So far, I'm up to Part 3. Working on 4.
Part 1 – In Fear of Flesh
Murphy first feared meat at the age of five.
His mother was tossing rashers into a pan –
Pink strips of flesh, that hissed aloud
While their skins shriveled and bled grease.
The boy sat on the counter, said not a word,
Until, with a quiet groan, rocked to the floor.
On his plate, the dried corpses grew cold.
From that day on, Murphy cringed at meat.
School lunches only sharpened his fear:
Sausages like bloated, blotchy worms;
Grayish slabs of minced meat, smearing
Shiny grease upon the slate blue trays;
Chicken bones ripped clean by his peers.
With each new meat, Murphy saw the pan,
And the shriveling skin, and the flesh crawling
Down his throat – and he’d shiver all over.
So he brought his lunches from home.
Yet bullies weren’t blind to Murphy’s cringe.
One morning he walked alone in the hall,
Slipping past the larger kids, when a force
Slammed his side, and bashed his nose into
The concrete wall; hands groped in his bag,
Voices sniggered over the regular din.
Then, with a single pull, Murphy flew from the
Wall onto his back. Feet in patent leathers
Crushed the tails of his uniform jacket
As they fled down the hall. The child sat up
And checked his bag. His lunch was lost.
At the long tables, the ugly villains all
Crowded ‘round his seat, and waved forkfuls
Of greasy gammon chunks before him.
Murphy paled like a ghost as they laughed.
That week, they tormented the boy;
He could not fight, and did not dare.
But next Monday, they found nothing to steal.
Murphy’s appetite was ruined.
Even at home, he rolled peas on his plate,
And nibbled his pudding as a pigeon would.
His tiny body dwindled more; his cheekbones,
High-set, protruded sharply. Even the sweets
His mother baked could not sate his want;
For every tart he’d leave, she’d pray,
And beg God to drive his fears away.
---
Part 2 - In Search of Fear (A Portfolio)
“Monster Eats a Cat.”
Sketch, pencil. Ash Kent.
The margins of a grammar book.
A ragged work, with a beast like a
Savage hedgehog, the cat only
An earthworm in its teeth.
Mixed reviews from peers –
“Funny”, “Cute”, “Dumb”.
Transferred to a trash bin.
“Lost in the Woods.”
Short story. Ash Kent.
Single page, notebook paper.
Five children wander into a forest
And are devoured by demons.
Feeding scenes are described at length.
Negative reviews from sole critic, Mrs. Tully –
“excessive violence”, “faulty grammar”.
Returned with low marks.
“The Rabbit Teacher.”
Portrait, chalk. Ash Kent.
Mrs. Tully’s chalkboard.
A fat rabbit in a pencil skirt
Lies prostrate on the ground;
A crude ruler protrudes from her breast.
Strong positive reviews from most critics –
Hysterical laughter, pounding of desks -
Except for one Mrs. Tully.
No longer on display.
“Song of Hate.”
Lyric poem set to vocals. Ash Kent.
Composed in the principle’s office.
Three verses, of inconsistent length.
Describes the bloody murders
Of students, teachers, and rabbits,
Conducted with daggers, pistols, and flame.
Delivered in a mumble
To an audience of empty chairs.
Currently not reviewed.
“Untitled.”
Sketch, pen with blue ink. Ash Kent.
Napkin at lunch table.
A sausage link with thin arms
Screams in a speech bubble
While bleeding grease in a pan.
Collaborative effort.
“I like it, mate,” the artist said,
And lifted his pen. “You’re more
Morbid than me, you know that?”
Murphy, still wide-eyed and pale,
Smiled for once and shrugged.
“I wish I weren’t, really,” he said.
“I scare myself too much.”
Part 3 - Three Victims
They sit in a castle at lunch time.
The pale girl with limp blonde hair
Rests before them on slate grey tiles
While ink-blot bats glide over the scene.
Dave pinches the corner of the page.
Kev mouths the words at the top.
A silhouette stretches in a navy void –
Velvet wings hang on extending arms
And matted fur flattens into a dark suit.
Black shoes alight on the tiles.
Green peas sit untouched in their trays.
Dave stabs the greasy, grey beef
In his meat pie and savors
The bite.
“OK, flip it.”
Cherry eyes stare from a napkin-white face.
In a silken voice he praises the prostrate girl.
Gloved hands gather up her torso
And lift the porcelain head.
Danny sits down with his tray
And admires the yellowy comic.
He uncrumples a smooth paper
From his pocket –
“What’s that, Danny boy?”
The sausage screams as a silvery fork
Pierces its ashen skin, spilling
Greasy blood into a pan.
(The girl and the vampire vanish from sight.)
“Some cartoon Murphy thought up.
He’s mental, but I like him.”
Dave and Kev know Murphy by sight -
The lanky kid always late to class
With the occasional nose bleed –
But nothing else. Danny describes
His curious fear, and unfolds his plan –
“I’ll make him eat, by God, in any way I can.”
