Poison Apples

H i.      My name is Joseph Darkgrate.           I write short stories of the scary variety.                Some may concern things that are familiar, and others may be foreign. I f you want to find out more about me, see the biography section.       Examine closely.      Also, a big thanks to Marie Chapman for her art and contributions to Poison Apples.      And also my parents who are the reason I exist.  Because otherwise I wouldn't be able to write.      Feel free to drop suggestions, requests, criticism, compliments, or live babies (must be under 3   years old) into the comments below.  We happily accept. Don't forget to utter the name of Poison Apples to those you would also like to view the content on this site.  Thank you.

The sun set slow that day Its light soothing blood, The moon come silent                                And sweet That night the red ran on Maligny Street. Birch came first, A day like any other. Esme, his late wife And Mavis, his dear mother. No one could say for sure What really tore the mind of the man Birch Deep When stone steamed scarlet                               That cold winter week That night the red ran on Maligny Street You could say it was snow, Snowflakes on skin like leprosy. Or was it Birch mistress Cornelia? A devious woman of soul and mind was she. Not that it would've changed what happened When the sun went down by the silent grey sky                                                           Barren and bleak That night the red ran on Maligny Street As Birch came home that day Another thing changed Though his wife was still there And his mother no less deranged, The door left open Beast flesh under