The lights were strong, illuminating my work area.
The day was at its brightest point despite the overcast sky.
My intentions were of pure darkness.
My hand was steady, strong and certain, reaching out to pick up the chemicals. The drugs that would bring death.
1/8th of a teaspoon to kill them all.
The thrill! The joy! I’d waited so long for this day. Hard to believe I was finally living it. I savoured each moment, ignored the effort that was required because all that mattered was the outcome. Death. Final and complete.
My mead was dead. Murdered. By my own hand. The entire colony of yeast slaughtered by the proper application of potassium metabisulphate and potassium sorbate.
That picture is the view through the batch of rose mead. And yes, that is my kitchen sink you can see behind it. You hope for the day your mead clarifies, long for it, and I was blessed for that day had arrived.
Now that it’s dead, in about a week I’ll be bottling it all.
We are told murder is wrong. It’s one of our most basic laws.
As a writer, it is my duty to violate this law, frequently and with flair. My protagonists need mysteries to solve, opponents to combat, obstacles to overcome.
Murder is one of the tools life gives us.
There is the murder that starts the mystery.
The murder that twists the plot into a whole new arena.
And what of the threat of murder? Lurking, dark and foreboding over the protagonist. Or better yet, a loved one, someone the protagonist needs to protect but may not be able to.
Murder of the body, of their career, of their soul. So many types of murder. So many reasons to do it.
Do you like murder in your stories? When and where and what type do you prefer? What’s the best story murder you’ve read or written? Would love to hear your comments.