The Thursday Afternoon #Mini post: #evolvingfiction #ittakesavillagetowriteabook

Ok, something new on the #Mini post. Under the heavy influence of #breakingbad, I have been thinking about memorable characters recently, and how the classic molds for antagonists and protagonists have been smashed entirely. Think Walter White. So, sitting here on this sunny bench overlooking Pico Peak, I am giving a go to creating a memorable character, who is neither protagonist nor antagonist. But, please, give me some help. I have co-published this story on Readwave and WattPad under the tentative title of The Subverting of Dr. Molly Stryker. If you have a second, sign on, read the story as it evolves, and give me suggestions. Without further ado, The Subverting of Dr. Molly Stryker.

Molly would never be sure when she had grabbed the knife--during his last round of insults perhaps or maybe when he had gone into the dining room to make a quick call to his mistress--but there was no mistake about its feel, hard and reassuring in her sweaty palm, as she stood by the door to kiss him goodbye. He materialized out of the den, head bent down, staring at his iPhone as if the word of God was appearing on the screen. She told herself later that she wouldn't have killed him even then--not after the years of derision, abuse and infidelity--had he had the decency to look up as she gave him a loveless peck on the cheek on his way out the door.

But he didn't look up, and she did kill him, severing his spine with his favorite Japanese steak knife as passed into the garage. He was dead before he bounced off their new Brazilian cherry floor like a dead cat. Molly had fantasized about killing him so many times--usually after a particularly hard slap or a jab that bit deeper than most--that the sight of his dead body lying there didn't cause any shock. Relief perhaps, and a little regret that the small amount of blood might stain the wood, but nothing more than that. He had been a cruel bastard for so long she couldn't remember loving him at any time. Maybe she had never loved him.

And now the world had one less sleazy lawyer to to keep the drug dealers out of jail, and she would never fear for her life again when his fish wasn't cooked properly, or if the cleaners had used the wrong amount of starch on his shirts. There was only the small matter of making sure she didn't go to prison for ridding the world of him and then she could start over. Seattle perhaps, or Boise--she had heard great things about Boise--someplace far away from her little slice of hell overlooking Central Park.


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