30/30

24/30

There’s this game going around right now, where people post a sentence from something they’re reading, followed with “And then the murders began.” One of my mentors was posting it on grad student statuses on Facebook, as we posted about dissertation edits. So naturally, I wanted to try to fit it in a poem. I think I’ll write two versions… one humorous and one not so much. I’m in a bit of an emotional and tumultuous place right now, so I suspect this will be the less-than-humorous version, though I’m not sure yet, as it isn’t written.*
*this is the more humorous one… the other one will happen. Maybe not as part of the 30/30.

She wrote.
Day and night with a number two pencil
filling pages and pages of blue-lined
college rule notebook paper and
filling three-ring binders.

Passion consumed her
and her wrist cramped and
a blister turned to permanent
callous on her finger where
the pencil rested.

And that’s when the murders began.
Characters so lovingly crafted
detailed in mannerism
clothing choice
even what kind of food they like.

Hopes and dreams and struggles to achieve them.
Falling in love and living through heartbreak.

Characters beloved by readers in the first
two, three, even four novels.
And so that is when the murders must begin.

What kind of writer leaves the most beloved
alive for the audience to love?
What kind of writer lets people have
what they want?
Dobby and Hedwig–yup, let’s kill them.
They did nothing wrong in any book
so rip out the hearts of your readers
by plunging the knife deeply
by impaling the leaf on the wind
just after he saved the day with outrageous
flying skill.

Let’s kill Jenny and watch Giles’ heart break
and then later watch Buffy kill the love of her life
and later cry for her mother
because Joss Whedon, you’re a right bastard
to make us love and lose like that.

And I don’t even know how you
GoT fans and Walking Dead diehards
keep going week after week
when it seems like the show runners
just decide to tack
“and then the murders began”
at the end of every scene.

Yes, our favorite writers
seem to be sadists
but then we must be masochists
because we keep coming back
even when the murders begin.

 

 

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