Muse Moment of Madness
For a writer, I don't spell well. So, I'm so pleased that my spellchecker feature is working again. It's not a panacea for writing errors, but any help to eliminate errors is a bonus in my eyes.
Evil Rockwell portrait moment last night: Brother-in-law and I spending an hour deconstructing a troublesome Kenmore dryer to access the broken heating element, and our respective spouses hovering nearby in a constant chatter about the weather, missing gold, old Jewish jewelry (I didn't follow that one at all), what makes bad and good fried rice, cancer, traveling, men's ego with regard to home repair, and the relative coldness of my southern home (it was 72 degrees inside). We got done and pulled out the offensive part. The all-knowing spouses looked at it and in unison, as sisters are want to do, "Knew all along that's the bad part. Quiche anyone?"
The muse was whispering in my ear, "Murder, most foul."
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2 comments:
An impulsive act or the consequence of a long-simmering resentment? Seems like a story built on the former would be mostly about what followed and a story built on the latter would be mostly about what came before.
I wrapped clothes line around the dryer and choked it to death. My long simmering hatrid of the energy hogging, fire trap, space gobbing machine satisfied. Then, I hung my laundry to dry in the clear air only to rise the next morning with a notice of a $100 fine for violating the no clothes line rule for the neighborhood.
A second murder seemed in order.
That, is how I became a serial killer.
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