On the day that June Marie Darcy was arrested for murder, the road outside of her house was so flooded by people that it was no longer functional as a road. It had become a river of people, with a current that didn’t move in one particular direction, but instead in both directions, towards the center, towards June Marie Darcy’s front door.
The police who came to escort her to the jail where she would be held pending the official filing of charges against her had to park four blocks away and push their way through the surging river of flesh to find their way to her home. It took them more than 30 minutes to get in, and another 30 minutes to lead her back to their squad cars.
The protesters – for that’s what the majority of that crowd of thousands were – came from both sides of a fence that had quickly sprung to life to divide people’s reactions to June Marie Darcy’s murder of her husband, Thomas. One side felt the incarceration was a mistake, that her crime was forgivable, that the woman was pregnant and hormonal and, although no one thought that her husband had necessarily deserved to die, it seemed apparent that he had been pushing her buttons for awhile.
On the other side of the fence, the attitude was that the incarceration was too late, and if she had simply been taken off the street months ago and put away behind four concrete walls, Thomas would have been alive today, and alive in three more months, to see the birth of his first – and now, sadly, only – child. That side of the fence felt June Marie Darcy should have been locked up because when you have the ability to wipe out another person’s life with just a thought, you were probably too dangerous to be left on the streets.
From a short story I started dabbling with today.
I was actually inspired by drifting through old blog posts, stumbling upon a post I'd made about a weird dream I'd had involving a pregnant woman who had accidently killed her husband with her psychic abilities. At the time it seemed kind of silly, but as I stumbled upon it recently, it actually seemed like it might be an interesting backdrop for a story. The only problem is, I'm not entirely sure what the story is bout.
Though I don't suppose that's too big a crisis at the moment. I can dabble with the set up of it, try to fill in the backstory a bit, and see if I stumble upon a plot along the way. And just keep writing until I find one.
Though the last time I did that, it turned into a novel...