Black Petals Issue #96, Summer, 2021

The Last Victim of Vlad the Impaler

Editor's Page
BP Artists' Page
BP Guidelines
Mars-News, Views and Commentary
Dark Resurrection-Fiction by Michael Hopkins
A Dip in the Pool-Fiction by Hillary Lyon
Far Down in the Credits-Fiction by Roy Dorman
Guilt Trip-Fiction by James Flynn
Ky'thagra's Big Day-Fiction by Devin Marcus
Larger Prey-Fiction by Richard Brown
Lover-Fiction by N. G. Leonetti
Sail Away-Fiction by Chris Allyne
Sleeping Again-Fiction by Russ Bickerstaff
The Poison Doorway-Fiction by Dionosio Traverso Jr.
The Tick Bite-Fiction by Robb T. White
Bake Sale Inspiration-Flash Fiction by Samantha Carr
Hotel with Full Amenities-Flash Fiction by William Kitcher
Reincarnation Jeopardy-Flash Fiction by Kenneth James Crist
Sex Fiend-Flash Fiction by Karen Bayly
Witches' Sabbath-Poem by Mike Collins
Blood-Poem by Mike Collins
Death's Pornography-Poem by Mike Collins
Temptation-Poem by Mike Collins
Painting Light-Poem by Mike Collins
Dark Waltz-Poem by Marilyn Lou Berry
The Last Victim of Vlad the Impaler-Poem by Mehmet Akgonul
The Bravest Ant-Poem by Mehmet Akgonul
Ain't Alien Spores-Poem by Richard Stevenson
Giant Goldfish-Poem by Richard Stevenson
Igopogo-Poem by Richard Stevenson
Megamouth Has Cavities-Poem by Richard Stevenson

The Last Victim of Vlad the Impaler

Mehmet Akgönül


I was the new tree to be planted—

in the garden of corpses—

whose facial muscles twisted with pain— 

had made a strange expression on their faces.

I was a simple farmer—

who could not pay the Voivode his taxes.

If you saw people impaled from afar—

you would think they were smiling.

This is the strange expression I was talking about.

Before Vlad The Impaler’s capturing— 

by the Great Sultan of the Turks,

I was the last innocent who would be slaughtered.

I'm in the garden smelling—

rotten human flesh and dried blood.

I pray that God takes my life before I am impaled.

What kind of flowers will bloom—

from this soil watered with our blood.

So many innocent screams will be stuck on this earth.

Vlad the Impaler will be called Dracula—

and accused of sucking our blood.

But the only thing he sucked from us—

was the games we would play with our children.

And kisses we gave to our wives— 

that we have under the moonlight.

I watch them rub oil on the stake— 

and for the first time, I notice—

that my eyelids have muscle.

Because they are so tight— 

that I can't close my eyes.

Vlad approaches me—

and cuts my wrist with his dagger.

He drips my blood into his glass of wine— 

and is winking at me.

The beast snaps his fingers and his puppets impale me— 

to stake calmly as if they had no souls.

He makes the final touch— 

of his perverted artwork with me.

I think just before my screams and drown in my own blood—

Dracula must be more ruthless than the devil himself!

My moans in pain, tearing the clouds, reached God—

Even God turned a blind eye to the cruelty done to us.

The sky where angels should glide is full of crows.

The crows are as crowded as the victims.

I can not even breathe because of the stake—

I'm going to die, I'm dying, I'm dead.

Mehmet Akgönül is a poet who lives in Ankara, Turkey. He is studying at Hacettepe University Department of History. He worked as an editor  in an online newspaper GazeteHacettepe. His poems were published in Bosphorus Review of Books, The Nonconformist Literary Magazine, The Rye Whiskey Review, Punk Noir Magazine, Close to The Bone 4.4 Showcase and more…

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