Black Petals Issue #93 Autumn, 2020

The Old Hag
BP Artists and Illustrators
Mars-News, Views and Commentary
Justin Alcala: A Horse for Us All-Fiction
Matthew Penwell: Bless Be Him-Fiction
Shiloh Simmons: Coffin Birth-Fiction
John Cox: Don't Teach Cats Latin-Fiction
Ken Hueler: I, Said the Fish-Fiction
R. A. Busby: Not the Man I Married-Fiction
Jude Clee: Notes from a Bathroom Stall-Fiction
M. W. Moriearty: Scarecrows-Fiction
Robert Masterson: Sharper Than She Ever Imagined-Fiction
Michael Steven: The Mirror-Fiction
Kevin Hawthorne: The Song-Fiction
Marlin Bressi: The Man on the Box-Fiction
Terry Riccardi: Winter Hunt-Fiction
Stephen J. Tillman: Angry Tammy-Flash Fiction
Andreas Hort: Pay the Price!-Flash Fiction
Sam Clover: Piety and Parm-Flash Fiction
Deisy Toussaint: Parasite in the Shadows-Flash Fiction
Outnumbered-Flash Fiction by Cindy Rosmus
Mickey Sloan: Basement Beldam-Poetry
Daniel G. Snethen: Grandmother Screamed-Poetry
Daniel G. Snethen: Pumpkin Tanka-Poetry
Daniel G. Snethen: Yellow Death-Haiku
Theresa C. Gaynord: The JuJu Man-Poetry
Theresa C. Gaynord: The Widow Paris-Poetry
Theresa C. Gaynord: Funeral at the Louisiana Bayou-Poetry
Theresa C. Gaynord: The Old Hag-Poetry
Loris John Fazio: Halloween Prayer-Poetry
Marilyn Lou Berry: My Darling, My Sustenance-Poetry
Chris Collins: Nature-Poetry

The Old Hag

by Theresa C. Gaynord


In the morning all were gone -


The finger-marks upon the door,

the kettle that never boiled,

the ill-fitting boots that were poorly



Was it yesterday?


Those little things, faint, far and clear,

interrupt once again.


The marinated salmon ready for the oven,

the wine unopened, the glasses lying in

wait. The spotted mirror that reflects the

whole room.


Wrinkled fingers examine a portrait upon a

wall, whispering the phrases of a spell so low

so as not to draw attention; a special rapport


with a realm beyond human senses.


Shadows surface through awakening,

saturating the air with claw marks so numerous

you could see the dusty trails. Demons silhouette

against the night.


A cascade of stars gleam far above the cracked

window panes, sending fragments of broken

light cascading through hallways that lead into

other rooms.


Evil glances toward a narrow corridor where a door

hangs open several inches off its hinges, the empty

bed, unkempt, plagued by its sunless existence, among

the splinter of breaking wood.


The old hag smiles, dissipating in air, the wind

carrying her stench. The blackness of her garments

stretched out, touching earth, descending upon her

victim, curled up in a ball, sound asleep,


against the base of an old oak tree.


  Theresa likes to write about matters of self-inflection and personal experiences. She likes to write about matters of an out-of body, out-of-mind state, as well as subjects of an idyllic, pagan nature and the occult. Theresa writes horror, as well as concrete gritty and realistic dramas. Theresa is said to be a witch and a poet, (within the horror writing community) and she has been published in a number of magazines, ezines, anthologies and books throughout the years. She is a former elementary school, a psychic medium - reader and advisor.   

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