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By way of thank you.

Storytelling in Verse: A Study in Pink is closed and I had to thank everyone for their participation.
It was not only the weirdest workshop I've ever been involved in, it was also one of the most enthusiastic.

In closing this I want to quote Raj (he's given me permission).

Wesley, Rula & Barbara,

Under Wesley's guidance and leadership and with due support and assistance of Rula & Barbara, the WS has come to fruition, which was innovative conceptually, creative and extremely challenging given the difficulty in coordinating with the unfolding myth with which each participant had to interface their portion in a sequential order and keep the story winding, certainly an achievement big time.

All other participants,

In spite of the complexities summarized above, your wholehearted participation is really praise worthy. I/m sure you have set an example of what a team effort can achieve in spite of the fact that each participant is unique in his or her way in terms of individual skills, creativity, power of imagination, etc. and yet could piece together a mysterious story, performing various roleswhile keeping the readers on the edge..

Regards...raj

I could not have said thank you so elegantly. Thank you Raj.

Comments

I meant what i expressed wholeheartedly. I was held in awe by the manner in which the WS harnessed the combined resourcefulness of the participants. Their enthusiasm was palpable as was their excitement. It would not be an over statement to say that this was symbolic of the "community" spirit of Neopoets. Even though I wasn't a participant, it makes me feel good to be part of this community.

Kudos to all who made this possible,

raj (sublime_ocean)

It was indeed a very strange adventure (one I won't lightly try again), I agree that one of the chief characteristics that sort of caught me off guard, not expecting, was the soap opera like involvement throughout. Everyone around the water cooler waiting for the next installment (and hoping someone would explain what the Hell was actually going on).
Thank you for being involved. I think having open workshops allows other poets to watch, hopefully learn (or at the least have something to think about) and consider joining or even running a workshop.
By the way, what's your time schedule like?

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

Learn how, teach others.
The NeoPoet Mentor Program
http://www.neopoet.com/mentor/about

author comment

Nothing of that enthusiasm would have had happened if not backed by a distinguished workshop leader and mentor like yourself.
Thank you sir for being here and for giving the chance for everyone to learn something new.

❤❤❤❤❤❤

Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words
........Robert Frost☺

Follow me
www.instgram.com/rularules1

but this was by far the one workshop I not only had the most fun in but learned the most from. It was really nice to see everyone get creative, let go of some of the rigidness and use their imaginations. I thought everyone did a great job despite our personal lives getting in the way at times. I look forward to doing this again.

Keep Writing,
Carrie

"Quoth said the Raven, NEVERMORE"

You have had the courage to involve a free verser poet in me
in such an intellectual gathering
as raj has so brilliantly summed it .
It has given me the nerve to participate in Stan's next rally
without your holding a non entity's hand
it would never have been possible
to delve in rivers yet to come...
I dare to swim alongside with great mentors like you and Jess and I can't forget Ian....
he was a pillar of strength for me and he knows it ...to make me brave through epicurial ...
though a non swimmer thank you Sir...
I have poemised the poems you wanted me to ....
Kindly do scan... when you regain your breath

A word of affection for you.::::::

''Across the path of a rolling stone
come many more smaller ones.. .
tis left for the bigger one
to crush them
or take them along
and
let them also know
that to the one
like you
they all belong.....

so only success will end
this show! .

Thank you.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

Learn how, teach others.
The NeoPoet Mentor Program
http://www.neopoet.com/mentor/about

author comment

A collection of short pieces to make a story all suggestions for corrections will be very acceptable, Yours Ian.T

“A Study in Pink”
A collective story in poetry
Victoria is Queen in London Town.
The Empress rules it all with velvet hands.
Tis eighteen eighty eight, the city’s brown
with coal and cholera that vex the land.
But down on Fleet Street starts a tale of woe.
Her Highness will learn nothing ‘til too late.
For Secretary Fitzroy’s caught a blow
delivered of a monster’s razor hate.
One might say he has gone and lost his head.
The constabulary, they have lost it too,
but ne’er the less they say that he is dead
and now they look about to find a clue.
While Fitzroy on the cobblestone won’t care.
He’s lost his mind and therefore cannot think.
The rain pours down; it’s playing truth or dare
and Fitzroy’s blood is washing sickly pink.

