The POET - FICTION!
Looking at a children’s storybook, the poet was inspired and wrote.
The cow stood
Grazing in the field.
It would chew, chew, chew.
Alas! The cow said, “Moo!”
Oh! The poetry! It turns the insides of the stomach in its perfection and beautiful use of the English language. The poet was so very proud. “I could be famous with this gorgeous writing,” the poet thought greedily. “If I am not famous soon, I shall be after I’m dead.” The poet pouted at the thought of losing potential riches from being dead.
Speaking of the dead, the poet contemplated the next “child”. The paper in such a small town spoke of nothing else. A “serial” killer in a town of 1200 was unbelievably shocking and apparently compelling literature. Some residents even fled after the second one died, sporting similar markings as the first victim.
Oh, the flattery.
The fools actually realized after only two, though… which was surprisingly bright for this town.
The poet sought revenge on only those who made the poet feel unacceptable in their arrogant craftless social regime. Rejection since the first grade! “Their mocking laughter will dissipate as I tear their laughing hearts out!” the poet whispered passionately. Abruptly, the poet snapped out of the rage and searched for any listeners, then shied away behind some bookshelves in the miniature library. No one was near. The poet checked out a book and left with a plan for the vengeance on Thomas Carson, the Educator.
****
Eric draped over his desk in the newsroom fiddling with a kid’s meal toy from a fast food chain. He was thinking about what to write next. He wanted to be different than the other civilian and talk about happy things. Good things. In walked Ellen. He smiled at her with relief, then stood and stretched.
“Working hard, I see. Man, this killer is unbelievable!” exclaimed Ellen. “I went to school with these people! I didn’t know them well… I didn’t even like them much. But still! In it this town! It doesn’t seem real. Why can’t it be happening somewhere else?”
“It is scary. We know everybody and what’s going on. That’s why so many people are… taking long vacations until it’s over.” Eric is exhausted by watching Ellen’s tense shoulders flap back and forth with her speech. “Quit pacing. What good does that do? Clam down. Will you take some valium?” Eric lazily yanked open his drawer and scrambled around. He grabbed a bottle after an exaggerated search and approached her with it. She had her arms crossed and her brow was scrunched in contemplation. She huffed obliviously at Eric’s offer and left him to take a seat at her desk. “Any updates from the police?”
Eric shrugged. “No. They don’t just call me up and say they can’t figure any thing out on their own. The worst case they’ve ever had before was the `Who Stole Mr. Potter’s three-legged Pig Mystery’. Anyway, I’ve dug around a little today don’t think I know any more than Bubba the Police Force.”
“Yeah, well, keep in mind you’re only a reporter. Not a private-eye-police-officer person.”
“I grew up watching it Magnum P.I. To this day I epitomize Tom Selleck,” Eric boasted.
Ellen smiled affectionately. “That explains it. Hey, can you write on something else? This town needs a break. Like the increase in tourism on the Meremac or coverage on the Honor Society inductees at the high school.”
“Yeah, yeah. I thought of that. But the people want killer info. They want to read about the killer and his next possible move.” Eric animates his words by waving his hands spookily. “They call me at home, for crying out loud. They like to read about the killer’s profile and other bull shit. It’s like they want to know as much about the killer as possible, as though it would empower them to defend themselves, when actually I think they are sickeningly intrigued.” Eric dons a thoughtful look. “Boredom, it bears a sick madness.”
****
The poet loved Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue. “So creative and obnoxious, just like me.”
Poor little Thomas lay with his head bruised form a blow. His heart was carefully cut out of his chest and placed into his mouth. Although this outcome was the same with all of the “children”, the poet wondered what the paper would think of this. The writers can be so dramatic– even cruel towards the poet. Perhaps it’s out of ignorance for the poet’s true motivation. The lack of comprehension for the betterment of mankind. The fact that the delicious poetry makes the Poet okay. What a shame that they do not understand.
The poet left Thomas’ eyes open on astonishment. The poet laughed. Just as Thomas did in chemistry class that day. The last laugh belonged to the Poet. “Nanny nanny boo boo! You can’t get me!”
****
Ellen was practically best friends with Thomas in high school, but they drifted apart as they went away to college. Although they both returned to town, Thomas as a teacher and Ellen as a writer for the local paper, the two were never close again. She still missed him. They had potential as a couple.
Eric saw she was sad and hugged her for comfort. He knew Thomas. How couldn’t he know him? Thomas was an intelligent and likable guy. What a loss…
“I’m sick of this. The only connection I see with the murders is the way the killers leave the victim,” Ellen takes a deep breath and looks Eric in the eye, ”and that they went to high school together, with us, in our class.” Eric remembers. Of course– Stacey, George, Thomas.
He asked, “but what about those three? Will one of us be next?” A sudden chill of fear went up his spine. “I saw families leave, but I never though of it… I can’t believe I may… By this time tomorrow, this town will go from 1200 to 12.”
“And of course we won’t know if we’re in danger until it’s too late.” Ellen frowned.
Eric laughed. “Kind of like the time you picked up that piece of crap plastic on the playground and I told Mrs. Walton.”
“Oh, yeah. That was a crusty lighter. You had Mrs. Walton believing I was ready to burn the school down! You jerk,” Ellen said playfully.
“Let’s shut down for the day. I’m exhausted.”
Ellen agreed. “See you tomorrow!” Almost too anxiously Ellen left the room.
Eric stood, left behind, and waved his hand sarcastically good-bye. “See ya!” he says to himself.
****
“Oh, Eric, Eric, Eric. You know you’re next, don’t you?” The poet stood on the corner of Main and Liberty Street as the morning dew evaporated from the bench top. The Poet was happy with success. Almost to the point of wanting to brag. Eric thought he could get away with writing better poetry than the poet. Think again.
Eric, the newspaper man, approached the news paper building. The poet smiled on the inside while pretending to look at the birds. Eric was obviously paranoid. He was looking left and right, at the poet, to the left, and at the poet again. “Wait a minute. No, he can’t notice me…” Eric started a steady trot across the street towards the poet. “He must be seeing someone else.”
“Ellen,” he said. The poet anxiously ignored him. “Ellen! Ready for work? Come on! I want you to read something I wrote last night… What’s the matter? Why do you look so… frantic?” Eric grabbed the poet’s arm.
“Don’t touch me, you!” screamed the poet.
“But Ellen,” Eric protested. Ellen. Ellen. Ellen. The name echoed in the poet’s brain.
“You’re going to be dead, you jerk. I’m going to kill you myself. Get off me, you freak. You don’t deserve to live!”
Eric smiled at the joke, but then saw true desperation, fear, and hatred in her face. Eric froze. Ellen killed them? What? That makes no sense… Eric immediately released the poet and walked away as quickly as possible, then burst into a sprint down Main Street. “You always were a tattle tale, Eric!” screamed the poet, as she darted away into hiding.