Inspired by Simon's stories, especially "The Party" Thank you: To B/Beth/Simon for having a great sense of humor!

Motif

"And then..." fingers hovered over the keyboard, waiting, anticipating... "Yes!" Like a symphony, the play of fingertips against the whisper-touch keys filled the room with the music of creation.

This was beauty. This was art.

Oh, this was good.

The bold arrangement of letters against the stark whiteness of mediocrity. This, this was a calling, a mission, a destiny...

And it was fun, too.

The minutest of hesitations while a hand brushed aside a stray lock of hair and the rhythm resumed, the tempo increasing as the inexorable forces of creation called forth genius.

Yes! Yes! Yes!

Tiny beads of perspiration were ignored, the siren's call too strong. Compulsion forced the fingers into a frenzy of movement until they were a blur.

And then...

At last...

The final keystroke...

Finale.

Spent, the hands fell away, the body slumping back against the chair. The residue of brilliance hovered overhead.

The masterpiece gleamed in the dimly lit room, shining back from the computer screen like a beacon. Single letters merged into words, joined into sentences, congregated into paragraphs, transformed into the sublime.

Here was the masterstroke, the coup de grace. No more trivial car accidents or gun shot wounds or even food poisoning (although that *was* fun thank-you-very-much). Boundaries had been pushed aside, limits surpassed and here... here was the result: an epic.

The bullet from a misfired gun collides with a small airplane causing its microwave to short-circuit and catch fire, releasing poison gases which render the pilot unconscious resulting in a mid-air collision that rains debris down onto a vehicle transporting food-poisoning victims to the hospital. The driver loses control and the vehicle skids off the road into a circus tent where the beloved main character is struck on the head with a flaming baton and trampled by an elephant enraged by the violin music from a cd player dropped by a fleeing patron.

Pure genius.

With a sigh of contentment, the author leaned back and smiled, waiting.

They would be drawn to it, unable to resist reading.