It's late, yet none could fall asleep
while Mog the monsters free somewhere.
Mystery wraps, the demons weep
and rain won't wash what has to scare.
No footprints, or bullets are found
it's Mog for sure, again they face.
The bobbies desperate, they are drowned,
confusion seems would close this case.
Around the corner lives poverty
but only coal is there to feed.
Someone has to kill the enemy
before it grows up fast with greed.
So many Mog’s behind now stand
emotions die, and so the brains.
They all are starving to clean the land
no matter if considered insane.
Anabel Lee,
She chose her name carefully.
Cut her hair, painted her face
the never ending battle with identity.
Arriving in London, one dreary morning
bareback and alone, she landed.
Her un-ladylike appearance subject to scorn.
Another chapter in her story was born.
She began serving beer at the Blue Boy Tavern.
Befriending an outcast, then an unknown stranger.
Friendships that would lead to nothing but danger.
Thirty years old and never been wed
caused the town gossips to turn their head.
Oh well, let them say what had to be said.
Anabel didn't give a damn, ignorance was bliss.
For now her secret, would stay well hid.
The owner of the Grand Royale Hotel was fuming
His business rival, John Creel, has been spreading rumours
sending his worried customers packing and leaving,
fearing the lies about a non-existing curse.
Only a few refused to believe the nonsense remained.
Roy Mackwill was grateful but if this continues
his hotel business's reputation will be flushed into the drain
unless he decided quickly what to do
He cannot just leave it to the Scotland Yard detectives.
None of their assurances could ease his troubled heart
thus he advertised in the local paper, offering incentives
to anyone who could help solve the case in all haste
knowing fully well that his rival will do his best
to see him fail and his livelihood ruined
but he was ready to face this test
and he was sure he could win
Detective Urilla Maure learns it's Alabaster Fitzroy whom was struck down
behind Grand Royale Hotel. Somehow he lost his head.
The police have yet to find it or learn what happened.
John Creel, an antagonist, wishes not for the crime to be solve.
He's been spreading ghost rumours again.
Anabel Sumner has a secret Urilla thinks
is connected to the murder.
Anabel has had more lovers go missing than Urilla can count.
But there's no evidence to prove she committed any crimes.
Urilla calls Guy French to work with her on the case.
He has twenty five years of detective work under his belt.
She believes his expertise will serve her well with this murder—horror mystery.
Arnold Winter is the most likely suspect. He's had beef with Fitzroy
over a spilled drink at the Blue Boy Tavern. Some say they heard him threaten Fitzroy life.
Urilla found Guy French tinkering with his motorcycle where he often is.
He's been on the scene the night before gathering evidence.
He was about to call Urilla for her to be his partner.
Detective French
Detecting suspects and divining truth
is what Guy has done since his youth
making sense of all the facts
figuring out most murderous acts
the latest test of his detecting skill
is a most disturbing kind of kill
A headless body has been found
lying on the blood-soaked ground
No head is found on the street named Fleet
No clues to make the mystery neat
A. Fitzroy behind the 'Grand'
struck down and out by unknown hand
Who can say what any have seen?
Is there witness? There may have been!
Detective French knows that he must walk
the street is usually, where there is talk

Mog floats the night, mist filled and dead
savoring “Jack's” last fulsome taste
seeking someone to fill Jack's stead.
Mog drifts slowly, there is no haste.
Nearby it hears a scream and gurgle
decides to waft toward the scene
(did someone die in midst of burgle?)
The "taste” of fear is colored green.
By the time I get to the fear's source
the well of rage is fleeing fast
and a crowd is gathering, of course.
Diverse emotions now are cast.
There are five or six hosts here
a pool of blood steaming and slick
All emotions not just fear
which one to pick, which one to pick?

Creel here

I found Winter in a Putney bar, a limping young man with a nasty scar
A swarthy tone from many a race, a killer by the look of his face
He went by the name of Arnold Winter a knife man so I was told
I told him of Mackwill, he mouthed a curse and said leave it to me.
It cost me a guinea or two, but it’s worth it to see him seen to.
His name smeared over the telegraphs page, loved to see his rage
I notice in the financial times column, that his hotel is now bottom.
I paid him to cause a to-do, he said that he would see it through.

Damn that man I didn’t realize the trouble he’d cause
A man with his head severed, and many people with fears
I hurried to the place we met to see what was going on.
He said “Sorry Guv I went there but I was much too late”
A murder out back, the peelers were there, so I just turned away
I have spent your money he said, there was already one man dead
I think that a girl saw me loitering there, I shall hide don’t fear.
He smiled as he dribbled his swill, I left to cause Mackwill more ill.
Just a recollection

I am Milford Lowe
The richest guy around, next to Harrods, with a bushy moustache,
Un-mistakenly American. settled in England
A cigar from the colonies and a rose Locally grown. I adorn.
Love to show off my pot belly, as is the modern trend.
I have a body guard standing by in the crowd, who’d be like the bouncer in a bar downtown, where nudes dance.
I was making love to a new date, a beautiful young bubbling belle, when I saw what I did from the corner of my eye. I can't disclose it, as my face was dug deep in her boobs.
Well Sir how would such a character do for you.
Fitzroy's body lay lifeless, red blood ran pink in the rain.
Well you guys hold your horses
As I, Milford Lowe settle my cigar.
You can call me Millie, twill be okay
Setting my eyes on ma lady's bosom
Yeah I saw everything.
Hold on hold on, don't be impatient
Let me enjoy a puff, then I'll tell you everything
now hear me, secretly and keep it to yourself only.
Fitzroy's body lay lifeless, red blood ran pink in the rain.
Without a head! Ah!!! Those guys in a coach threw a body out
There without a head, Fizzes’ body, who was so dead.
The one you all are running about is no amateur,
I saw everything from behind the Fleet Street trees
you wanna some proof? Yah I know your ilk
I got my bouncer chasing, here have a look at this blade.
This one who, was kidnapped ‘twas Fitzroy, just think damn it!

