2014 #233 (rediscovering the short-story-narrative stuff – practicing with halloween)

It didn’t obstruct the executioner’s joy
that he’d recently been a guest
on a special televised celebrity
hour; got to talk about the trade,
about impalement merits,
about the brand of earplugs
and when and when to use or not use
earplugs. “Sure when I was green
and hot – a green hotshot
if there can be such a combo,

yeah, the sadist fad was running full-bore
so yeah I got into drawing
and quartering; but horses
got pricey and more sadists
turned to automation, so

fortunately for me, the chainsaw
came along and that helped me achieve
a more stable stance in the profession,
if I can say it so….” and so on he’d gone
and he knew he’d been a smash.
So being on that cloud,
the executioner
expected the client-occupant
who finally opened the door
would recognize him, feel
a touch of honor swell
in his heart before the noose
encircled his throat, but there was no sign
of awe or even pedestrian
recognition, only the rudimentary

fear and the scent purest despair
proudly signs. This didn’t bode
well for a gentler

handling on the executioner’s part
and the old sadist embers
began to burn. Well it just so happened

this was the client-occupant’s
luckiest night; see, the presence
that handled the door to the study,
its slow silent closure
and its slow silent opening,
just happened to be a certain
academy shrink, who’d become
a genuine ghoul that day the meteors

rained, and who’d searched far and wide
for this executioner
who’d escaped the couch confessional

sessions where a breakthrough
had been anticipated.
So the shrink-made-ghoul couldn’t believe
his luck either, and really had no bone
to pick with the occupant-client
– at least not yet. The shrink-turned-ghoul
just needed a house.

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About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
This entry was posted in fiction, free verse, narrative?, poetry and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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