Hi Internet People,
For this week’s entry in the Poe Party Transmedia Exercise I present to you some ravens at a writing desk as well as a horrible homicide pun.
As the authors rushed toward the library, Balt and Phil flew through the door of the rookery to join them. While they had to tread carefully once they made it near the library, ravens are not as swift by talon as they are by wing, they managed to enter in time to see the body of Fyodor prostrate on the rug. So close to all the partygoers, Lenore in particular, they couldn’t utter a single croak. Balt gestured for Phil to follow him out into the hall as the humans began moving the Russian author out of the room. In an attempt to get out of the way the ravens found themselves in the shadowy doorway of Poe’s study. With the combined shove of both birds, the door swung open just enough to let them slip inside. Phil was the first to cry out in a crow of surprise.
“Fyodor is dead! Did you see him Balt?! Fyodor is dead!”
“Whoever did that must have had an ax to grind with the poor Russian.”
Phil’s beak dropped.
“Did you just, seriously Balt?”
“What? Is Oscar the only one allowed to make bad murder weapon jokes?”
With that comment Balt flew toward Poe’s desk, where one candle was still burning in a wax covered holder.
“Seriously, has Ed never heard of a fire hazard? All this paper, that candle could set this whole place up in a heartbeat. Hold on, is this his journal? He must have been writing in it before the party started. Want to give it a read birdbrain?”
“It’s his private journal Balt, do you really think we should?”
“He is an author Phil, I think that means anything is fair game as long as it’s written down.”
Balt puffed up his chest and perched himself near the open page, with a rough coughing squawk, he began to read the page in his best Poe voice.
Tonight is the party, which I feel is to be beset by sorrow and ill will. With Annabel Lee bringing this heinous man who seems to share my name, or at least a cartoonish and immature version of the elegant moniker of Edgar, the night will be tainted by this unwanted guest. I will make a fool of him tonight though, I have made him an ape for the murder mystery tonight. Annabel will find herself saddled with a simian of a man throughout the entire dinner. Perhaps this will sway her heart to someone of a much more educated mind. Lenore is insisting that I must help prepare the table. Perhaps the night will not be as woefully horrific as I fear, but I feel a pall around this drafty house.
Balt let out a low sigh as Phil whistled under his breathe.
“At least Ed didn’t have high hopes for the evening, right Balt?”
“I guess so, but wow, he really didn’t think tonight was going to go well at all.”
With that Balt lifted his wing and flapped just enough to blow out the flame beside him. While tucked away inside the dark den, the birds had yet to learn of the odd arrival of Agatha Christie and the death of George, or after that confession, Mary Ann.
Talk to ya tomorrow,