Content warning
This story may contain sensitive material or discuss topics that some readers may find distressing. Reader discretion is advised. The views and opinions expressed in this story are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of Vocal.
February 5, 1976. One of few nights in history when San Francisco would speak of snowy memories. The silent flurries looked like television static against the glow of the Golden Gate Bridge railing and towers, disappearing into the dark bay waters below where Gordon Harris had jumped mere hours before, taking the stories of three women’s final moments with him.
Suicide was perhaps the one somewhat original act of his short-lived legacy as a serial killer. Unbeknownst to Gordon, his decision to abruptly end his violence (with more violence, accordingly) was a statistical anomaly for those of his ilk, particularly as he was no person of interest for authorities. Or anyone else, for that matter. The shallow graves of Debra, Lourdes, and Leeane would all be discovered and investigated years from now. But the cases would forever remain as cold as the silent snow that now blanketed their bodies.
A troubled childhood, a failed army stint, two broken marriages, and years of drifting through the Pacific Northwest: these were less original parts of Gordon Harris the murderer. Equally so was his penchant for preying upon the runaway girls hitching rides from interstate off-ramps, the ones whose eyes were ringed with lifetimes of damage. He was bent on destroying the weakness he recognized in himself, the same weakness he so despised. The weakness swallowed in a four-second fall and snowy splash, unseen by a soul.
San Francisco would awaken on February 6 none the wiser, enchanted by a world of purity.
About the Creator
Elle Marie
Western NC-based gal who writes sometimes. I like plants, cats, and going to pretty places.
Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.
Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed. You could also pledge your support or give them a one-off tip, letting them know you appreciate their work.
Keep reading
More stories from Elle Marie and writers in Fiction and other communities.
Foolish Things
I read this challenge prompt with a lazy sigh. Less than a month into creating this Vocal account, scarcely a few weeks into the new year, and already I gotta talk about my aspirations? Clearly I’m up to it, otherwise I wouldn’t have opened a word document in the first place, nor would I be typing about it now. True confession, I still don’t exactly know what aspirations I’m going to write about (and here we are, one paragraph in).
By Elle Marie5 months ago in Writers
Silence
I don’t remember the day the world ended. But I do remember the day I noticed. That photo was it, but I did not know what it meant until I sat in my darkened bathroom, staring at the newly developed film. The street was neither empty, nor abandoned. It was dead. The colours of the flowers wrapped in that red ribbon caught my eye, and as I crouched to take that photo, I could hear only the lonely silence of a graveyard after dark.
By Alexander McEvoy6 days ago in Fiction
Comments (2)
This was a good and interesting story. I loved your description of the snow falling and looking like tv static, that was cool.
Very peculiar