Meanwhile at Mackwill’s Hotel
Mackwill paces rapidly about his cold boudoir.
He’s found a thing tucked deep inside his oak and steel armoire.
How it got there he can’t guess spite knowing what it is.
Now he has a problem more pronounced than just his biz.
‘Her thoughts race absorbing facts found near the crime scene.’
“Guy, I want the girl, the barmaid seen, you know of whom I speak.
She saw a thing I want to know, and know before she leaks
the secrets to the press and all, but here’s the other pain:
the trail of blood in the hotel come in from out the rain”
“Where did it lead?” Guy queries her. “Where did the blood trail lead?”
“It dried away inside the joint, just past ‘The Grill and Mead’.”
“Then we must search the Hotel grounds ‘til we find the blood again.
The carpets will be wet you see. The steps in from the rain”.
And Mackwill stares upon the thing not knowing how it came.
He can’t recall a single thing from last night’s gory maim.
Now what do? How can he tell his all too fearful wife?
He hides his eyes and looks, not on the bloodied murder knife.
"Bring on all the suspects now and haste,
ordered Maure, we have no much time to waste."
" We've already lost some valid clues, and
I've got reports 'bout a wife's abuse!!"
Now Mackwill couldn't find his wife, his fears began to grow,
and thought she could give his business-life a blow.
"If cops find out what's going in the bed
they sure would charge me of Fitzroy's head."
"I suspected the relation of
Mackwill and Fitz, and that was enough
to give Mac a reason to end his life."
Anabel said it all, she described a knife,
"I saw it in his pocket, last night at the bar"
Yet I never thought it'll go that far."
“Here, Here,” thought Maure "someone's lying
and is that why Mac's wife is seen there crying?"
Closing time at the tavern, Guy French is about.
Questioning Anabel Lee, she saw something, no doubt.
"How do you know Fitzroy," He thundered, as she cleaned up the bar.
Rolling her eyes, Anabel smiled. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
Losing his patience, Guy took a deep breath.
"You're new here, I checked you out. Funny thing is, no one knows what you're about."
Anabel shrugged. "So that makes me a killer?
“Mystery doesn't give you a reason."
"Someone said that you saw the knife.
Were you there when Fitzroy lost his life?"
"You're a detective, my dear French, why bother asking?
You've already established reasonable doubt."
Shaking his head, Guy pulled out the stops.
"Your abstinence leaves me no choice. I have to call you out."
"Call me what?" Anabel sneered as she shut off the lights.
"Go home, Detective. It's been a long night."
"What happened in your home town, Anabel Lee? Why did you leave so fast? You can't outrun the past!"
Anabel stepped in front of Guy, standing chest to chest.
"I had drinks with Fitzroy before he breathed his last."
"Now we're getting somewhere." Guy said with a grin.
"Did something go wrong?"
She shook her head as Guy continued. "Was he more than just a friend?"
"That's impossible. I don't go that route.
If you really must know, my name used to be Jim."
Guy French narrowed his eyes
while Anabel stared back at him
"Tell me what happened that night."
She snorted and said nothing.
"Why aren't you answering me?"
" I prefer to stay alive, Detective."
The truth will be the death of me.
You know nothing about the forces at play."
Guy French felt as if they were being watched.
He feigned a series of coughing
as he stole a glance at the window.
He caught sight of the man in the shadows
and ran out of the bar shouting.
The panicked man started running
while Guy French gave chase
Stop that man!" he cried out but none came to his aid.

After Guy French talked with Anabel
she revealed a clue, not mentioned.
Mackwill's behaviour started me wondering more about the Mog
and Guy French's man chased, he said, resembled Fritzroy.
The Mog rumours made me wonder its existence
because Mackwill still has no memory of that rainy night
with murder weapon in his pocket.
I talked to Mackwill's wife and his secret came to light when she left their home.
She found Fitzroy’s favourite gum, Tutti-Frutti in his pocket.
Annabel the unknown witness saw it all.
When she asked Jim who caught those two in an intimate moment before they took the headless body.
Behind Grosvenor Hotel a stench in the air.
John Creel's customer found beheaded.
It was thought Mackwill, in a zombie state, took man's head, leaving his body.
Anabel left in fear as Fitzroy waited to see his transgender
Anabel, left the scene undetected.
What horror was this, that chased him so?
Nothing he could see
Did he really want to know?
“What is after me?”
Stay quiet now, use no lights
Locked doors and keeping still
Trembling now in the darkest night
staying sane by force of will
Black his thoughts, of deep despair
He knows not where to turn
Evil stalks; follows everywhere
Red eyes flame and burn
Fearing for his very life
He hides in darkened room
Wishing for, more than a knife
Fitzy waiting for his doom
Drifting toward the murder scene
I sense a hot bar of emotions there
but one host has already left the scene
yet tastes are teeming everywhere.
But one person is two it seems
and thus has a more enticing flavour
a divided host with ragged seams
this is the one which I will favour
So I dive into his mind
and find his name is Annabel.
My eyes just can't stop watching the body
then they blur with fright and pain
and my true self is shoved aside
I feel that I have gone insane.
Some daemon is now in control
it makes me smile an evil smile
then sets me running after another
I catch up in less than a half mile.
Ask Fitzroy he has had a body left behind, that in stature resembles his,
While he and Mackwill's wife are away to have a damn good time,
The body may have been supplied by me J Creel to disgrace the hotel.
But I was a little late as someone was there before me.
I told him he was finished in this city.
Thank you Mog, how many of you thought he wasn't real
“Mog” or one of them is short for Morgan
A man of the night who will do anything without question lol,
He has an identical twin and they are both evil.
I Creel relates
A sultry character at the Inn, who didn’t give his name
Asked me if he could join in with my hating game
I told him what I knew so far, of my hate for Mackwill
He smiled at me and said there are a few things to do
His friend Fitzroy wanted some time to flee with his new find
I asked what, he said don’t you know, Mackwill’s wife was why.
We planted a body behind his hotel without a head so they can’t tell
a friend I know at a local morgue gave it to me for free.
I asked the man what of the head, he said buried in the Tyburn bed.
Why do you want to hurt Mackwill as a few of us do?
He told me a story not sure if it’s true, so he may add it to my tale.
That’s Mackwill fate, its great fun for me to see another with hate.
Those detectives haven’t got a clue, the knife, and blood I left a few.
I think that a whisper in a detective’s ear, will make it clear.
My new friend, I found with the same hatred of that Hotel
I shall ask him to relate his side of the tale.
I saw the telegraph, wow they got it all awry
poor Mackwill I aren’t sure did no wrong,
Should I feel sorry there seems to be more of a conspiracy?
They have asked me to go into the darn Police place
but they, big balls, haven't sent a comfy carriage for me.
Through my mist of wine I could have been a bit fuzzy.
Yes coach and horses, big guys numbered three, well maybe
yeah they threw a body out onto the bloody cobble
that night the mist never cleared, it may have had me wobble
Now in retrospect my minds clear, there is no fog
you should blame a man possessed by Mog
I have often heard about of this skulking filth
damn that Ripper and others just held their sway.
Dispatching all of a sudden that came their way
in the eerie places of old London streets, in town
all left before the darkness came down
may be tis all, I still think, a myth to scare you all.
Detective French sat in the pub
Down in his cups again
Seems he had, it all wrong this time
as he looked out at the rain
This Mog; it was, a nasty beast
No body to arrest
Just the spirit of an evil thing
My God, it was a mess!
Guy reflected that it surely was
Time for him to go
Retiring now, seemed the thing to do
He'd gotten way too slow
The things he'd thought were writ in stone
now just didn't apply
Spirits, madness and crazy things
were too much for this detective Guy
Through a window blurred with waves of rain
He saw a familiar face
No... He thought, I must be wrong
it was a long forgotten case
I'll just finish up my drink and leave
It's getting late and dark
I'll take my time in getting home
Go the long way, through the park
Detective French Disappears!
No clues to where he's at
just his foot-prints on the path
and his bloody hat...

