Three new poems for you from Holly Day, F.J. Bergmann, and Anton Rose and, while all three works contain food references, the underlying darker, dystopian tone ensures these are certainly not recipes for happy meals!


​The Light
by Holly Day

We wait for the bombs to feel us out
pass the potatoes, say grace over the odd angels
that have watched over us for years
through the stained-glass windows of old churches
through the eyes of Orthodox iconography. This is a moment of peace
that will never come again.

Through the windows, the strength of distant concussions
fold trees in half, take grain silos and snap power lines. 
We turn up the gas, clear the dinner table
I put a knife in your hand, just in case.

The sky grows as dark as if seen through closed eyes
windows shake and fly apart. Hands
over their eyes, I stretch out next to the children
tell them it’s just the sound of His voice, there’s nothing 
to be afraid of, it’ll all work out in the end. 

* Holly Day has taught writing classes at the Loft Literary Center in Minnesota, since 2000. Her poetry has recently appeared in Oyez Review, SLAB, and Gargoyle, while her newest poetry book, Ugly Girl, just came out from Shoe Music Press.


Nature Morte
by F.J. Bergmann

Sweetness precedes
the underlying malignancy: 
bruises on dead-ripe peaches; 
liquescent orchids seeping 
into the unread note 
ending Sorry Love You Baby;
leaves before they fall
golden in dying light.

* F.J. Bergmann writes poetry and speculative fiction, often simultaneously, appearing in Dreams and Nightmares, New Myths, On Spec, Quantum Realities, Silver Blade, and a bunch of literary journals that should have known better. The editor of Star*Line, the journal of the Science Fiction Poetry Association, and poetry editor of Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, she frequents Wisconsin and fibitz.com


Dinner for Two
by Anton Rose

We gave ourselves two minutes each
like supermarket sweep;
you, ever the optimist
ran straight for the sweets
while I retreated
to tins of apricots and corned beef.
 
You came back smiling, a half-eaten
bag of marshmallows
clutched in your hands.
We found one of the fires outside,
used a car aerial for toasting,
tried to remember some old songs.
 
After dinner we watched the stars –
below them, on the horizon,
saw another explosion
so we played our favourite game:
held hands, closed our eyes,
pretended it was over.

* Anton Rose lives in Durham (UK) with his wife and their dog. He writes fiction and poetry, and his work has appeared in a number of print and online journals. Find him at antonrose.com or @antonjrose

We've already published reworkings of two traditional fairy-tales – Cinderella and Little Red Riding Hood – and now it's time for the tale of Hansel and Gretel to be given the revisionist treatment. But, be warned: nobody lives happily ever after! Our author – Samson Stormcrow Hayes – is a writer, screenwriter and Grievous Angel regular who has tackled everything from comedy to horror in various mediums (film, manga comics, stories, articles, etc.). He is a member of the Horror Writers Association and can be found at  www.StormcrowHayes.com  and http://stormcrowspeaks.blogspot.com


​The Best Laid Plans of Children and Witches
by Samson Stormcrow Hayes


For weeks the Witch had known of their plan. She may have been old and frail, but she still had her wits, and her ability to divinate the near future. She knew the children were planning her murder.

It made sense. She'd long been ostracized by the local villagers for crimes she didn't commit (mostly), so she relied on the local children to help her out with errands and chores. Hansel and Gretel were simply the latest helpers, though they would be her last if they followed through with their dark desires. They would kill poor witchy-poo and take her candy-coated cottage as their own. No one would miss the old crone, in fact, the village would celebrate her demise.

But she had plans of her own. The children were young and foolish and she knew their weaknesses.

Gretel, though taller and stronger, was more fearful of the witch. She was compliant and would do as she was told. Hansel was the threat, but he was always hungry and he enjoyed the witch's sweet meats.

They arrived in the afternoon.

"Are you hungry?" asked Hansel. "We could make your favorite dish, roasted squirrel. We caught one in the forest."

The Witch knew that they planned to poison her.

"Why, yes, that sounds delightful, but I already have something cooking in the oven. Be a good lad, Hansel, and fetch some wood for the fire."

Once he was gone, she chastised Gretel. "Look at you, you're filthy. You can't walk around like that. Quickly, into this bath." She bade the little girl enter the pot of water she had just placed over the fire. "The water is nice and warm, is it not?"

Gretel placed a finger in the water and agreed. Hesitantly, she entered.

"Get in all the way and I'll place this lid over you to keep out any cold drafts."

Gretel ducked down as the Witch placed the lid over the pot, trapping her inside just as Hansel returned with an armful of wood.

"Place it beneath the pot so that it may boil for my broth." Hansel added wood to the fire, little knowing his sister was trapped inside.

"Now we need to start the oven, but something's blocking the flue. Clear it out and I'll give you apples and sugar."

As soon as Hansel leaned inside, the Witch pushed him in and latched the door. She cooked both children, baking Hansel and boiling Gretel into a fine broth.

When the children's parents came looking for them, the Witch assured them she hadn't seen the children all day, but would they care for some chicken soup and leg of lamb? The parents, both hungry, ate eagerly.

Unbeknownst to all, when Hansel realized his fate in the oven, he seasoned himself with the powdered poison so the witch would still die. She did – along with their parents who shouldn't have let their children work for a witch.

And even in the village no one lived happily ever after.

