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Twisted Tales

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“Girl! Up! Where’s our breakfast?”

            hearth long grown cold

            glittering glass in growing light

“Girl! Answer me! Where are you?”

            ash-stained skin

            calloused fingers to never move again



Glimmering glass in midmorning light

Red rose lips, bloodless skin

Dying grass and still-stale air

Pale flakes melting as they fall

            Princess mourned

            Queen triumphant



            The skulls grin.

        Twining   vines,              vines twining,

                                    Bloodstained thorns.

Swords swallowed in undergrowth,

                        Hands broken and rotten.

             The beauty sleeps.



forest floor—pale and soft

                     fallen from on high

                                 in desperate flight


crimson drying on white

                       call silenced mid-cry

                                    never again to rise—




          collapsed,       magic             stolen, gone,

                                                         lost when laughter fled

     stone crumbled          on

                                         dead grass, golden hair

     on freezing wind                                                  blown away



Bitingly bitter breeze;

            icy hair tugged by freezing water.

     “My dear sister,” calls a voice,

                                   tone a loving lie.

     “My dear sister,” calls a voice.

The bitingly bitter breeze howls.



The moon shines on the stones,

            little feet pattering along an untrod path,

                        brother and sister in the woods seeking home.


“Delicious!” the witch declares, turning

                                    to hold the spoon to the girl’s mouth.

                                                   “Taste your brother, dear.”