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The JOURNALIST'S LAST STORY

A slice of darkness scarred his face
She thought a knife gleamed in his hand
She stumble-climbed at double pace--
Imagined warmth in family-land.

The key slid in –the door-- unlatched
She kicked the door behind her back--
Her hearing keen, dead silence matched--
She had avoided this attack.

Shed her purse--threw down her books ,
Tossed off her coat--placed on her gown
Flicked on computer, racing mind....
Poured a whiskey and sat down.

Why initiate this no-win game?
Why had she dared face deadly Fate--
Enticed this man with killing fame
Challenged this stalker to her gate?

With no  hope of love set right
She ‘d lost all comfort and self worth----
But still confident of her pen to write--
This vicious villain to unearth.

Rich men, poor men----always bright--
Predators who stalked their prey--
The clever'st bastards never caught
If random victims fell each day.

Enticed-- this killer nibbles bait
Read on --he was an” easy catch”
Enraged --he read himself described
A common killer –easy match

Her fingers flowed, new story done--
Hit SEND to rush it to her boss--
This would be the series last--
Her masterpiece-- at deadly cost.

The writer relished her last drink--
The Killer conquered ...lock.... by lock....
She smelled his hatred born in ink--
As her death struck—on ticked the clock.


Victoria Anderson-Throop   (rewrite from a 2012 piece)

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