Poker with Poe

Poker With Poe

by

Max

Written for contest

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The pain was real, I couldn’t be dreaming; but what was Edgar Allan Poe doing seated across from me? His eyes wide, his grin wild, he watched me pull against the nails that fastened me—arms, legs and neck—bloodily to my chair. The mist pouring from the flue must have carried away my memory. The flickering candle light must have dimmed my mind.

Before me on the table were five unturned cards, and before Poe was the same.

“Take your turn, try not to burn.” With this hiss he pulled a poker from the smoldering fire and waved it across my face.

I tried to speak, but the words jammed in my mouth. I had too many questions, and I didn’t know which to ask first.

“Don’t know what to say? Don’t worry. You’ll learn the rules as we begin to play.” He chuckled, small and frightening.

He tapped the cards with the glowing poker, burning a hole with each touch. “Pick a number one to five, pick correct to stay alive.”

“Four,” I whispered, the simple vibrations in my neck pulling against the nails on either side. I wailed. With this he turned the card fourth from my left. It was the three of hearts.
Poe flipped the card on his right: the two of diamonds.

“First is just a simple flick with the tip of a blistering stick.” He slapped the poker against his right arm. Skin cooked, hair melted, my body convulsed as the odor overtook my senses. Poe laughed loudly in his small way.

We continued. I held up fingers instead of attempting to speak again. Evidently, the holder of the lower card took the punishment. Poe stabbed me in the shoulder, branded my face on either side, and roasted my tongue. Each time he snickered wildly. I felt the game was stacked against me.

“One and done.” His face lost the insane joviality as he placed on a mask of the gravest solemnity. Laying the cooling poker down, he flipped his card: the ace of spades. He did not laugh or snicker, but pierced me deep with his pointed concentration.

Tap, tap, tap. His thin, pale fingers danced atop my final card. With a quick flick he slapped the king of hearts before me. The king, known as the suicide king, because he holds a sword through his head, looked proud and confident in his action.

I pulled my left arm through the several nails that tacked me to the chair. My flesh ripped and tore, and fell away. I grabbed the poker by the haft, twirled it round, and slammed it through Poe’s right eye. He was as I first remembered him: wide of eye, wild of grin; but now nevermore.

Word count: 458