SHORTER THAN SHORT

by John M. Floyd

Since you’re reading this blog, you are probably (as I am) a fan of short crime fiction.

But what if, now and then, you want something even more bite-sized than a short story? Nibble-sized, maybe.

Well, there’s always the short-short story, of course, and even that vague little subcategory called “flash fiction” — but there’s also something else, something that’s neither fiction nor nonfiction but still can be a “story” of sorts, and might even have a message hidden someplace.

I’m speaking of poetry — though not the contemporary kind. These poems are rhymed, metered, crime- or deception-based, and often lighthearted (my favorites). They’re what the genre magazines call “mystery poems.” Mine are, alas, never life-changing or earth-shaking, but they’re great fun to write. And (I hope) to read.

Anyhow, as a followup to my recent column on light verse, and with sincere apologies to all serious, real poets out there, I’d like to offer up ten of my mystery/crime poems. I first published these in markets like Murderous Intent Mystery Magazine, The Mystery Review, EQMM, and Mystery Time.

(BOOK DOCTOR’S WARNING: If you should experience nausea or drowsiness during the following, discontinue reading and immediately seek out short stories by Jack Ritchie, Lawrence Block, or Ed Hoch.)

NEVER TOO LATE

“You’re Al Capone?”
He said: “That’s right.”
“You’re dead, I thought.”
He said: “Not quite.”
“Then you must be –”
“I’m 103.”
“So you’re retired?”
“That’s not for me.”
“But how do you –”
“Get by?” he said.
He pulled a gun.
“Hands on your head.”

CAN YOU SPELL “ESCAPE”?

On the eve of Boone’s hanging, Sue Price
Hid a nail-file in his bowl of rice;
No great genius, Boone
Hanged the next day at noon,
But his fingernails looked rather nice.

A WIFE IN THE COUNTRY

Turk McGee sipped his tea and contentedly sighed
As he lounged on the porch and observed his young bride;
She was working the fields, as she’d done every day
Since her father arranged for her marriage last May,
But what Dad hadn’t known (and McGee hadn’t said)
Was that Turk thought all girls became slaves when they wed.
Just today, for example, she’d plowed until three,
Stopping only two times to pour Turk some iced tea;
But at last she was done, and looked quite peaceful now
As she unhitched the mule and put up the old plow.
When she walked to the porch, McGee’d finished his glass
And was watching the mule as it rolled in the grass;
“I been wonderin’,” he said, “how a woman abides
A dumb beast that’s so mean and so lazy, besides.”
“I been wonderin’ that, too,” she remarked to old Turk,
And then sat down to wait for the poison to work.

PURPA TRAITOR

When Purpa’s flights were smuggling grapes,
Its king escaped in vain;
The Purpals found His Majesty
Aboard a fruited plane.

THE AGGRESSIVE SIDE OF MRS. HYDE

Seedy lawyer Tom Hyde’s pretty wife testified
That he’d died from the cyanide she had supplied;
But Judge Clyde, who had known Mr. Hyde and his bride,
Said: “I find Thomas Hyde’s homicide justified.”

DISORGANIZED CRIME

A city clerk named Nathan Mize
(Quite well-connected, mafiawise),
Was made aware that Mayor Blair
Was far too honest, true, and fair.

So when John Blair denied the mob
The contracts on a building job,
Young Nate was offered, via phone,
A little contract of his own.

As clerk, Nate checked the work schedule
The crew would use to build the school,
Then bought a gun, and underscored
The date foundations would be poured.

John Blair was killed the prior night
And dragged to the construction site;
Nate buried him inside the pit,
Which would be filled, in just a bit.

But typically (unknown to Nate),
The city crews were running late:
Today they wouldn’t pour concrete —
Instead they’d dig a few more feet.

They found the body, called it in,
The cops arrived with thirty men;
Ballistics, prints, and DNA
Led them to Nathan right away.

He later, in his cell, had time
To analyze his “perfect crime.”
I shouldn’t have tried, he realized,
With schedules governmentalized.

A BORN LEADER

I think my ex-wife,
Who’s taught school all her life,
Should have been a policeman instead:
She’s up late at night,
All her clothes are too tight,
And she likes to hit folks on the head.

THE CHALLENGE

The Reverend Jones, who was feisty and small,
Walked into the fancy new billiard hall;
For hours he watched all the sinners firsthand,
Then said: “I can see that I must make a stand.”
His eyes were agleam as he hurried away,
Then came back that night after whittling all day;
His stand, praise the Lord, was a stool made of oak —
Without it, his height interfered with his stroke.

HIDDEN TALENTS

Having always had trouble with rhyming,
Lefty wrote, as his death-knell was chiming:
“Tell old Trish my last wish
Is a dish of her fish,”
Then observed: “What unfortunate timing.”

REFLECTIONS

The eyes in the face that I shave every day
Aren’t as peaceful as they used to be;
They look eerie and hateful (and wild, in a way)
As they stare, laser-like, back at me.

Every morning I see that the man in that face
Might be losing control of his mind;
If he could find a way to get free of this place
He might go, and leave his wife behind.

But most of these things really don’t worry me,
I just try to think good thoughts instead;
The face that I shave is my husband’s, you see —
I keep him tied up in the shed.