Saturday's Storyteller: "Inspiration was dead, and it was their job to find out who killed her."

by Belinda Roddie

Inspiration was dead, and it was their job to find out who killed her. They sealed off the scene of the crime with yellow caution tape, ribbon tying up a morbid gift. They collected evidence, took photographs, and found leads. They barred the press and prevented any outside voices from interfering from their investigation. They would not be deterred.

They started interrogations. First, they questioned the college student who tried to type up short stories in the local coffees hop. Then, they prodded the busker on the street corner, who during the inquisition let his anxiety get the best of him and vomited into a nearby trash can. One by one, they lined up the independent poets, ignoring their complaints about whatever slam or reading they were supposed to attend. Whenever one stepped out of the office, they were paler than before, like all the blood had been sucked from their face by a vampire.

Then they finally got around me. And I, in my sequined coat and floppy hat, laughed and showed them my journals, turned black from abusive scribbles and sighs. I said to them, You idiots. You've followed a trail to a bloody dead end. No one killed Inspiration - she died from neglect, sitting on the couch eating straight out of a large bag of sriracha potato chips, with a movie playing on repeat, rewinding whenever she felt that something new could be found in the corners of the screen, and when nothing came up but dust, she choked on the air she breathed, let her head fall back against cushion, and with white froth collecting on her mouth like the remains of a bad latte, gave herself up to unsympathetic stars.

This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.