense.
He reread it. More than good, it felt comfortable, like an old pair of sweatpants. He comprehended the plot twists, empathized with the characters, and smiled at the surprise ending.
That reassured him.
A screengrab, then a cut and paste into a fresh Word document, and then...
He added his own byline.
The P word.
Plagiarism.
Nobody would recognize an unknown story from an unknown author. Still, guilt clawed at him.
He hit send.
He met the deadline.
***
Two days later, Gregor opened an email from the publisher.
Mr. Pascale, your submission can't be considered because, as you should recall, you received our debut author award for this same story when it was published in the Anthology of Best Short Stories of the 20th Century.
***
His scrawled suicide note read: Gregor Pascale plagiarized Gregor Pascale.
-end-
Montana is the last best place to kill someone...and author Debbie Burke has littered the landscape of her home state with fictional bodies. She writes the Tawny Lindholm Thriller series. Her books have been finalists for the BookLife Prize, Silver Falchion, BestThrillers.com, and other awards. She is a regular contributor to The Kill Zone, an award-winning site for writers and readers of crime fiction. Additionally she's a book reviewer for The BIg Thrill, magazine columnist, newspaper staff writer, and freelance editor.