He’s run and Hell has chased him thus far
“Why run you so?” the Daemon asks,
“I’ve nothing different than I had before.”
Detective French has caught the others up and wonders what indeed he’s caught.
And then the manly girl turns round and French knows he’s the Devil caught.
Far faster than the eyes can see, the girl takes claim of Fitzroy’s knife
and with a flick it dives into the doomed detective’s vulnerable heart.
The red in Jim’s cold eyes is gone and now it warms Guy French’s face.
The doomed man grins before he fails and mumbles through a blood filled mouth.
“A pity I must leave afore he dies, but elsewise I would take the loss quite hard.”
And now it’s Anabel who speaks again to Fitzroy cowered up against the wall.
“Good bye dear man, but you have been great fun.”
And then full rein Mog gives to Anabel who laughs with eyes of red.
Poor Fitzroy struggles, but it’s all in vain.
His eyes glow red the instant ere he dies.
Then Anabel turns round bewildered out her mind.
Urilla, eyes aglow, is grinning, laughing feeding off the night.
Then spits another piece of fruit laced gum.
Now anyone in London could be a Mog,
and everyone is a suspect,
even Urilla the pretty detective
by Mog now is fully possessed.
Mackwill thought "I must use Arnold."
"I'll give you whatever you want
if you admit that you had Fitz killed."
"Detective Urilla wants a proof", Mackwill said,
you give it to her and I'll make you rich"
or your turn will be coming soon.
I have Fitzroy’s in the bed"
"be good, admit that you had him killed."
Arnold thought why not, chance comes but once
"this shall end my miseries, he thought, but he didn't know
that detective Urilla is possessed;
Sad! Mackwill's dreams and Arnold now are dead.
"Think quickly Annabel"
she kept saying to herself
as red glows from Urilla's eyes.
"Those eyes hold the monster's rage."
Annabel snatched a bottle
and hit onto the head
"the detective immediately died.
Mog's paralyzed then seemed to die too.
In no time she raced the wind
holding Urilla's body on her horse
to meet Arnold Winter
somewhere near the factory.
Let's slay as usual the head
and throw where never found
if they are ever found
the cops think its Mog the serial killer.

Well, this is a fine mess, now that I am dead
Took the life of a most respected friend
and that of the one I was sworn to protect
it’s a pity no one can hear me,
as I have something important to say
The demon is upon us, has shaken all of us
Turned us into mad men before our very eyes
He has moved from person to person
We're all guilty as sin, but only we the dead know what was really happening
My name was James Alastair, I had taken an oath
to protect those in danger, like Alabaster and such
Anabel was a cover, no one would suspect
that underneath my bar maid uniform was a detective's shield and hat
And so we lie in bloody ruin, like the body without a head
A sanguine storm that has filled the remaining with dread
If they want to know who it was, that was the first dead
Someone living may want to tell them to check the river bed
Have a Cheerful Day
Laughing Annabel did not see Urilla's twitching fingers
Mog will never be defeated so easily after surviving for many years
it is easy for him to enter or leave a host's body
before death claims the human soul for eternity
The deranged killer learns the truth when Mog strike
with a great roar, he impaled her back and her body grow slack
Annabel's corpse fell off the horse, a fitting end for a killer without remorse
Mog left Urilla's body to hunt anew seeking another who's just as cruel
While in his grand hotel, Mackwill's mind snapped
his attempt to clear his name reached a dead end
he hatched a plan to burn down his hotel
if others think him dead, he'll be free once again
He looked out of the window and saw John Creel's hotel
the man who has been his nemesis will soon feel his wraith
At that moment John Creel was whistling a joyful tune,
unaware that Mackwill is planning his doom.

