EDGAR ALLEN by Thomas Lipschultz 4/6/98

     "So, what's this sleazebag's name? And what's he gettin'
the noose for?"
     "How the hell should I know?! I just do what I'm told.
Cellblock C, white male, 'bout five-nine, short beard. Only
one o' his build -- they only give ya' as much info as ya'
need to identify the lucky winner." The executioner, John
Ills, was walking side-by-side with Officer Allen Jeremy. The
destination: a rather crude version of death row's finale.
The hang-man's noose. John continued: "I hear he murdered
somebody with an axe, though. Dunno if it's true, but he sure
don't look like that type. He looks kinda nutso if ya' ask
me, but he don't look like no axe-totin' psycho."
     The two entered a tall chamber. A large wooden platform
was the only furniture there, and its decor consisted of one
noose and a few old bloodstains. Not a very cheery sight by
any means, but one would get used to it after a few months of
dedicated work at the station. Neither John nor Allen were
exceptions.
     They were greeted by about a dozen more officers and
select family members. One man, dressed in old cloths and
reeking to high heaven, was being held firmly in place by two
of the more muscular officers. This was obviously the
accused.
     Once he was placed in the noose and John was stationed
at the lever, one of the two muscular cops took a stack of
papers from the doomed man's left hand. He started to read
the sheet on top, then burst out laughing. "Hey Allen, take a
look at this. Dead man here's a poet." The cop crumpled the
papers into a ball and tossed them like so much old garbage
to Officer Jeremy, who proceeded to carefully unravel them.
On the top of the first sheet, in giant hand-written
letters, were the words, "The Raven."
     Another officer showed up as Allen started to read the
poet's words. He was carrying what looked like an official
document. "This man has been accused of chopping his wife
Lenore into approximately thirty-four small pieces, which
were then placed in an empty potato bag and shoved into his
freezer. He was caught when the neighbors reported a foul
stench in the area. Sir, you are entitled to one final
statement before your demise. Speak your piece."
     The accused cleared his throat and began speaking:
"Thank you Sir. I had a lot o' time to think in that dank ol'
jail cell o' mine, and I realized what I'd done. I started
ta' feel the pain and remorse of ma' actions, and so I wrote
some poetry, as Mr. Muscle here so rudely noted. I have only
one final request: publish ma' work for me. I think you'll
all agree that it's good, 'cause I put ma' heart and soul
into it. Keep it anonymous, though... I don't want no
complainin' about people who recognize ma' name. But please,
grant ma' request. I want ma' poem to be famous, so maybe
Lenore can live on. That's all I have to say, Sir."
     The man with the official document stared at the accused
for a few seconds longer, then looked up at John and nodded.
The lever was pulled, and the man's life was ended. One of
the officers told Allen to handle the man's last request and
sent him home, and the whole crowd scattered their own
separate ways.
     As Allen walked to his single apartment, he read over
"The Raven," and was amazed at its complexity and emotion. If
nothing else, the dead man was a good poet. Then the idea
struck him: surely some magazine would love to publish this
poem, but if he were to take credit for writing it, he could
get a handsome sum of money out of the deal. Yes, that would
work...
     But wait! Wouldn't the cops at the station get
suspicious? No, Allen definitely couldn't use his real name.
He'd have to come up with a nome de plume -- a pen name.
Ideas started pouring into his head, almost faster than he
could handle them. Jonathan, Thomas, Tobias, James, Edgar...
There, that's the one! Edgar. It rings of intelligence, but
without sounding fake. Now for the last name... an infinite
set of possibilities there. How could he ever pick just one?
He'd have to create one. Poet... he would be a poet... so he
could be... Poe! Edgar Poe! Now add the middle name of Allen
so there's some connection to himself... PERFECT! Edgar Allen
Poe. That would be his new name.
     Quickly and surely, Allen typed up the poem and added
his pen name to it, then proceeded on foot to the local
magazine company. After a lengthy wait while the poem was
being read over carefully, the clerk proceeded to make some
conversation with Allen:
     "So, are you here representing Mr. Poe?"
     "No Sir, I AM Poe."
     "Oh. I'm so sorry."
     Allen paused for a second to ponder this, then
understood: "What, 'bout Lenore? Don't worry, it's a name
drawn from a hat. No relation to anyone I'm close to."
     "I see. I thought perhaps you were expressing sorrow for
that poor murdered woman. It's a ghastly way to die, isn't
it?"
     "Yeah. Very ghas'ly."
     "All right then, this poem is exceptional. Kudos to you
for bringing it to us before anyone else. It'll be in the
next issue, guaranteed. Since this is your first submission,
it'll get you fifty bucks. But if you bring more of your work
here, you'll get consecutively more money."
     "Fifty'll be fine for now. Ya' may see me again, too."
     With that, Allen walked out of the building, and into
his new life as a writer.
     He took more and more time off of work at the station
until he eventually just quit his job. He was a writer now,
and didn't want anything to stand in his way. The green hand
of greed was on his shoulder, and he wanted to milk that
magazine for as much cash as he could.
     His next work he entitled, "The Cask of Amontillado." He
based the story upon a recent arrest made. Although the
punishment was illegal, the man was so disliked by the force
that he was bricked up in the basement of the station, and is
still there to this day.
     From that point on, he went on a writing frenzy. An
explorer friend of his inspired him to write, "The Gold Bug."
Then some events in the news inspired him to write, "The Pit
and the Pendulum." And when he felt the pangs of guilt and
remorse, he took them out of his system and onto paper with,
"The Tell-Tale Heart." Yes, Allen had made quite a career for
himself. The magazine was paying him hundreds per work, and
he was pumping out stories and poems faster than he had
killed criminals during that long-lost past career of his. No
one down at the force knew why he quit, but no one really
cared. And most of all, no one suspected that he was Edgar
Allen Poe, the great writer and poet.
     Although he had neglected to keep up with the
newspapers, every once in a while he saw an article about
himself. He even saw a headline in one edition: "Mystery man
submitting brilliant stories." He never got around to reading
the whole article, though.
     Then came the time for him to reveal his identity. Not
publicly, of course, lest his original fraud be revealed. But
there was talk of a literary gathering to be held in a
private residence, and the man submitting these brilliant
works was invited to attend. "Guarantee: No reporters on the
premises!", said the article. So, of course, Allen attended.
It was time for him to make his claim to fame.
     As he entered the building, the clerk from the magazine
immediately recognized him. "That's him! He's Poe!" Everyone
gathered around him. He smiled to himself. No one would ever
find out. "Tell me, Poe, how are you related to the author?",
asked one of the younger boys.

     This threw Allen off-course a little. "I... I AM the
author!"

     Dead silence. Everyone was staring at him. Finally, the
same young boy spoke again: "No, Sir, the author is Edgar
Allen Poe. He's dead. He was executed for chopping up his
wife Lenore and putting her in his freezer. We all thought
you were his father or something, and that this stuff was
from his private collection."
     Allen stood perfectly still, trying to contemplate the
situation. Even in death, the man he thought he had robbed
the glory from had somehow turned the tables. In one short
instant, Allen Jeremy's borrowed fame had been returned.
     Silently he pondered,
     As he came to know,
     That the man he watched die,
     Was Edgar Allen Poe.
     He looked all around,
     Seeming far from the door,
     And these words he muttered:
     Quoth the Raven, Nevermore.