The cops were milling about the house, most of them doing their best to look useful. One of them was inspecting the mantel, covered in various bits of kitsch and personal mementos. The blood spatter on the faces of a small collection of antique alarm clocks was a stark contrast to the smiling faces in photos of family and friends that surrounded them. The unmoving, dead hands of each clock behind the unnaturally stained glass were an ironic reflection of their owner.
There was a faint buzz in the air; the stereo was on, a record endlessly spinning on the platter. The tonearm was patiently waiting in the last groove, hissing and popping. A glance at the label would have told me April hadn't lost her sense of humor, side 2 of The Sounds of Silence. Someone bumped the record player, managing to capture the attention of the whole house. The needle skipped across the vinyl in a screech. When it finally landed, Paul Simon lamented, "...s read: 'Richard Cory went home last night and put a bullet through his head..."
I suppose it was a somewhat common scene for most of them. A body, a gun, blood pooling as it flowed from what remained of a human head. They were asking questions. I wasn't in a place to give them direct answers. I can't say if I was more shocked by the violent death or the fact that she actually succeeded. Well, maybe it wasn't that shocking; April often found a way to make things work the way she wanted them to. Her ingenuity and enterprising nature were two of her more dubious core strengths. April's recent actions, however, lacked her general tactful, subtlety. Then again, death may not have been her ultimate goal. I can only imagine that her intended outcome was something beyond putting a 9mm round through her frontal lobe...
I have a folder on my computer labeled "Premise Beach". I have four stories outlined. The last one reads:
It's a wacky premise.Story Premise:Grad student in Counseling Psychology fancies herself an actual writer in order to avoid writing her pre-dissertation.