The climax.
Stars, white clouds takes Urilla's breathe, not so dead.
Her fingers twitched, unaware to Annabel, Mog is alive.
Upon Annabel's horse, Urilla's soft black hair sway in the wind.
Red eyed, she rose from unconsciousness, mistook for dead,
Annabel impaled soon thrown from horse into a ravine
Spirit flowing red, volcanic, ash. Her trophy of heads in a cellar
at foot of a restless mountain, uncovered.
Game over "off with their heads" has come to an end.
Mog for centuries, knower of all secrets, fully possesses Urilla, unaware.
She rides like the wind into the sunrise toward her mountain side.
There she gathers all the heads upon the horse to match bodies piled up
At the morgue to solve headless cases. Annabel fooled many of her true anonymity.
Detective Guy French, whom did great detective work, uncovered her lies, now dead by her.
Fitzroy ran when he saw Mog in Annabel's eyes as she spoke to Guy French at the tavern that day.
She killed him as he dug deep into her past.
Alabaster Fitzroy, found dead, missing head not his body, now dead.
The body behind the restaurant, with no head, is Arnold Winter.
Partners in crime, Annabel and Fitzroy took Arnold Winter's body from a morgue.
Put his head in a cellar, placed his body on Fleet Street to fake Fitzroy's death whom she killed before taking me on a death ride.
Mackwill wife is gone, who knows where?
His hotel has no customers.
Scary tales about Mog has done its damage.
John Creel's hotel booming with business.
Mog enters Mackwill.
Eyes glowing red rage, suddenly snaps as he plans of John Creel's demise.
Officers at precinct questioned Milford Lowe. He's the rich guy who witness the murder.
He thinks it all a conspiracy. Soon after, Urilla appeared with heads in tote, told the story.
Investigation into Annabel's criminal fetish for heads without a body, underway.
Urilla's inner faith, served her well. Mackwill’s tutti fruiti is rather tasty.
In red, high heel boots wearing a red, silk, knee length dress she jumped on her new
horse and rode off into the sunset toward home dripping blood from her long head.
Meanwhile, a fight is brewing between Mackwill and Creel. Creel's temporary prosperity
is overshadowed with doom. Mackwill is pissed and Mog sees his rage.
Urilla jerks on her horse, free from Mog makes it home.
Taken to hospital by shaken neighbours.
Mog races through time as he senses a new feeding ground of blood and gore
New Hunting Grounds
Mog laughs as it leaves Annabel
leaving "her" to stew in hell
in never ending insanity
Annabel's laugh holds naught but glee.
So it rides night fog again
having become bored of murder's sin
now in search of something new
perhaps another place will do.
The mists flow slowly toward the docks
where ships ride with ropy shocks
and sees a strange type of new man
It takes a taste and makes its plan.
For this man is a Mohican
an Indian from the new land
So Mog dives in an and takes control
as dawn breaks and church bells toll
Mog leaves her handiwork behind
to its departure all are blind
Where Mog has decided to go
she'll soon be known as Wendigo

John Creel-Mog, here??
Way back in time before the streets of London town
they murdered me and placed me deep underground
then in 1860’s as they built their railway that was the tube
they disturbed my grave, now you see how they set me free.
First of my new mentors that took me out of that hellish hole
was a man with a pick who didn’t know, what he had done?
I was kind to him as he was the first,
Red eyed and crazy subduing my thirst
I maimed him in my violent rage, I only took his eyes.
I was unusually calm now you all know it was me the Mog.
Spawned of the mystics past strange times, distant curses.
Wanted me to kill at their command, now I roam the land.
Little did they know what they had made, as time passed by?
I am free to roam again, you know the list of the slain
the odd lady that took me for a fool, fell to my slashing tool.
I will let you now think on, as to what has just transpired.
People killed for what you all thought was greed or wealth.
I just love the feelings in me on my killing spree.
Creel, Mog, the same, the police will wish they never came.
To my field of blood, more heads will go before the dawn
Fitzroy, idiot, you couldn't flee, I controlled Annabel you see.

It was so easy to temp you, then young Urilla didn’t do well.
I must return to my real self, the physical one that I am now.
You all do as you wish, whatever you do, I shall still live on.
I had a small break you see, down to the docks to cause misery.
Mackwill is due to visit me at the hour of three for me to play.
Don’t try to save his ass, he belongs to me, then I shall rest
There is nothing on your earthly ways you can beat me now.
I shall return John Creel to you, the gallows can bend for his just end.
Trust me, Mog will be here for eternities end, and more.
I am now going to visit the new world’s shore.
Forgive me London, I know you set me free
Fresh blood of a place, they shout of Liberty, beckons me.

It didn’t take me long after leaving Creel behind
I eaves dropped at a few partly open hotel doors
yeah waited a while and watched for a host
to take me to America's wildest shores,
Ah! A rich man and his sweetest whore
I imagined I’d like to join in the fun
I entered the richest bum, as he played his game
his eyes turned bloody red not seen before
by the woman of the street, dirty littlest whore.
She gasped as if she reached her orgasmic heights
it was the only energy and the way of Mog’s nights
he could last for hours and hours but time was no more
the woman screamed and ran naked out of the door.
Richard Dean was aghast, he hadn't realized what was going on
his inner coolest peace by now had been erased
as his trip to the Americas was early next day
to the port by carriage he quickly made his way.
well I bid you all a very fine, fare ye well,
yeah, the Dean had arranged passage with a highly spirited gal
so naturally off I went to meet my companion for the voyage
I hope that by now you can clear up the carnage..

