Friday, October 25, 2013

A Man Came to Morley

Most often a writing prompt is no more complicated than a single word or few word phrase; "write 100 words using 'cadaver", or "pen a short story on "melted wax" for instance. But now and then a prompt contains many words which writers can pick and choose from. I tend to overachieve when writing to prompts; mostly as a personal challenge, to see if my belief in my ability is simply braggadocio or truth.

This particular prompt was written as such;
musemuggers Prompt #64-option 3 Use as many words as you can. "accelerate" "interpret" "accomplish" "delegate" "unify" "initiate" "select" "solve" "instead of laughing" "during winter" "in the beginning" "in the sky" "since last week" "before the storm" "impolite" "blunt" "spooky" "innocent" "ornate" "before it began" "while the music played" "a trumpet" "a train station" "a hiker" "a flute" "a basement" "a magician" "a drill" "a jungle" "a bachelor" "a garden" "a genius"

Of course, I had to use them all as that's my goofy way. In the end, I had an ode to Halloween and to one of my favorite books, Something Wicked This Way Comes.

A Man Came To Morley

A man came to Morley one autumnal solstice, his hand wet with poultice, his wound freshly patched.
He looked as if dogs had attacked his right digits. (unless he sleep fidgets and cats came and scratched)
The clouds in the sky bubbled up like fried bacon, the north wind was wakin’, it looked like a pour;
The man pointed skyward before the storm started, and damn! but it parted! Or so says his lore.

He left the train station well dressed but ill mannered, his attitude bannered on airs of contempt.
He rented the home of the widow, B. Neville; a building disheveled, its garden unkempt.
While in the beginning we’d paid him no heed, thought him just a bad seed, mildly crass, impolite;
During winter he changed, now less kooky than spooky, and prone (I’d interpret) to relish the night.

We thought him a bachelor too long in the jungle, his brain slightly fungal, his screws all but loose.
He called himself “Herbert”, but we could use “Harry”; he said at the dairy when self introduced.
Instead of our laughing we took him as solemn, a bit of a Gollum, obsessive and dark.
We gossiped among us, “he could be a junky, or hiding a monkey, or just on a lark.”

But then we encountered some disappeared neighbors, the Smith’s and the Grayber’s; no clue where they’d gone!
And something seemed wrong; their ornate homes were tidy, as if they were flighty and simply moved on.
The coppers were mystified, lost and befuddled, their evidence muddled, their theories quite bleak.
The only connection between them was jogging. (and internet blogging, but not since last week)

Well, not to be blunt but I knew from the offing; those doubters now scoffing will pay with thier lives.
As I had a notion there’s evil around us,  a blackness surrounds us since Harry’s arrived.
I’d unify townsfolk if I were respected, not too ill connected to gather a crowd
Yet then could I say it? “Our friend is a vampire! At night keep a campfire and pray there aloud!”

A genius perhaps might have found a solution, a God’s retribution, a stake for its chest;
but I’m just an acolyte, Friar Initiate; no power to wish it within my behest.
So I took it to him, my earnest conclusion, about his collusion with devils and fangs.
He laughed at my off’ring, “A petulant nonsense, yet charmed by your reference; A lovely harangue!”

He told me he’d recently lost his real work as a lowly night clerk and musician by day.
To prove it he pulled out a trumpet and flute; said he’d whistle and toot if his songs would hold sway.
I nodded, and thought while the music played on, how could I be so wrong; was his story the truth?
My instinct is solid, this man was suspicious, perhaps more malicious than long in the tooth.

When done with his playing he led me to stairs, he seemed covered in hairs; I was too tired to think.
We went to his cellar were he’d show me magic, “Amazing yet tragic, watch closely! Don’t blink!”
And there he convulsed into something more canine, a wolf in the moonshine that poured through the glass
I stared, never blinked; I was driven quite mad, just the thought was so sad that my life was to pass.

He said he’d accomplished select dark illusion: magician’s confusion, a puzzle unsolved.
He’d feasted on innocent hikers at first, then our bikers were cursed once his taste had evolved.
He’d claim he had sent to another dimension the people I mentioned, the runners and such;
Yet surely he’d eaten them there in his basement, that wall near the casement where daylight can’t touch.

My life will accelerate, so he proclaimed; (as he clawed, chewed and maimed like a robotic drill)
“And now sir I delegate you as my henchman, my wolven back benchman, my comrade in kill!”
Well,  Before it began I was angry and quiet, a man on a diet with no taste for blood
but now that I’ve hunted I’ve learned that it’s tasty; that human is pasty.... but great with a Bud.

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