EQMM, August 2010 by Dell Magazine Authors

Author:Dell Magazine Authors
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dell Magazines

Department of First Stories: THE ALPHABET WORKBOOK by Mehnaz Turner

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Mehnaz Turner was born in Pakistan and raised in Southern California. She is a 2009 PEN USA Emerging Voices Fellow in poetry whose poems have appeared in publications such as An Anthology of California Poets. Her debut here started off as a poem. Always an avid reader of detective fiction, she sometimes writes poems in a noir mood, and for a course at Gotham Writers’ Workshop she turned one of them into “The Alphabet Workbook."

Killing a stranger is not something most people plan to do. Going to Japan to teach English, maybe. Learning to play the violin. Baking and baking until the kitchen counters taste of sugar. These were things I imagined I'd do. Not use my hands to throttle a girl's neck, squeeze the sweet out of Angela. I had an M.A. in social work. I helped troubled teens clean up their life. I taught them how to get a job, read with focus, and open a bank account. I lectured them on the ineptitude of crudeness. The worst offense, I said, was to become an insignificant adult. One had to have a purpose. In June, because I changed clinics, I moved into a two-bedroom condo in Sherman Oaks. The condo had church-white walls and a wide balcony. I really liked the place, though two days after moving in I threw a margarita glass at Nabil, shattering the kitchen window, because he told me his job was taking him to London, and he wanted to reconnect with Brigitte, his ex. He had once shown me a cell-phone picture of the vegan model, and it had unnerved me for good reason. After the breakup, I spent a month watching Bollywood films and eating sweets rolled in marzipan. This condo in L.A. was where I'd meet my neighbor and plot her murder.

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The thought began the Saturday morning she knocked on my door to borrow eggs, about four weeks after I'd moved in. I had been doing a crossword puzzle, listening to Vivaldi. She smiled, introduced herself, and waited in the entryway while I walked over to the fridge. I liked that her voice didn't drip too much syrup. With her pale skin, I imagined she could be a ghost dressed in her purple muumuu, floating from door to door. She claimed to have no family, not even a car. Not having a vehicle in Los Angeles was like pitching atheism in church. And I thought, what would happen if I strangled her sometime? Would it really be such a big deal? One less Angela in the world, knocking on a neighbor's door to borrow eggs?

"I like your dog statue,” she had said, pointing to the space left of my couch.

I shrugged. “It was here when I moved in. The previous tenants must have been ridiculous."

She laughed. “Oh, I think it's charming. The face looks sad, but it's almost like he's pretending."

I handed her the carton of eggs.

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