1888 November 22nd A news report that may be true
The daily Telegraph’s story came out of the blue
It told the story of many killings from angles new.
Of a creature not found, yet heard of in olden day tales
That was roaming the streets of London town in the 1860’s
It transpired that two hotels near to the old Tyburn gate
One owned by a Mr. T Mackwill a thriving concern until,
A greedy Hotel owner who went by the name of J Creel
Wanted to take his business no matter what ill.
It has been reported that it was out and out war.
Both hoteliers hurting each other to even the score
They didn’t know they had awoken a creature there.
Joining them, we surmised a creature planned their demise.
It is not clear as to what happened but many it did scare
A Mog they said from the days of old fed on their fear.
A story without proof you may all say, even to this day.
A Mog was a horror story from many years very long ago
A reenacted tortured spirit of evil, buried deep in the past.
We can only guess at what would happen if he was freed at last
The blame for all the terrible goings on, set at the door of Mr. J Creel.

The Telegraph.
In Mr. J Creel’s hotel the police found the dismembered body of a man.
This investigation was on going, the police also lost a man or two during this inquiry.
The circumstances of their deaths has shook the nation.
Also the untimely deaths of two ladies that have yet to be identified
Now the blame for all the goings on, maybe set to rights.
All the folks that you ask tell a story of a tormented creature
Myth or creatures from a long time gone, must be wrong
An excuse from a few that would make us believe true.
I will leave the conclusions up to you.
Yesterday throughout the country the Telegraph lines sang.
Today I shall try and get a better police report if I can.
Reported in the last hour or so, our reporter on the scene.
Mrs. E Mackwill, has been seen alighting from the York coach.
We will try to give you her story in tomorrow’s issue.

J Sparrow (London Telegraph News)

Life through Arnold Winter's Eyes
Life has never been
for me a piece of cake,
nor for all the homeless
in the Victorian age.
Working in the coal mines
for almost the whole day
which has been my cell; a hell.
I thought that poverty's
the real monster; a Mog
that Victoria the queen
never heard of afore.
We've been ganging every night
looking for the next prey, together
with Mog, and the heartless Anabel.
There we left many slain- headless,
(those who have always been
a body without a soul.)
Now as the scenes of our stories unfold
many about life are left mysteriously, untold.

Richard Dean,
Richard Dean, is the last time we will hear of MOG here.
He killed Mackwill in Creels hotel and left the country.
Now Creel will be blamed for any murder that has occurred as he was possessed by Mog, until he left to go to America.
Gee using a pickaxe in the new underground tunnel, brought the Mog to life, I gave him a history from way back till his departure, he is so evil and a product of mystery only to be dug up in the 1860's.
Now the police will find Mackwill's body at Creels hotel if anyone is left.
The York to London coach came in and Mackwill's wife alighted and asks where her husband was.
The Police told her that it was very bad news and would she come with them to the Mortuary as they believed it was her husband they had found.
Mind you there are a few bodies that are around that Mog dispatched that have little bearing on the story but are just some people passing through.

Anabel's Story
NOTE: Before you begin reading, I need you to put yourself inside the mind of Anabel.
Imagine the unremorseful, sing song voice of a killer, who is telling their story, reliving their crimes as if it were yesterday and getting pleasure from it. Imagine the twisted smile, the psychotic laugh.
Note that this is written in the third person, even though he/she is telling the story.
Keep in mind that Anabel is a psychopath, so she is not speaking in perfect structure or form.
(Allow me if you will, indulge me for just a few moments, while I tell you of my story, while I sing you my sick, sad song.
Terrytown thought I was gone,
But in reality I had moved on.
Only to be found by something more powerful than myself.
It was an end to the means, I mean, nothing lasts forever.
Now I sit, alone as ever, here in limbo.
The Afterlife, it isn't so grand.
Listen to me, one more time,
Before they take me below.
This is my final testament, the final word of a serial killer.
James Alastair’s story
Once upon a time, there was a boy named James.
James wanted to be like all the other boys but couldn't
His mother was a whore, dragged men in and out
Beat James whenever he would scream and shout
His father was a deadbeat, disappeared before his birth
And so the poor little boy was left to fend for himself
Years went by and it was apparent James was different
Filled with hate and rage, rejected by his so called clan
He had a taste for blood, a scorned son's revenge,

She would be his first victim.
Mommy dearest, at the tender age of ten
No one knew them as friends, so it took a while to find
James soaked in his mother's blood, her head upon a broomstick, so he could see her eyes.
The police said they would help him, someone must have broken in
Must have been a "John" or a vagabond, couldn't have been her little man
Went home with an officer, had a decent life, became a man
With badge in hand, he became one of them, tried to suppress the darkness within
Married the preacher's daughter, was happy until she began to sin
Then it happened, the switch was flipped, James glanced around, eyes glowing red
Poor Mrs. Alastair and her lover, found by her detective husband, bludgeoned to death
Heads propped upon a broomstick, must have been the killer from his childhood, James proclaimed
The MO was the same, just a different house with different players, breaking and entering, overkill
There was a killer on the loose, the newspaper boys screamed, lock your doors, hide your children
A horse, covered in Mrs. Alastair's blood, found by the river bed, near the body, who was missing her head
The Headless Horseman, as he became known, had struck again.
Now more feared than the Ripper himself, creeping into houses of women of ill repute.
Beating them until they begged for mercy, grinning as he pinned their eyes with needles
He wanted them to see his face, wanted them to know that someone knew what they had done
Stitched their lips so they couldn't make a sound, then "off with their head," he laughed out loud
He was the vigilante, the righter of the wrongs, kept their heads as trophies, the perfect company
Sometimes James would talk to them and occasionally they would answer back, dancing upon their sticks
They were his special friends.....
The detectives for each case began to put two and two together, how James Alastair always seemed to appear.
He knew more about the crimes than anyone investigating, enough to begin to raise suspicion.
James knew his time was almost up, it was time to get out, tossed a dead hobo inside.
The mirror in the bathroom, surely it must be lying, with the hair and makeup, he saw his mother's face.
Cracking the glass, he grabbed what little he had. Got a horse from the barn and lit the house on fire.
Thus Anabel Sumner was born.
James Alastair was no more, his colleagues pulled his "body" from the carnage.
They weren't all that surprised, pulling charred head after head from the basement.
There was always something different about James, they just couldn't figure it.
(Death, it was more beautiful than I ever could have imagined. The impaling didn't hurt. I felt my demons leave my body as I fell of my horse. But I always thought death was beautiful. It ridded the world of its trash. But the beauty was short lived and now it is time that I pay for all of my sins. The people I tried to vanquish are here waiting for me. Now I must face them for all eternity!)

