Kenneth Pobo

MURDER MAYBE

Harold Cockring Fizzlebotts got arrested for murder. He had a sharpee lawyer, who asked Harold if he had indeed killed Grady Jackson and if so why. Harold said he couldn’t remember. Yes, there was a fight over Grady’s endless playing of his records loud. Jr. Walker’s saxophone was an airplane landing on Harold’s roof. Whenever he tried to board the plane, it took off, leaving Harold looking at empty sky.

Harold had considered murder a few times over the years, like a guest you think you might invite to dinner but change your mind before making the call. He had begun to loathe Grady shortly after Grady moved in nine years ago. Something imperious about him, like a wind wrapped in gold. But murder? That seemed extreme and Harold was rarely extreme. He didn’t spice his pork chops and when he polished his many clocks he made sure they didn’t shine too much. He wanted them to tell time without bragging about it. Minimize ticking.

Still, he knew he had thought that Grady would be a good candidate to be murdered. Harold pictured him laid out in a coffin in Justicia’s Funeral Home, the guest book empty, the candy dish full. This made Harold laugh. Perhaps Grady tried to murder Harold. The sharpee didn’t say whether anyone can die from having angry thoughts sent to them like dropping someone in a hive of yellowjackets. Harold remembers one morning when he woke up with his hands around his own neck. Someone must have tried to strangle him while he was dreaming of peach trees and moth balls. Was it Grady? Or was it Aunt Olive? She often said that Harold was the family’s standard for failure. Her house on Bull Moose Lane had eighteen rooms, each one cold. She was capable of it or of hiring someone to do it.

Harold decided that you can murder someone and forget you did it. Like an item on the grocery list—did you remember to get Biz or not? There would be a trial. Grady died under suspicious circumstances. The Judge forgot to show up. The Courthouse had a heart condition and stayed in bed.

Harold went to work and sent the sharpee a check. When he got home he found that he missed Jr. Walker after all. He blasted several songs on Spotify. The moon growled that he should turn it down—it was trying to sleep. Harold Cockring Fizzlebotts locked himself deep in the saxophone and wouldn’t come out. His garage door sulked, opened on its own, and released mice to the whole neighborhood.


Ken's YouTube video reading of "Murder Maybe":



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Ken confesses: "If someone murders someone else, can they really just forget about it, like it never really happened (or doesn't matter that it happened). I used a more surreal/absurdist approach, including the main character's name."

KENNETH POBO (he/him) is the author of twenty-one chapbooks and nine full-length collections. Recent books include Bend of Quiet (Blue Light Press), Loplop in a Red City (Circling Rivers), and Lilac And Sawdust (Meadowlark Press) and Gold Bracelet in a Cave: Aunt Stokesia (Ethel Press). His work has appeared in North Dakota Quarterly, Asheville Literary Review, Nimrod, Mudfish, Hawaii Review, and elsewhere.