I Remember a Malaysian Plagiarist of Two Published English Language Short Stories. I Discovered It Recently. She Never Spoke the Truth

by Suzan Abrams

Hurry me to the wayside of your displeasure that I be reconciled to the existence of my innocence. For I have unearthed by accident, a dark truth and revelations will follow, lest you pretend concussion and deny the possibilities of an ill-timed confession; masquerading your lies for a supposed tearful tragedy. Bury yourself in the deluge of a delusion of pretended writing whose credibility now rises like a hasty persuasion into question, and life will find you out, those secret dirt-scraped hands sticking out of a graveside rubble where the worms have been. For your fingers smell of trickery and deception and the theft of a literary talent, stolen from a dead woman's genius to pass on in the land of the living as your own. You wear her stories like a shiny pendant, thinking that a corpse cannot speak, her stories are too ancient to be ressurrected and that ignorant friends, fearful of a plagiarist in their midst, will kiss your feet and deny the crime. You grab the ovation for another's originality. But I shadow the genius of the dead woman's ghost and my eyes witnessed your thievery. Everyday you will wake not knowing if today is the day, my truth will crumble your bed of lies. You wait with devious thrill, locked in a state of nervous mousey apprehension while I bide my time wisely. Until that dreaded hour, no dove of peace becomes you.