To be- or not to be- right now that translates to hide or die. True it was not in iambic pentameter, but it was of course, of no consequence. Who he was hiding from did not care for literature, merely blood on his knife.

It wasn’t even Halloween, or any other black day of the calendar. It was merely a fun night gone wrong in 1984. The high school students had just wanted to drink and smoke behind the farm, unfortunately they were now for the Harvest.

A poetry majors last soliloquy.

Now he hid among the corn, hearing silence that was briefly interrupted by the last cries of the damned.

He hadn’t even seen who was doing this, he merely heard the gore. But now, now there was one more sound- the crushing of stalks, growing ever closer, as was his imment doom.

Quote not the raven, but the morning chickens,

Never more.