Edgar Allan Poe Joins a Writers Group
By Beverly V. Head
“Edgar, we have decided to remove you from our writers group.”
The six people in the small basement room looked down at the papers on the cluttered table. They would have looked out the window if there had been windows in the room. No one wanted to look up yet and risk looking in Edgar’s face.
“May I ask why?” Edgar implored.
“You come to meetings drunk,” the group leader replied.
“But I look forward to the feedback about my stories.”
“When we offer suggestions, you get angry. At the last meeting, you threatened to kill all of us when Thomas mentioned that your stories are becoming more and more perverse.”
“Perverse?” What do you mean?”
“The narrators of your stories kill women and men and bury them in walls and under floors. Or the narrators get irrationally angry at cats and birds.”
“My stories have topics that are universal! They are not perverse!”
“You will never get your stories published. They are too strange. Nobody wants to read about people being buried in walls in catacombs, or stories about women being buried alive.”
“I disagree,” Edgar shrieked.
“Edgar, please stop shrieking. We cannot work with you anymore. You should find another writers group that shares your philosophy of composition. I believe there is an opening in The Midnight Dreary group. I can talk to the leader Stephen about letting you join them.”
Edgar stood and looked at each member of the group. He seemed to be pondering a response, but after several minutes of staring he left.
“That was creepy. Did you see that smile?”
“It sounded like he was muttering something about doors or moors.”
“What was that in his pocket? Thomas asked. “I didn’t like the way he kept his hands in his pockets.”
“It looked like a trowel,” Roderick said.
“Well, he’s gone, so let’s move on to the next story up for review. It will be nice to critique some normal stories.”
“Wait!” Annabel said. “Do you hear that? It sounds like tapping.”
“Tapping?”
“Yes! It sounds like tapping at the door. Do you think that Edgar wants to come back in?”
“I’ll check,” Thomas said. “If he is back, I’m going to call security.”
“It’s after ten o’clock. Security leaves at nine on Fridays.”
Thomas tried to open the door. “It’s locked.”
“Locked!” one of the women cried.
“Do you think that Edgar is tapping on the door with that thing that he had in his pocket? Do you think he is trying to scare us? Roderick, what did you say that thing was? What is it used for?”
Roderick looked sick. “A trowel is used to spread mortar.”
“Isn’t mortar used to brick up walls?’
“Oh no!” Virginia said. “I know what he was muttering when he left!”
“What?” Roderick asked.
“Nevermore!” she cried.
As the tapping at the door grew louder, the writers began to shriek.
- - -
After 38 years of college teaching, Beverly V. Head has turned in her keys and left the building. Her book of poetry, Walking North, published by Michigan State University Press as part of the Lotus Poetry Series, is the second winner of the Naomi Long Madgett Poetry Award.
By Beverly V. Head
“Edgar, we have decided to remove you from our writers group.”
The six people in the small basement room looked down at the papers on the cluttered table. They would have looked out the window if there had been windows in the room. No one wanted to look up yet and risk looking in Edgar’s face.
“May I ask why?” Edgar implored.
“You come to meetings drunk,” the group leader replied.
“But I look forward to the feedback about my stories.”
“When we offer suggestions, you get angry. At the last meeting, you threatened to kill all of us when Thomas mentioned that your stories are becoming more and more perverse.”
“Perverse?” What do you mean?”
“The narrators of your stories kill women and men and bury them in walls and under floors. Or the narrators get irrationally angry at cats and birds.”
“My stories have topics that are universal! They are not perverse!”
“You will never get your stories published. They are too strange. Nobody wants to read about people being buried in walls in catacombs, or stories about women being buried alive.”
“I disagree,” Edgar shrieked.
“Edgar, please stop shrieking. We cannot work with you anymore. You should find another writers group that shares your philosophy of composition. I believe there is an opening in The Midnight Dreary group. I can talk to the leader Stephen about letting you join them.”
Edgar stood and looked at each member of the group. He seemed to be pondering a response, but after several minutes of staring he left.
“That was creepy. Did you see that smile?”
“It sounded like he was muttering something about doors or moors.”
“What was that in his pocket? Thomas asked. “I didn’t like the way he kept his hands in his pockets.”
“It looked like a trowel,” Roderick said.
“Well, he’s gone, so let’s move on to the next story up for review. It will be nice to critique some normal stories.”
“Wait!” Annabel said. “Do you hear that? It sounds like tapping.”
“Tapping?”
“Yes! It sounds like tapping at the door. Do you think that Edgar wants to come back in?”
“I’ll check,” Thomas said. “If he is back, I’m going to call security.”
“It’s after ten o’clock. Security leaves at nine on Fridays.”
Thomas tried to open the door. “It’s locked.”
“Locked!” one of the women cried.
“Do you think that Edgar is tapping on the door with that thing that he had in his pocket? Do you think he is trying to scare us? Roderick, what did you say that thing was? What is it used for?”
Roderick looked sick. “A trowel is used to spread mortar.”
“Isn’t mortar used to brick up walls?’
“Oh no!” Virginia said. “I know what he was muttering when he left!”
“What?” Roderick asked.
“Nevermore!” she cried.
As the tapping at the door grew louder, the writers began to shriek.
- - -
After 38 years of college teaching, Beverly V. Head has turned in her keys and left the building. Her book of poetry, Walking North, published by Michigan State University Press as part of the Lotus Poetry Series, is the second winner of the Naomi Long Madgett Poetry Award.
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