I’m A Lover Not A Killer… / A Gypsy’s Curse

As I’ve been trying to write more frequently, I’ll try to write shorter stories and post them on a weekly basis. So, for the first week of this trial, here are two short stories I’d written on the bus ride to work.

  1. I’m A Lover Not A Killer…
  2. A Gypsy’s Curse

I’m A Lover Not A Killer…

The instructions were clear cut and direct; Don Machiavelli was a simple man and hated beating around proverbial bush.

“Kill tha muthafucka who had tha guts ta sleep with mah daughta!”

As a professional hitman, these instructions weren’t uncommon; plenty of overprotective mafia dads had hired my services to right a wrong to their daughters, wives, mistresses… etc. You’d be surprised how often the last one comes up.

Hell, I’d been considering having a special price for such a hit.

But this time, my heart missed a beat and I could barely keep my hands from shaking before leaving that majestic office, with a dominating mahogany desk.

How was I ever gonna tell him Nicky and I were in love now?

A Gypsy’s Curse

It started after that night with the wizened old hag. All I had done was complain about how I was getting tired of these lonely nights, staying up late watching TV and wishing I had someone to watch it with me.

Then, quite abruptly and with a theatrical puff of smoke, she had placed a curse upon me with her words echoing sinisterly in the threadbare room.


I left the old cottage with a sense of almost comical dread and terror, stumbling over myself in the dark; I’d heard of the dangers of such a curse after all.

At first, I was pleasantly surprised. For a week, no matter what I would do, women threw themselves at me. A drastic change had occurred; the sad loner had become a regular Casanova.

But as time passed, I realised that it was not me whom the women were attracted to. No matter what I said, any woman I’d chosen to woo would follow me home. It became a game to see how far I could push it and still bring her home.

And without fail, they’d come. In shame, I remembered the lines I’d crossed then.

It’s been months and I’m trapped in this cycle. I’ve tried avoiding them all day and yet, somehow, I’d find one at home patiently waiting for me. I can’t escape from the seemingly infinite number of women who want to sleep with me.

I haven’t been able to have a real emotional connection with any of them for such a long time… I’d forgotten how it feels like to have an actual conversation. Sleep seems to elude me at every turn and privacy has become scarcer than water in a desert.

With a sigh, I moaned, “I wished my mom would stop trying to match-make me.”


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