Inspiring Homicide

She sat at a heavy, polished oak desk, fingers laden with words. Her mind brimmed with unformed thoughts, plotlines weaving imperceptible paths around each other, remote characters attracting detail and intrigue. Glancing around the room implies organization dismissed as tedious, inhabiter of the territory permitting a teetering stack of books to perch on every free surface. Last months’ mail procured a place under the fringe of a nearby loveseat, resting beside a single drab bedside slipper on the hard, wooden floor. Crumpled papers littered the proximity of the homey work place—some significant, most trivial. The wide, storybook windows gazed out onto a small, unkempt lawn, quiet avenue, and sinking, crimson sun. Drawn sapphire curtains framed the glass panes and graced the floor. The author gazed half-heartedly at her computer screen, barely seeing it as she waited for inspiration to strike. Sighing, she reclined in her squishy, violent orange office chair, massaging her tired eyes. Details vivid in her mind refused to surrender their clarity to haphazard English phrases.

Rikki pushed herself away from the glowing screen, saving the four pages that had piddled out of her from the past several hours and terminating the low-key Beethoven that laced itself among the room’s clutter. Yawning, she dragged her slender, pajama-clad self through a rich, antiqued door and into the silent, flickering light of a muted wide-screen television. News bulletins scrolled across the pixilated border of the screen, outlining hot topics of the day. Tossing herself across a deep set couch, Rikki rejuvenated the monotonous voice of CNN’s anchorman.

“. . . local university professor held in custody for allegedly assisting in the suicide of one of his students. The body was found after plummeting from a third floor window, but had sustained prior injury to its right eye. . .” Images clouded Rikki’s brain; humorous portrayals of a gruesome disfigurement making her grin guiltily. The main character in her last novel (a bestseller, as she fondly recalled) faced a similar demise, waltzing off a cliff only to impale himself on his own camping equipment.

Inspiration flared to life, illuminating the scene that had been troubling her in the offhand elegant phrase work that trademarked her writing over the thousands of other horror stories littering the market. Rikki dashed back to Microsoft Word, books splaying across the room as she stumbled into them, newspaper clippings clinging to bare feet as she leapt into her spinny chair and attacked the keyboard. Pounding out a plotline at 57 words per minute, a timid ice skater landed a triple-spin jump, composed, crisp—and only disfigured three judges in the process of her performance. Several baffled psychiatrists and a charismatic lawyer later, the frail teenager won over not only a twenty member jury, but also 14,000 adoring fans, securing her position as highest ranking competitor of the year. Rikki hummed joyously, elaborating on the shocked expressions that fleet across the judges’ faces when they realize they’ve been reduced to seven- or eight-fingered old men.

Once again, Rikki found herself at a loss for words. This time, though, it was different, restful, as though her agitation had drained into the computer with each keystroke. Writing: not only a favored pass-time and profitable hobby, but also a complimentary therapy session. The deposition of violence left Morbid Rikki energized, zealous. Wired, she danced her way back into the living room, where the weatherman announced a drop in temperature—seven degrees Fahrenheit now, contrary to the 26 degree high that afternoon. Outside, the sky gently dusted Earth in powdered sugar. Spontaneity grasped Rikki by the throat and she complied, lifting a sleek black phone off its cradle.

“Hey, Sasha? It’s Rikki. Listen… Do you wanna go ice skating?”