DESTRUCTION AND SALVATION
As the fire from Mackwill hotel spreads,
shouts and screams filled the air
the people of London strived to save the city,
while he enters John Creel's hotel to confront his enemy.
Armed with a knife, John Creel moved with great speed
Mackwill saw the man's eyes turned red but he felt no fear
even when his wounds started to bleed aplenty
Mackwill died thereupon Mog left John Creel's body.
What of Mackwill's wife who is at the harbour,
waiting to elope with her lover?
When he did not return, she was heartbroken
and tried to end her life out of despair
but a priest saved her and later she became
one of God's servants, dedicating her life to glorify His Name
Urilla dragged herself from sickbed
to strive to protect people from the fire
with her aid, many lives were saved
she lived to continue her passion for many years.

Urilla leaves London.
This has been a trying time
many heads without bodies in the city
and horrid rumours of Mog intertwine
Mackwill's hotel up in flames
murdered by Creel lacking pity.
Creel's murder trial is underway
in court I’ve testified under oath
evidence and facts on display
in an affidavit I wrote.
Off on an adventurous trip to America
to write a memoir this horror—murder case
had enough of this town and its headless murders
sure glad Mog scare was just a hoax to save face
In the stockyard of London
now back to normal.

The Daily Telegraph March 24th 1889
An extract from the Daily Telegraph published this day March 24th 1889.
These are taken from the trial of the accused John Creel.

Courts of Justice.

Today 23rd March 1889 in the High Court of Justice a Mr. John Creel was found guilty of the heinous crimes of multiple murders, carried out near to, and in the surrounding area of Marylebone.
This site was the original place where the infamous Tyburn tree was said to have been.
It was here in the Hotel of Mr. J Creel, a Mr. Mackwill an hotelier was killed by decapitation, and was viciously assaulted with a large knife.
Also in that area and in the waterways, that flank the streets of Marylebone several decapitated bodies were found.
A Mrs. Mary Mackwill, identified the body in the Mr. Creel’s hotel, as that of her husband.
This drove the lady into a pitiful state.
This was the main case for the prosecution.
Mr. John Creel tried to plead incapacity by way of possession of himself by an evil spirit, this was not accepted by the court.
Also killed in a local park was one of our gallant police force.
A policeman by the name of James French, was identified by one of his children.
The body count has yet to be finalized as it is said that there may be more to be found in the surrounding area.
The case was carried out on the main count of murder by the accused of the two named victims.
The courts trial of the said John Creel came to be a very speedy end.
He was found guilty of the two crimes, and duly sentenced to be hung.
The hanging will be carried out at Newgate Prison on the 26th of March next, bringing to an end a terrible episode in the dark recesses of this London Town.
This whole terrible incident has become known as “A Study in Pink”.
The local press seemed to take delight in that there was so much blood around each crime and that the rain at that time was persistent to the effect of making most scene’s take on a Pink shade.

Jack Sparrow (Local Reporter)

“Information extra to the main story for those that lost the plot”

