The Ghost Writer
Ghost writing is a thankless job,
Your ego kept at bay.
The "Author's" name is safely kept,
Behind an NDA.
My books top the Bestseller List,
Each cozy mystery
Has all my heart and soul in it,
But no one knows it's me.
For the right price, my words are yours,
This client always pays.
I gave my all to write her books,
And she accepts the praise.
Imagination only goes so far,
When murder's what she chose.
I must work hard to spark my muse,
All for the love of prose.
"Murder among the flower beds"
First prompt for this Ghost Writer.
She left the rest to my genius,
And so, I authored Smite Her.
First step, I joined the garden club,
Such welcoming old dears.
I found flowered gloves in the yard,
Next to the sharpest shears.
I paused to watch Miss Bella Bean
Calmly prune her vines.
Her blood dripped down the roses,
Inspiring gorgeous lines.
I placed her there among the thorns,
And swiftly left the scene.
Finished the draft that very night,
Thanks to Miss Bella Bean.
The tome was a smash, it topped the charts,
She received all the praise.
And asked part two be written quick,
I bargained for a raise.
"Treachery at the county fair"
Next prompt for this Ghost Writer.
Seemed trite, but I'm a seasoned pro,
Then promptly did pen Slight Her.
The pie bake-off seemed just the place
To set the scene of the crime.
I baked my special peach-pear pie
And placed it on the line.
Poison laced one single piece,
Meant for Judge Pam Plum.
She gobbled it up and licked the plate,
Leaving nary a crumb.
I smirked as she roiled on the ground,
Foam spilling from her lips.
Snatched the blue ribbon as I left,
To edit my manuscripts.
Two bestsellers were not enough,
She kept on wanting more.
Frustration grew with each demand,
I'm not a fiction whore!
"The third novel must be grander."
Was her only advice.
She's desperate to win an award,
But who will pay the price?
"Carnage at the B&B"
Am I an amateur?
That prompt was wholly uninspired,
But still, I wrote Spite Her.
I chose a place so far from home,
Tucked in the countryside.
A duckling-yellow farmhouse,
Where lovers go to hide.
Four guests were there, five counting me,
And our sweet host Chris Chives.
We sat around the roaring fire,
Chatting about our lives.
I admit, things got out of hand
When we all went to bed.
I took an axe to Chris's room,
And bashed him in the head.
His scream awoke the two next door,
They rushed into the room.
The axe was still in Chris' skull,
So, I impaled them with a broom.
The other guests were sound asleep
When I crept to their bed.
I'd found the farmhouse rifle,
And shot them in the head.
The book was done in record time,
On store shelves in a flash.
Just as the police probe ramped up,
I took off with my cash.
Her name was found in Bella's mail,
And on the entry slip,
The booking at the B&B,
Car rental for the trip.
Soon they arrested her at home,
She proclaimed innocence!
She swore the likeness to her books
Was just coincidence.
Now she's in jail; I don't feel bad,
I'd do it all again.
Ghost writing is a thankless job
For masters of the pen.
