The annual Massey College Murder Game is on.
I am up to three kills since it began at 12:15pm yesterday. It runs until 12:15pm on Thursday.
I still don’t know exactly who has me as a target.
Massey Murder Game 2015
Skip to content
climate change policy, science, and activism; photography; cartography and mapmaking
I got one more kill (Cameron) before my demise during the lunch break between my tutorials today.
Liz Hope reported my position to my pursuer (Chizoba) who tagged me before I could run away from her ambush, around the corner from my room.
“If the Murder Game rules are up, it must be time for the annual reposting of the Room Poem, which I first wrote zillions of years ago, when dinosaurs roamed the earth and I was a Murder Adjudicator being plagued by Murderers who didn’t know what a room was. I do not know why I repost this poem every year. I just do.
Therefore:
ROOMS
Rooms are sometimes sort of square
(Sometimes not), and rooms are where
Evil people skulk and try
Very hard to make you die.
Corridors are rooms, and so
Are snow-bound quadrangles, though
If an ally’s out of sight,
You can still be killed, all right.
Trees are rooms if you’re a bird.
Rooms are trees if you’re absurd.
Shoes are small rooms for your feet.
Cakes are big rooms you can eat.
If we say a room’s a room,
Then it is, so don’t assume
You’re not dead on ledge or stair.
If you nag us, WE WON’T CARE.”
This year’s winners:
Agent Charlotte Corday and Agent El Tigre
“It is time, in any case, to take stock of the Operation Pelle Sub Agnina: thirty one corpses, six pieces of creative writing (attached as the Murder Archives), two victors, one failed rebellion.”
What does it mean to claim to have died well?
To give oneself for love of land or kin
Is just to die for lies that others tell,
And be complicit in an age old sin.
And yet to lay down arms and embrace death,
With open eyes and calmness in one’s heart,
For naught but fear to still another’s breath,
Is weak and lets the killers play their part.
No act is noble so awash in blood.
I die in vain; I die for nothing good.
Oh, what good is an oath or pact,
When a knife yet sticks from out your back?
What the use of ally or friend,
When grisly game turns to bitter end?
I trusted her, I kept her safe.
And in that deed, I sealed my fate.
We fought and toiled, side by side,
And in that time, I ne’er once denied
That we stood united, exemplary,
But, oh, the depths of her treachery.
I trusted her, I kept her safe.
And in that deed, I sealed my fate.
The blade is in now, to the hilt,
And the tears they fall, like the blood which spilt.
But what is worse, that won’t abate
Is now my heart is filled with Hate.
I trusted her, I kept her safe.
And in that deed, I sealed my fate.
-Chris Kelleher