1. The Victim: (Snow)
Secretary of Indian Affairs Alabaster Fitzroy was fifty eight years old, pole thin and over six feet tall. A man of fastidious character he yet often found himself in the seamier parts of London Town. He was something of a sexual deviant, though no one in the government was aware of this fact. He did his job extraordinarily well and seemingly had no enemies… neither did he have friends. He lived alone with a canary he took very good care of and drank sparingly. He was not wealthy and never carried more than a few pounds with him at a time.
Never a man to be frightened, he was nevertheless a passive individual who could not defend himself in a physical confrontation.
He had no family to speak of and only those people who shared his sexual escapades knew the slightest thing about the man.
He was found (by whom?) on Fleet Street with his head removed which had the distinct effect of bringing his life to an end.
2. Scotland Yard Detective Number One: The detective can be of any sex or nature, but must be consistent with 19th century London as is true of all the characters (Barbara)
Urilla Maure a French female detective of color in her twenties. She has long natural wavy curls. With pecan tone skin she is slender built about 5'2". She is rather quiet but up front with any she encounter. She has a strong personality but at soft heart. She likes to write poetry about nature.. She often take nature walks in London gardens observing nature at its best for her writings. One day as she was observing the rats scavenging for food in the back alley of an Scotland Yard restaurant she heard a scuffle. As she cautiously look to see what had happened she saw a figure ran away from the scene as a body lay lifeless on the ground. A Squamish girl she stands her distance and notify authorities.
3. Scotland Yard Detective Number Two: Same as above. (Geezer)
Guy French, is a detective of twenty-five years and ready to retire. He has always stayed in the background of any case that he has worked on and let the others take all the credit. He is a spare man of slight build and blond going grey hair and blue eyes. Sixty-five years old, he keeps in shape by a martial-arts program of his own devising. Married twice, he is a widower; having been divorced the first time and his second wife recently dying of a tropical disease picked up while they were on vacation in Africa. In his spare time, he reads sci-fiction and paints. He has an old motor-cycle that he is always fussing over and occasionally rides. He has never had children and his line will end with him when he dies.
4. Suspect Number One: Any personality, not necessarily our killer, but someone who looks guilty as hell. (Rula)
Anabel Sumner came into town bareback on her own horse. She was thirty years old, unmarried and childless. Anabel was tall for a woman (approximately 6ft tall), slender with short, cropped raven hair and oval shaped blue eyes so dark they were nearly black. Everything about her screamed “rebel.” She wore slacks instead of a dress, military style boots instead of sensible shoes and walked in a less than lady-like fashion. From the moment she jumped off the back of her horse, there was an inexplicable, mysterious aura about her. Locals began to speculate. Normally a woman of her age had a husband and children. Anabel moved into a room at an inn and had taken a job as a barmaid at one of the local taverns where she divulged very little to her customers. Once, she did mention her last serious relationship ended when her significant other committed suicide by way of hanging. She had found him upon arriving home from work one evening. When asked how the incident affected her, Anabel shrugged and walked away. It didn’t seem that Anabel was in any hurry to make friends. Anabel was moody and unpredictable. She would laugh one moment and the next would throw a drink in your face. She had once been sent home from the tavern after breaking a pitcher of beer over a patron's head. For this reason, the women didn’t want anything to do with her and the men didn’t seem attracted to her. She did seem to bond with another social outcast within the community, a woman. The two were often seen having drinks after work and leaving each other’s homes. Naturally, once the town gossipers got wind of this, they began to spin wild tales that these two black sheep were secret lovers, disgracing women everywhere. Anabel maintained her mysterious presence until she became friendly with a frequent customer. The events that followed this friendship would cast suspicion and doubt on Anabel’s moral character, prompting an investigation into who she really is and why she came to town in the first place.
5. Suspect Number Two: Same as above (Carrie)
Arnold Winter, a well-built young man in his early twenties, with dark skin, dark eyes and curly hair. He's a son of a very poor farmer. Arnold was orphaned at the age of ten, so his mother didn't have many options; it was either they live homeless for the rest of their lives or resort to the workhouse where he and his other younger four brothers were segregated from the mother. At the workhouse he was always humiliated and sent along with his peers to work in the ore mines for long hours, six days a week. It was almost slavery conditions under which he grew.
He was not a bad guy of nature, however, the hard conditions that he experienced all through his life, starting with the brutal landlord whose father was working for and ending with the miserable conditions at the workhouse, left in his deep unconscious all the reasons to seek revenge from those whom he thought hold high posts, or are in charge of governmental positions. According to him, those and the aristocratic class controlled even the morsels of the poor.
He often ganged with some of those of his age or sometimes older. More than once he was caught and sent to the jail for months after being accused of robbing or trying to rob the rich and ladies with valuable handbags or even snatching whatever jewellery he could reach.
At the cheap bars he was regularly seen drinking until he's drunk and unaware of what he's saying or doing. One night and while Arnold and the rest were ready to leave, he clashed with a man wearing all in black. His friends told him later that he tried to kill him by smashing him on his teeth and nose with his strong fist more than once only because the man in black asked him to step aside off the bar's door.
At the murder's night, Arnold and his company- starving, were roaming somewhere around the next block to Fleet streets, looking for the right person so that they could have some money to eat after many nights of starvation.
6. Suspect Number Three: Same as above.
7. A Protagonist: This is harder. This is a character who has a vested interest in seeing the crime solved and is willing to do most anything to see it happen. (Alidzain)
The protagonist is Roy Mackwill. He owns a luxurious hotel, catering to the needs of the wealthy foreigners who visited the city for business dealings and the crime scene area is just outside its entrance. He feared that his hotel business will be affected so he is offering a reward for anyone who can solve the mystery and stop the evil that has caused the death. He is a fat man with balding hair and he likes to smoke. He likes to be in control, thus the thought of his business failing is very disturbing to him. He is at home on that fateful night, resting after attending the wedding celebration of a friend's daughter. One of his staffs believed she has seen the killer and has become fearful of her life.
8. An Antagonist: This is a character who has a vested interest in seeing the crime NOT solved and is willing to do most anything to hamper the investigation. (Ian. T)
9. Witness Number One: (known) this person saw the crime and the killer saw them. Loved
10. Antagonist number two, has been here all the time but we just didn’t see him this is the frightening bit, he told Creel that he put the body there for Fitzroy so that he could depart with Mackwill’s wife, we will see who gets the blame this is Victorian England and not only are the police very young but crime is common, and to get a body was easy.

.
There are a million reasons to believe in yourself,
So find more reasons to believe in others..

See? I Told you it was a good concept and shop lol. Only problem is now the bar has been raised as far as us other shop leaders having to come up with new concepts........stan

He has far too much time on his hands.
Thank you Ian.

You know what caught me by surprise was the almost "water cooler" business discussing (hell, gossiping) about the characters.
Maybe someday, but not soon would I do this again. I'm anxious for a work... workshop and Rula and I are in line.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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author comment

then he starts backwards
can't sleep all alone

epicurial poetry factory like ws
he too owns
so no moans

this is publishable.
Ask Paul for advise.

cheers,
Jess
A new workshop on the most important element of poetry-
'Rhythm and Meter in Poetry'
https://www.neopoet.com/workshop/rhythm-and-meter-poetry

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