How to kill a poet

Chapter 1

It was a lazy afternoon in the early days of september when Bryon decided he hated poetry.
He'd spend a while thinking about it, of course, and that afternoon as he drowsily stared at stained pages in Pride and prejudice only half paying attention he decided to announce it.
Bryon and his friends liked to gather in the attic of their spacious boarding school to unwind.
Bryon liked to refer to his friends as his 'gang', as they all shared a thirst for Mischief.

That afternoon when Bryon jumped onto the little table he and his friends had stolen and placed in the middle of their hiding spot, facing his friends, he said with his usual orotund voice:

'Gang, I have come to a conclusion, Poetry sucks.'

Bridget, a hot headed blonde with a top notch brain, who Bryon had reluctantly welcomed to his circle of friends, frowned up at him.

'What makes you say that?' she asked.

Bryon who enjoyed acting dramatic, smirked and made a gesture with his pencil, placing it in his mouth and then removing it with his middle and index fingers, as if it were a cigeratte.
It was a habit he was concerned he was starting to pick up from Blair, who sat in an armchair in that moment, looking up from her book visibly perplexed.

'Look,' Bryon continued, 'Poetry is bland, its repetitive, forgettable!' He gestured with his arms to underline his point.

'And how is that our problem?' lincoln, who had always been close to Bryon asked.

'How is that-' Bryon outburst in a voice that screamed offended. 'Why do you think we are gathered here!?'

'Because the common room is noisy?'

'No! Because we are worshipping the noble art of, well, art! Look at you all, bended over those books and notes, eyeing them like they're going to be your doom. You're forgetting why you are doing it.'

'Because we dont want to end up on the streets?'' Lincoln suggested.

Bryon shook his head dissaprovlingly. 'Because it is art,' he said.

'Latin is art?' Bridget asked.

Bryon pointed a finger at her, smiling.
'Yes! Latin is the language of our ancestors. As humans, not brits. Latin is the language of thinkers and artists.
It is interesting, unlike poetry. You see my beloved, my Dear Dear partners in crime, we are drunks. We get drunk on art it is our fuel. Without it we can barely function! However poetry is leaving us with an empty glass in hand, that is why it is our problem, that is why we must do something about it.'

This caught the attention of everyone in the room, even Connor who sat in the far corner of the attic reading Virginia Woolf. Bryon knew Connor would be a key element to his newly founded plan. Connor was shy and restrained, and most importantly he had a vast understanding of poetry, wich was all that Bryon needed.

'So what do you say we do?' Connor asked curiously.

'I say we write it!' Bryon exclaimed.

'Poetry?'

'Yes! we will fill our notebooks with original poems friends!' Bryon got more excited for each word he said, and he could feel his friends interest growing as well, 'And in the end we will write the greatest poem this world has ever seen.' Bryon jumped down from the table, his derby shoes hitting the worn floor of the attic with a sound like thunder.

'By our notebooks you mean my notebooks, right?' Blair muttered.

'He probably does, yeah,' Connor reassured her.

Bryon ignored them, pacing acroos the floor brainstorming for ideas.

'So what you suggest is that we become poets?' Blair said.