The Journalist's Last Story

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)