Whose Murder Is It Anyway?

‘Is the table all set?’
‘Are the candelabra lit?’
‘Have the guests arrived yet?’

‘Has the wine been served?’
‘Has the curtain been drawn?’
‘Are the guests sufficiently unnerved?

Tis’ the eve of story making,
At Woodley House, as is the norm.
Four blank minded souls do gather,
And brew up a wordy storm.

They call themselves a work in progress,
For their concocted tales never end.
In fact, most tales wane at the opening,
In their game of pretence.

They span through every mindset,
Comedy, drama or tragic times.
Though this time, they were in a mood,
To explore ghastly crimes.

‘All right, I have an opening,’
Said Evan Woodley with a grin,
‘It all occurs on a sultry night,
A night as dark as sin.’

‘A rather sultry day, is it not?’
Spoke old Miss Renee Glenn.
‘Oh, never mind,’ said Holly Woodley,
‘Pray, tell what happened then?’


‘On a sultry night, as dark as sin,
A man walked on this very path.
Unbeknownst to every soul,
The man hid vengeance in his heart.’

‘Oh, perhaps one of us did slay his pater,’
Gary Ulrick did remark,
‘Bad lot, but blood runs thick,
Thus the man, for murder, did disembark.’

‘Silent as Death, he stole inside,
His fiery vengeance, his lantern.’
Renee Glenn trembled as she spoke,
‘Is it just me or did ye lot, hear the doorknob turn?’

‘Quit the exaggeration,’ Evan Woodley uttered,
‘Well, now our man is hidden in the shadows,
Poised to kill, he aims his gun,
A single bullet ricochets, and shatters an artsy window.’

The sound of cracking glass did jar the tone,
Yet, Gary took the tale forward.
‘Having missed his first attempt,
Our man made to escape upwards,’

‘Where Holly Woodley’s ill-placed candelabrum,
Toppled upon the carpeted floor.
Engulfed in flames, there’s no escape,
The man now runs towards the door.’

‘Alas, in all his frenzy,’
Holly Woodley does narrate,
‘His sleeve catches the coat stand.
And he stumbles and falls full prostate.’

‘Do we catch him?’
Renee asks, ‘Or do we let the game play out?’
‘The flames have spread, his legs gave in,
Oh boy, does our man shout?’

‘Of course, he yells, but hear me out,
He entered a peaceful lair.
He tickled a sleeping dragon,
A sin, the beast won’t spare.’

‘So, whose murder is it, anyway?
Is it that of a failed killer?
Or does our man get his vengeance?
For hark, he strides up hither.’

And just like that, another plot,
Comes to an endless conclusion.
All that was found was a single corpse,
Charred, beyond all recognition.