This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 34; the thirty-fourth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is "Of-Course, I'm insane"
Charles sat in the balcony of his villa, sipping his morning tea. His mind was immersed in thoughts. He had been so, since he saw his face in the mirror that morning. He was thinking about the past 25 years and all that he'd been through. He was having a dialogue inside his head.
"Was it really worth it?", he asked himself.
"The fun part or the aftermath?"
"Overall. I don't even remember where it stopped being fun."
"Oh of course. It was 25 years ago."
"Anyway, I have to put it down somewhere."
"Nah, autobiography. Can't trust anyone these days."
He set out to get himself his laptop. His full name was Charles Westmoreland and he was 65 years old. In his prime, he had lived a life that was certainly 'Larger than Life'. His adventures, travels and discretion was what had been keeping him alive for so long. For, one does not so easily disappear and is never to be seen again.
Charles first sought out to detail his travel course, how he exchanged the money discretely, the property he'd bought in places where he could escape three times over before the cops could even come near his home. After making a full mental count, he started typing his first chapter, "In the past 25 years, I've been to 47 countries. But I am no voyager. My name is Charles Westmoreland. But I'm better known as.........."
He didn't feel the need to watch out for publishers. He had already stirred up the news once. He was prepared to do it again. But only this time, he had already decided the outcome. They should never get to him. He would do it himself.
He had stopped running for the past 5 years. The cops had almost given up. They only put up a show that they were still on it by proposing silly and bizarre theories once in a blue moon but frequent enough that people wouldn't start asking questions. However, after all this time, he felt that he had lived enough. He wanted to end on a high note. And, his idea was nothing short of brilliant.
He didn't exactly have to work to survive. Money was never a problem. Discretion was the only problem. He had plenty of time to read. The classics, the fiction, non-fiction what not. He didn't need a biographer. He could do it himself, he thought.
After about a month, when he had finally prepared and revised the draft, proof-read it. He put it in a carefully sealed package and sent it out to a publishing house whose editor he knew to be a big fan of him. The next part, was the tougher.
He had prepared 3 bottles of whiskey. He couldn't drink a sip! His life reeled in front of him. After all, he'd lived enough. Without friends, without relatives, without a family, it was too much. Loneliness was getting to him. This was the best option that was available.
A gunshot was heard. Charles Westmoreland had shot himself in the head.
The next day, the editor of Bloomsbury was in for a surprise. He opened the package that he received and the title read, "Of course, I'm insane! I'm D.B.Cooper"