2023 VOICES OF LINCOLN POETRY CONTEST
Poets wanted. The 19th Annual Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest begins in April, National Poetry Month. The contest theme is “The Five Ws Of Life: Who? What? Where? When? Why? . . . Discover The Answers Through Poetry.” Both adult and young poets are encouraged to enter.
Contest Rules and Entry Form can be downloaded here or requested from Alan Lowe, Contest Coordinator, at slolowe@icloud.com.
As you navigate life’s road, you dream of what lies ahead. You wish for a chance to bond with others and succeed in the things you decide to do.
To reach your destination, you travel a route with many stops and hope for a long and fulfilling journey before your time on Earth runs out. However, the bumps in the road can lead to unexpected consequences, as becomes evident in . . .
So You Want To Be A Writer
Writing was my passion, but life got in the way. I became a successful accountant, married my high school sweetheart, and raised a son and two daughters—all of whom have prospered.
Life should have been great, but it wasn’t. I regretted not following my desire—becoming a writer. I tried writing a book in my early thirties. However, it remains in a file on my computer, doing absolutely nothing.
I’m fifty-six years old and recently retired. I planned to explore new opportunities with my wife, but she left me. She died in her sleep a year ago. She was the love of my life and now I have nothing.
I stared out my kitchen window into an empty world. My kids lived in three different states and their lives were busy. What the Hell should I do now? I thought. Traveling the world with my wife was one dream we shared. But doing it alone or with someone else left me cold.
I needed to find something to focus on. The idea of becoming a writer at my age frightened me. I did believe I’d be good at it. But how good I didn’t know. And you have to be famous or extremely lucky to get your works published by a company in today’s world.
My mind wandered, trying to figure out what I was meant to do. And then the phone rang. I picked it up and said, “Hello.”
“Is this the residence of Connor Marks,” a male voice asked.
“Yes, and I’m Connor Marks. How can I help you?”
“You can’t, but I can help you.”
“You can? How?”
“What do you want most in life?”
“Besides reuniting with my wife who passed away last year?”
“Well, yes. I’m sorry I can’t bring her back. Is there something else you might want?”
“I dreamed of being a writer.”
“What kind of writer?”
“A mystery writer. Probably one who creates plots where people die.”
“”So your focus is on cemeteries?”
“How did you arrive at that conclusion?”
“You did say plots—funeral arrangements, cemeteries.”
“Okay, but that wasn’t what I meant.”
“Did you write an obituary for your wife?”
“Yes. Why are you asking me that?”
“Was it printed in a newspaper or posted online?”
“Sure. Aren’t they all?”
“Then you’re a published author.”
“That’s awful! You’re not serious? Are you?”
“You said you wanted to be a writer. And now you are one.”
“Obituary writing is a morbid profession. It’s all about death,” I moaned.
“Not exactly. While this is true in a sense, there’s a difference between an obituary and a simple death notice.”
“How can that be? Death is death—dark and dreary. You can’t pretty it up,” I said.
“Well, maybe you can,” he responded.
“How?”
“What separates the two is that the former tells a story about a person’s life. And, as is the case for most creative things, the Devil is in the details. Namely, that an obit does not only reveal what a person did during their lifetime, but who they were, how they lived, and what they meant to the people closest to them.”
In a weird way, he made sense. “I have to admit, at times, I do read obituaries, some of which fascinate me. It would be an honor to produce a final tribute that preserves a person’s life story and creates tangible closure for the family and friends of the deceased,” I said.
“So you do have a ‘deadly obsession.’” He laughed in a way that sent chills through my body.
“I’m not sure what you mean. . . . Who are you, anyway? And why are you asking me these questions?"
“I’m someone with a Devilish interest in you.”
“That’s a bit eerie,” I blurted, still confused about where this was going.
“How did your wife die?”
“In her sleep.”
“Are you sure?”
“What are you getting at?”
“Did you need a reason to write an obituary and become the writer you always wanted to be?”
“Are you suggesting that I murdered my wife?”
“Well, did you?”
“I can’t take any more of this. I don’t know who you are or where you’re going with this conversation, but I’m finished.” I pushed “Call Over” and dropped the phone on the kitchen table.
“Killed my wife? No, I couldn’t have. I loved her,” I muttered.
Then the doorbell rang. I went to the door and opened it. There was nobody there. I stepped out on the porch and looked around. What I saw was a package on my doorstep, wrapped in black paper, with no name or address. I didn’t want to touch it, but I seemed propelled by a force beyond my control.
I knelt down and cautiously removed the paper. I saw a black book, with bright yellow words, engulfed in red flames, on its cover. “Oh, my God!” I yelled. I couldn’t believe what I saw. The title jumped out at me—“My Deadly Obsession: Writing Her Obituary—A Murderer’s Confession.” I began to shake uncontrollably. The author’s name, in bold, yellow print read, “Conner Marks.”
Copyright © 2023 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.
Some things in life can’t be explained. The absence of an explanation can plague us forever.
The light may never shine bright, but the answer may be found in a letter, signed . . .
Cordially Yours
My Dear Friend,
I’ve been thinking about you a lot this past week. What you may have done is hard to believe. It has affected my outlook on life and made me wonder who you really are.
