by Mandi Rose
you call yourself “Santa.”
You make me sick.
You failed the lie detector test. Then confessed
to some of what you did. To your own
Now you’re pleading “not guilty”? Don’t
me laugh, Santa. What do you think the jury will do, when they look at you? When
they see your victim? That trembling child, with the haunted eyes.
they’ll sympathize, because you’re an old man? This is Jersey, pal! If we still
had the death penalty, there’d be a needle with your name on it: William Madigan.
Last name same as mine,
I’m sorry to say. When I look at Shithead, I see you in his bleary eyes.
You sick, perverted sonuvabitch.
You loved playing
Santa for the kids . . . now we know why! How
many others were there? Rosy-cheeked girls begging you for American Girls, and
you sliding your fat disgusting hand inside their pants. Did you diddle the
boys, too, like those “reassigned” priests?
Like those sick priests, you’re capable of
knowing right from wrong! You just chose not to use the common sense God gave
you! You chose to go the path of the devil!
And then became
You are so lucky
to be locked up, nice and safe. Outside your
cell, seasoned inmates mill around like big, hungry cats. Just waiting . . .
Your own fucking granddaughter! You saw her
the day she was born! When Shithead held her, so carefully, like he was scared
she’d break, I thought you looked
proud. Little did I know what was festering in your mind, and crotch.
And to blame it on her!
A nine-year-old. Said she came onto you! You have real issues.
For three years, you put her through hell. And you’re still torturing her. To
put her through a trial . . .
You really think you’ll be found “not guilty”?
All you need is one “sympathetic” juror . . .
or one with the same sick urges as you.
You will not win this case! You can’t win this
case! There is no way on God’s green Earth that you could win!
Still . . . you know what?
Maybe you should
Your cellie, that bug-eyed Puerto Rican, with
the gruesome tatts? He’s up for parole after the first.
Ha-ha, I did my homework.
Cellie’s got daughters he needs to support.
He’s looking for extra work. Off the books. Way
off the books. . . .
So I’ll have myself a “Holly, Jolly
Picturing your jollies rammed down your
Mandi Rose is a single
working mother of two. Recently she became a grandmother for the second time.
She resides in Florida with her awesome
boyfriend and teen daughter and granddaughter. In the little spare time she
has, writing is what assists in keeping her sane as she takes bits from her
Hillary Lyon is an illustrator for horror/sci-fi
pulp fiction websites and magazines. She is also founder and senior editor
for the independent poetry publisher, Subsynchronous Press. An SFPA
Rhysling Award nominated poet, her poems have appeared in journals such as Eternal
Haunted Summer, Jellyfish Whispers, Scfifaikuest, Illya’s Honey, and Red River
as well as numerous anthologies. Her short stories have appeared
recently in Night
to Dawn, Yellow Mama, Black Petals, Sirens Call, and Tales from
the Moonlit Path, among others,
as well as in numerous horror
anthologies such as Night in New
Orleans: Bizarre Beats from the
Big Easy, Thuggish
Itch: Viva Las Vegas, and White Noise & Ouija Boards. She appeared,
briefly, as the uncredited "all-American Mom with baby"
in Purple Cactus Media’s 2007 Arizona indie-film, "Vote for
lived in France, Brazil, Canada, and several states in the US, she now resides
in southern Arizona. https://hillarylyon.wordpress.com/