A Rather Dedicated Author

A Rather Dedicated Author

Thirty-two year old Leonine DuPont– mother of one, wife of none– sat slouched at her writing desk once more. At a sudden loss for words, she removed her mauve-painted fingertips from the keyboard. Instead, her hands reached up and freed her long, cherry-red hair from its ponytail. Her hair proceeded to fall from its perch upon her head and landed mid-waist.

She sighed, looking down at her work. She had barely finished a paragraph and she felt completely done. She pulled the reading glasses from her face and sat them down gently beside the monitor. She saved the document with regret and exited the program, shutting down her computer.

Leonie stretched and stood up, in her mind swirled the fantasy of her story. She knew what needed to happen, but hadn't planned how to get there. To her, the characters were flat and apathetic. The plot was unrealistic and dull. Nothing she wanted her fantasy to be. Nothing a fantasy should ever be.

Leonine DuPont was, indeed, published. She had written an essay on the historical population of Ganges river valley shortly after graduating college that was published on an unpopular online magazine. She even made it to the front page. However, this soon faded into the past and the pay soon became mortgage payments. Her shallow pride of the accomplishment turned into a vague memory. And so, she continued writing.

But now, she was hopelessly stuck, with nothing more that could possibly be written. Leonie exited her room and made her way through her small flat towards the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee. In the small living room she passed, was a small child pretending to knew how to read to her stuffed animals. This child— Brielle was her name— was hardly her mother's pride and joy. She was the irreversible product of a failing marriage.

Leonine DuPont could never truly say she loved the man— the relationship was almost entirely one-sided on her husband's behalf. Leonie agreed on the marriage simply to gain the knowledge of what marriage was like. She acted on the same accord throughout her divorce two years later. To gain the know of what it was like.

She used the life experience to complete her famously unfinished stories. The experience remained in folders on her desktop, jumbled into different story lines and from different characters that always seemed to be the same.

Leonine DuPont, whatever experience she was currently collecting, managed to stay distinctly neutral. Any feelings she had, she dismissed as part of the experience and would pass. And so it did, leaving Leonie feeling colder than ever.

Leonine waited desperately for her coffee cup to fill. The large circles under her liquid eyes could tell anyone she needed a good night of sleep, and at the very least, some caffeine. She fiddled with her thumbs, her mind still stuck on her story.

She had come to a point where she had not experienced what the main character was trying to do. The dusty-headed main character had found herself in an impossible predicament.

To continue, the main character had to commit murder.

Leonine DuPont, mother of one, redirected her eyes toward her only child.