We’ve known each other a long time, ever since we were kids. We shared our dreams and nightmares. We encouraged each other to be strong. And we never let each other down. It was because of you I became a man—honest and sincere—a person to be trusted.
I’m shaken up by your behavior and don’t know how to handle it. Maybe you can shed some light on your actions, so I can move on. I look forward to hearing from you.
Cordially yours,
Alexander
I put my pen down and stared at the letter. Should I send it? I thought. When I heard the news on TV about Marcus being on trial for murder, it shook me up. I needed to know more.
I hadn’t heard from him in over three years, and I didn’t know why. Would he care how I felt? Why would he respond now, after so many years?
Last year, on his birthday, I tried to contact him—three times. I left messages on his phone, but he didn’t return my calls. However, I still care about him. Is it too late to bridge this gap between us? I need answers.
I looked out my den window. Dark clouds covered the sky. And then . . .
“Hello, Alexander.”
“Marcus, is that you?”
“Who else would it be? I’m your soul mate for life.”
“But you’re not here, are you? And the phone didn’t ring. How are we talking?”
“That’s not important. We have a lot to discuss.”
“About what? And why now? We haven’t spoken in a long time. And you’ve avoided my calls.”
“Well, now we can talk.” He chuckled, in a weird way that made me shake.
Still uncertain about him being here, I inspected the den and saw nothing—no Marcus. This was eerie. I bit my lip, trying to control my trembling body. This was my mind playing tricks on me, I thought.
“Well, are you ready to get down to business?” the voice queried.
“Business? This is getting out of hand. Did you bug my house?”
“Even if I knew what you’re talking about, I wouldn’t do it.”
“Then come out from where you’re hiding.”
“Hiding? I’m not hiding. I’m in plain sight. Just focus.”
This was getting worse by the moment. “Why don’t you just leave? I’ve had enough of your craziness. If you don’t stop, I’m going to call the police.”
His laughing was out of control. But then he became silent. . . . And he asked, “Tell them what? That you’re nuts and you’re hearing voices coming from an invisible being. Go for it, my friend. Maybe I’ll visit you in the loony bin.”
I didn’t respond to his ridiculous remarks. I had no idea why he came here or what he wanted to discuss, but I had to get my concern out in the open. I blurted, “Why did you do it, Marcus?”
“Do what?”
“Don’t play games with me. You know what I’m talking about—the news story on TV the other night.”
“Oh, the fake news. You’ve got to be kidding. That’s why you tried to contact me. I thought it was because you missed me. I’m outa here.”
A strong breeze ruffled my hair, but all the windows were closed. And then I felt alone.
Maybe the crazy house was where I belonged. “I’ve got to put this behind me,” I moaned. I must’ve dozed off. I’ve had weird dreams before. Marcus was part of my past and I needed to forget him.
I put the letter in the bottom desk drawer—my communication cemetery—filled with notes I’d written to companies complaining about services I’d paid for, but weren’t done right, but then didn’t send. Now it was time to return to reality.
Days passed and my life got back on track—moving slowly and going nowhere. My desk job was boring, but I had few alternatives, since I’d dropped out of college after my sophomore year at Ryder Institute. Ironically, it was the same year Marcus decided education wasn’t for him. He enlisted in the Navy. However, we remained joined at the hip and communicated frequently.
But now, that’d stopped. And since I’d never sent the letter to Marcus and dismissed the “discussion” I’d had with him as a dream or pure nonsense, our relationship was over.
Two years went by. I sat on the couch in my living room watching the news on TV. As the station went to commercial, the news anchor said, “When we return, I will share with you the latest news on Marcus . . .”
The TV cut out, the lights flickered, and I was left sitting in the dark. And then . . .
“Hello, Alexander.”
“Oh, no. Not this again,” I muttered.
“Life has been lonely without you.”
“But you left that night, with no explanation.”
“So you finally realized I was here, Alexander.”
“Not exactly, but I have no other answer for what happened.”
“Well, lets have a more productive conversation this evening.”
“About what?”
“Maybe about what I did.”
“Okay. So what did you do, Marcus?”
“Before I get to that, Alexander, let’s talk a bit about you. How are you doing?”
“Just existing.”
“What, in heaven’s name does that mean?”
“Living life with no real purpose, I guess.”
“Did you ever have a purpose, other than making my life a living hell?”
“What are you talking about? I was you’re best friend.”
“That’s the key word—‘was.’”
“Still am, if you want me to be.”
“It’s too late.”
“But why?”
“I’m serving a life sentence.”
“You’re in prison?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“It’s all in the letter I was going to send you.”
“But I was the one who was going to send the letter.”
“That wasn’t possible.”
“It wasn’t?”
“No.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You will, when you read the letter.”
My Dear Friend,
I’ve been thinking about you a lot this past week. What you did was hard to believe. It affected my outlook on life and made me wonder who you really are.
We’ve known each other a long time, ever since we were kids. We shared our dreams and nightmares. We encouraged each other to be strong. And we never let each other down. It was because of you, I became a man—honest and sincere—a person to be trusted.
However, I was shaken up by your behavior and didn’t know how to handle it. I wanted you to shed some light on your actions, so I could move on. But the pain you caused me was intolerable. You stole my wife and took my life from me. There was only one way to deal with this—to take yours. I wish you well in Hell, my friend.
Cordially yours,
Marcus
Copyright © 2023 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.
