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The murder had taken place early evening, so Simon had had the dark on his side. Simon had left his flat breathless, the sort of excited anticipation a schoolboy would have on a first date. He remembered adjusting his derby hat to shield his eyes, and fingering the knife which lay in one of his pockets. It had taken Simon an hour the day before, polishing it, giving it that brilliant shine. Simon had whistled while he’d reviewed the plan, so simple that nothing could go wrong. He’d supposed that he was the antagonist. No, he was the protagonist, wasn’t he? No, the main character, good or evil, was still the protagonist. He nodded his head in silent recognition.
Simon listened to the rhythmic pitter-patter of the rain outside. Even remembering last night’s murder brought back the giddy, strangely euphoric feeling he had had when he’d finished. No, he was getting ahead of himself…Best start where he’d left off.
Simon remembered turning the corner, leaving the pleasant atmosphere of 13 Avenue. He’d turned into a back alley, where he’d hoped to find a single street person. A victim, preferably male. Killing a female seemed, to Simon, unfair. Simon hated back alleys. He hated the dirt, the garbage, and the disgusting people who dwelled there. He did up the last button of the green raincoat he had purchased for the occasion. The raincoat wasn’t his style, long and bulky with tons of pockets for who knows what. Only one pocket was full. Full with the wonderfully sharp knife.
“’Ave you got a copper to share?” A loud, slurred voice had asked him. Simon shuddered unnoticeably, staring at the man with a kind of hatred he couldn’t fathom. This was the one! The one who’d give him countless bestsellers! Do it! Do it now! A steady crescendo of voices echoed in Simon’s head, which was pounding. He glanced around for any witnesses…He’d patted the knife in his pocket…He’d even considered running, but no, it had gone on to long. He needed this to happen. Simon drew out the knife, and, and well he’d done it. No use recounting the gory details. Simon remembered the shocked expression on the hobo’s face. How the man had try to cry out…Simon had made sure he was dead, and ran. Oh, how he ran. He wanted to leave the dirty, musty alley, and get back to his cozy, clean little flat, where he sat now, listening to the rain and going over details of last night’s murder. It wasn’t till he was home when he felt the way a murderer should have. Elated, ecstatic, euphoric, the murder had given him the kind of joy that he had felt only once, when his novel had been published.
But that was ten years ago. Ten years ago when NightSongs by newcomer Simon Burbank had been published. Simon had been twenty-one, with no job, no hopes, and no future. Then this idea had come, and idea for a mystery novel. Simon had felt inspired, although he had never written anything, and only read philosophy.
It had taken Simon only six months to finish, and Simon couldn’t remember even sleeping. Writing his novel had become an obsession, a need, something that from which Simon couldn’t escape. He would sit at his typewriter, night and day, till he had finished. Shockingly, NightSongs was published immediately. No second drafts, only minor changes were made. The publisher loved it, as had the critics. NightSongs, though, had sold poorly. Simon had been devastated. His novel! It was then when Simon Burbank had realized that he wanted to be famous. He wanted to have fans. He wanted a bestseller.
God only knows how hard he tried. The hours, days, weeks, months, even that he had spent in front of the typewriter, looking at a barren sheet of paper, daring only to write ‘By: Simon Burbank’ on the top. How frustrated he became. How he’d yell. How he’d curse. And finally, how he’d weep. Simon remembered the nights he’d spend, banging his fists against the walls in utter frustration, and then bursting into tears. Wondering what was wrong with him.
To Simon, writing another novel had become a personal mission. Some days he’d be determined, others cynical. Some days he’d amuse himself by practicing his autograph, then by practicing acceptance speeches from various literary awards. And there were days where he’d scream and cry. This had gone on year after year, but Simon seldom realized that.
Then, a few weeks ago, Simon had been inspired. He had finally thought of a cure for his mystery writer’s block. He could commit a murder himself! He was sure it would al
Mystery Net Community Writing Mysteries Mysteries By Members Short Mysteries HOW TO CURE MYSTERY WRITER'S BLOCK (A story) By: Leah Young
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