I spoke slowly into my cell phone. “No, ma’am. False alarm.
No need to send a squad car out.” I ended the call with a light tap on my cell.
I watched as the clearly deranged man read his bloody, gory work with a
pleasure bordering on glee. He’d escaped from somewhere, I was sure of it.
He wanted us to write poetry about blood on the moon and
glass skulls, but everyone assured me it was perfectly normal. The smiled
uneasy smiles and their eyes darted quickly back and forth whenever he
approached.
After the session, a former “student” approached me and said
if I met her later at the bar, she’d tell me everything. She never showed up, and
I never saw her again.
So, I guardedly finished the conference and… Oh, wait. I
totally saw that girl again the next year. That’s right. Huh.
Anyway. I learned
a lot that weekend and I’ve put as much of it into practice as possible. Sure,
there are open mic nights that I’m not allowed to go back to and publishers
that have put me on some sort of a watch list. But it has been worth it. Since
that conference, I’ve found a voice of my own. I’ve discovered that there are
really no boundaries when it comes to creativity. The line you shouldn’t cross?
It’s back there. We blew past it miles ago.
The Monster Watches
the Mad Scientist Shave

The straight razor touches his master’s face, he thinks This is it. One slip, one mistake and
sweet freedom in nigh. The very thought makes him giddy and he absently picks
at the scabs that have formed on his arm. He thinks of a bloody grin across
good doctor’s pencil-neck. The repetitive tic of the brush stirring the shaving
cream in the cup whips the monster into an inner frenzy that will only be
satiated by a crimson apostrophe across the mirror. Flayed flesh in thin lines,
like cold cuts fresh from the butcher in town.
One slip.

This time, for sure.


Be an instigator; support
the Fridge of the Damned poetry magnet kickstarter. http://tinyurl.com/b4zkr5m