|Poems by Kelly Glover, Brian Barnett and Ezra Stead
By Kelly Glover
When Morticia met Snow White
Deep within the forest that night
Their verdant eyes met without fright
Two became one, a most intriguing sight
Snow White had eaten all of her dwarfs
Showing few, if any, signs of remorse
Now a Grumpy Doc, she was as Bashful as she was Dopey
Cocaine Sneezy, she was the most Happy when Sleepy
Morticia, dark as night, yet not so opposite of Snow White
Lurches from her cave of loss
With a drop dead body that can also drops jaws
She’ll rip your eyes out with her freshly painted claws
Snow White seduced Morticia
With alabaster hands and candy apple lips
Devoured her as she had all of her seven little men
Left bleeding from the space between her hips
An empress rises pale as a corpse
With the power to create abusive mind warps
The Earth quivers at her frigid beauty
Too soon forced to pay a death duty
The fateful night was deep as the full moon rose
In the woods of Salem that Autumn eve
The evil Queen so envied this wicked compilation
She built a funeral pyre to scorch her lovely booty
The Harvest moon watched
As the smoke began to rise
She will melt before she cries
The flames lick her skirt, climbing up her thighs
Burned at the stake was quite the dramatic fate
No one will forget what was seen that day
She swayed to and fro in the flames
Dancing on their hatred, searing it into their brains
|To read other short stories,
click one of the titles below.
|About Kelly Glover
Kelly Glover is a single mother
and supreme leader of three
kids, two cats, and one failed
marriage. Her writing touches on
the darker aspects of life that we
all go through, but few talk
about. Her first book of poetry,
“The Light of My Dark” is
available on Amazon.
By Brian Barnett
scratching in the walls
finally the mousetrap snaps
growling in the walls
cosmic rift expands
great old ones emerge
bug bite on my arm
the swelling is terrible
looks like an egg sack
digging the bone mounds
churning up ancient spirits
the evil conflagration
|About Ezra Stead
Ezra Stead is a writer, rapper,
and occasional painter who has
been previously published in
print and online, as well as
writing, directing and acting in
numerous short films and two
features. A Minneapolis native,
Ezra currently lives in New York
City, where he is working on his
|The Death of the Round Table
By Kelly Glover
Of legends and of lore
A troubling tale of yore is reborn
How the woes of a maiden most fair
Taught the Knights of the round table to beware
Queen Guinevere of Camelot
With the help of her Sir Lancelot
Discovered the holy grail
A vessel of which the world regaled
One night a royal ball was thrown
All suckling from this chalice well known
Guinevere's Knight proved on the spot
How he loved to use his lance a lot
The Queen impregnated with the virile Knight’s seed
Tired as any woman in this condition would be
Sat out this lecherous royal ball
While her Sir Lancelot had a free for all
This night as sweet libations flowed freely
A couple from neighboring Astocker came kneeling
With a firm grip on Sir Lancelot’s sword
That evening there was no chivalry aboard
Lady Cortesia had her submissive lover Sir Baloris
Sit passive while Lancelot pleasured her ripe clitoris
A cuckquean supreme of the highest nature
Sir Baloris splayed open his lady’s lips while Lancelot ate her
Then Baloris watched as Lancelot pounded with need
Til he had vanquished all of his knightly seed
Cortesia decompresses in after copulation spasms
As her cuckold laps up the brave Knight’s orgasm
Guenevere now betrayed just like her Arthur
Vowed revenge on the couple from Astocker
She sent a raven dragoness on a winged horse of horns
To devour Sir Baloris for engaging in such porn
The flying black night then kidnapped Cortesia
Banishing her to the far off land of Rhodesia
Any man that falls in lust with this unfortunate fair lady
Is turned into a breathing statue unable to speak, only see
Forced to observe Cortesia’s torture at the hands of Guenevere each day
Unable to move, scream, or even look away
An eternity’s worth of Merlinesque wizardry
Will have any poor letch crying, Deliver me from my misery!
This fate is what became of Sir Lancelot
Now a man of only marble and thought
Queen Guinevere gave birth to a son named Lymin
Lead her trusty Arthur to believe the child came from him
Now young Lymin plays on the statue of adulterous Lancelot
Uses the top of the Knight’s head as a stone chamber pot
And Guinevere keeps Cortesia as her sex slave
Forced to satisfy the droll Arthur til the day she meets her grave
Lady Guinevere made a most special mold
From Sir Lancelot’s mighty rod as the story is told
Alone in her Queendom, happy and satisfied
This is the tale of how the round table died
By Ezra Stead
My camera is a sponge, soaking red.
Yellow desert dust permeates everything.
Even the sky here is yellow,
sun-bleached so dry it sucks out water
from every pore not yet clogged with sand.
I swear the sand is even inside my skull.
Memory is a daily horror,
so each night, in our tents, we fuck to forget.
Sleep is what we did back home,
under air-conditioned ceilings
with only birds and dogs to wake us with happy noise,
but the only birds here are vultures that we call brother,
for we too prey on the dead.
My camera hungrily pulls bullet-ripped flesh
into its slavering jaws to take back to the states,
where it regurgitates headlines for nestlings
too young and fragile to hunt for their own.
Danny was one of those baby birds,
too young to fly, too eager not to,
his patchy beard and bloodshot eyes
a testament to his ruin.
"I can't do it anymore," he says.
"Not since I saw that woman bleed to death
staring at her own reflection in my lens.
Not since I saw men in tanks taunt boys with stones
out of hiding spots to use for target practice.
Not since I saw a pack of grunts take turns
on a 14-year-old girl in front of her whole family
before killing them all.
I can't do it anymore."
Danny dies two days later,
calmly walking into a torrent of gunfire
that shreds him into bright red gossamer,
and I feel nothing.
I just snap the picture,
letting my camera feel for me.
It's a good shot, my editor tells me.
Good enough to buy me another carton of cigarettes,
each pack another day,
my only way of keeping time.
If war is a force that gives us meaning,
then penetrate me with metaphor until I've lost mine.
Tear out my eyes and scatter my senses across the Gaza strip.
Bathe me in napalm and set my every pore ablaze.
Slow my heartbeats down to seconds and count them with the sun.
Take this shell of a body to an end only the dead have seen
and strip the skin from my bones till I can finally be called clean,
because I can't do it anymore either, Danny.
I can't live in a world that allows this.
And now I know why you walked into that gunfire.
It must have been the only thing that felt pure.
We hang onto this filthy little existence to our last bit of strength,
but only the dead have seen the end of war,
and with each war, I have seen more dead,
corpses piled to the sky for men with precious metals
in place of hearts to play King of the Hill,
and we are at the bottom,
soaking up the blood.
My camera is a sponge.
|About Brian Barnett
Brian Barnett lives in Frankfort,
Kentucky. He is the author of
the Middle-Grade novellas
Graveyard Scavenger Hunt and
Chaos at the Carnival, and the
collection A Closetful of
Monsters. He is a Full Member
of The Fictioneers with nearly
300 credits in magazines such
as The Lovecraft eZine,
Spaceports & Spidersilk, and
Trembles Horror Magazine and
in various anthologies produced
by Blood Bound Books, James
Ward Kirk Fiction, and Thirteen
humanity goes haywire
stars are blinking out
dead military secret
the gremlins are back
thousand forms of cruelty
beware the graveyard
never enter after dark
all the shadows move
|For poems by Kelly Glover,
Brian Barnett and Ezra
Stead, click here
For poems by Ron Larson
and Jonel Abellanosa, click
For poem by David A.
Estringel, click here