By E. W. Farnsworth
Taking the short cut across pumpkin fields,
The two stepped over vines by moonlight.
In the distance were sounds of hi jinx and cat calls,
Furtive, costumed creatures acting out the night.
“Come on, Francis, we’ll be late—hell’s to pay,”
“You go on ahead, Sis. I won’t be late.”
Alone now, Becky heard her friends’ wild play,
Or so she thought. She pressed through the far gate.
“Francis, the zombies! They are eating me!”
Her brother had problems of his devising.
He fell, and vines took life and reached for him.
He heard his sister’s frantic screams, then nothing.
“I don’t think shortcuts are a good idea,” he cried.
Rotting choked him as hooded death’s scythe sliced.
W. Farnsworth is widely published online and in print. Writing poems as well as stories and novels, he has an abiding interest in horror, particularly in the run-up to Halloween.
A collection of some of his horror prose, including several prize winners, “‘The Black Marble Griffon’ and Other Disturbing Stories,” was published by Zimbell House Publishing, LLC.
Many of his more recent horror poems will be collected in a future omnibus collection of his chilling work inspired by the global pandemic.