We've four short poems to start with – three by Bruce Boston and one by Herb Kauderer – followed one slightly longer poem by new-to-the-Angel writer Sharon Larkin. Bruce takes a novel spin on some established concepts, Herb's tanka reminds me of some of William Gibson's ideas, and, finally, Sharon suggests some people might enjoy being probed by aliens.

A Dubious Talent
 
She was a clairvoyant
who could only
foresee the future
of alternate realities. 


Paint It Black

At the dead heart
of a collapsar 
lies a locked door
to another universe.


Excuse of a Black Hole
 
Don't blame me!
I eat to survive,
just like you.
 

by Bruce Boston...  His work has appeared in hundreds of publications, including Asimov's SF, Amazing Stories, Realms of Fantasy, Strange Horizons, Weird Tales, The Pedestal Magazine, The Twilight Zone Magazine, Year's Best Fantasy & Horror, and the Nebula Awards Showcase. His poetry has received the Bram Stoker Award, the Asimov's Readers' Award, the Rhysling Award of the Science Fiction Poetry Association, the Balticon Poetry Award, and the SFPA Grandmaster Award. His website is at www.bruceboston.com


Business Deal
(tanka)
 
Red-haired wonder
sells her image to business
her trademark is lost.
Her own family photos
omit her forgotten face. 


by Herb Kauderer... Herb is an associate professor of English at Hilbert College. His tenth book of poetry – The Snowstorm of '14' (recently published by Written Image Press) – is the result of living at ground zero for two of the most epic snowstorms in the history of snowy Buffalo, NY.


Venit, Vidit, Fugit
 
He was different from the rest:
attentive, inquisitive, persistent.
 
I readily responded to his attention, 
enquiries, yes, even the interrogation.
 
He was tireless in bed – inventive.
And so, I miss him. Madly.
 
Once you've had a lover like Zek
you'll not be satisfied with any other,
 
nor be in a fit state to accommodate
anyone of normal appetites.
 
He came suddenly,
departed in an instant, leaving a note:
 
Recalled to my galaxy.
Thanks for the probings.


by Sharon Larkin... Sharon’s poems have appeared in magazines and anthologies including May Day (Cinnamon) and Heart Shoots (Indigo Dreams). She is chair of Cheltenham Poetry Society.

Last week we had a modern retelling of the Little Red Riding Hood fairy-tale, this week it is over to Naomi Libicki for a strictly 21st century spin on the Cinderella story. Our storyteller – Naomi Libicki, making a welcome return to The Grievous Angel, lives in Jerusalem, Israel, where she takes care of other people's children for a living. She makes a mean apple strudel and has had stories published in Electric Spec and Apex Magazine.


​​Girls' Night
by Naomi Libicki
 
​
"Cinderella," said her stepmother, "you shall go to the ball!"

"Oh, goody," Cinderella grumbled.
"Now, don't be like that," said her stepmother. "We can't all expect to catch the prince, but I'm sure there will be some nice marquises and baronets who'd look your way – if only you'd smile a bit more."

"What are you wearing?  Do you want to borrow something of mine?" said her first stepsister, tearing through the wardrobe with an alarming glint in her eye. "The purple one would probably fit you, I guess... Or, oh! There's this blue one! It's kind of boob-tastic, but at least no one will notice your butt, am I right?"

"What's wrong with my..." Cinderella started, but her first stepsister had already dashed off, leaving Cinderella with a double armful of frothy ballgowns.

"Oh lord!  You can't do your hair like that!" Her second stepsister shoved her into a chair in front of the vanity table, and started taking a bewildering variety of instruments from the drawers. Smoke was coming out of one of them. "If only you'd used that avocado mask like I told you to – but we'll do what we can."

"Ow!" said Cinderella, as her second stepsister jabbed at her head with a pin.

"Don't be a baby," said her second stepsister. "And do me a favor and dance with Count Robert, won't you? Maybe if you step on his feet hard enough he'll have to go home, and he won't be trying to grope me all night." From somewhere in her décolletage, a synthesized voice began to sing that partying was fun, and that everyone was looking forward to the weekend. "I've got to take this – don't you dare move for the next ten minutes, or it won't set up right."

Her second stepsister swept out of the room in a cloud of cellphone chatter, and Cinderella stared at herself in the mirror glumly, wondering if she could get all those pins out by herself. In a corner of the room, the air shimmered and sparkled and chimed with the sound of tiny silver bells. Cinderella leapt up and got a scorch from the curling iron.

"What's wrong, love?" said her fairy godmother.

Cinderella scrubbed at her face and tried not to sniffle.  "I don't... I don't want to go to the ball."

"Is that all," said her fairy godmother. She marched to the door and called out into the hallway, "Cinderella can't come!  She has swine flu! And E. coli!"

"Oh, but..." her stepmother's voice protested.

"You don't want the Health Police in here, do you?" said her fairy godmother. The sounds of bustling and excited preparations continued for a few minutes, and then the household descended into unaccustomed quiet.

"There," said her fairy godmother. She waved her magic wand, and Cinderella was dressed in pajamas, with her hair down from its elaborate style. There was a bowl of popcorn and two mugs of hot chocolate on the bedside table, and the mirror on the vanity had been replaced with a 65-inch flatscreen monitor. "I happen to know of a site where they've leaked some scenes from next season's Game of Thrones." She grabbed the bowl of popcorn and sat down on the bed.

Cinderella sat down next to her. "Awesome," she said, and took a long sip of her hot chocolate. On the screen, Peter Dinklage was running someone through with a longsword. It was going to be a good night.