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“A Demon Over Crumpets by Stewart Stafford While taking tea with my physician father, He pressed me on what was ailing me, I imparted my supernatural experiences, Laughing, he recommended fresh air and rest. Just then, he stopped chewing his crumpet, A demon’s image scorched the wall beside us, I rushed over and scraped the hot soot away, And saw two bloodshot eyes surveying the room. I invoked the name of my protector, Jesus Christ, And bade the dark spirit leave us and, with that, The blackened image vanished from the wall, Crackling fireplace flames were the only sound. My father leapt up, made his excuses, and left, I last saw his stooping gait and balding pate, As they fled down the garden path by the hedge, Darting looks over his shoulder, he was gone. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.”

Quote by Stewart Stafford

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Stewart Stafford

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“There’s this space in our lives that we attempt to fill with more space and the nothingness grows larger while our lives get smaller, a fact we can’t seem to accept very well. So, we take walks and we work and we go to movies and basketball games and church and we Exist in our nothing lives and when we die a speech is made and we are forgotten once again, only more permanently this time.”

“Spring-Heeled Jack Is In The Lane by Stewart Stafford Go indoors, children, before dark falls, A fiend comes hideous and inhumane, Tell your mother not to answer the door, For Spring-Heeled Jack is in the lane. Is it spectre, beast or demon? A trick of light to fool the brain? Blue flames spew from hellish maw, Spring-Heeled Jack growls in the lane. No one can unsee its monstrous face, Nor its claws of steel that bloodstain, Its haunting cackle freezes victims, Spring-Heeled Jack leaps from the lane. © Stewart Stafford, 2024. All rights reserved.”

“On Darkest Paths by Stewart Stafford Temporal loop on a ravenous street, A vampire denied a ticking heartbeat, Restless spirit of night's prettified edge, Bound acolyte of the infinite pledge. Human life, another planet’s memory, This skittish flock, a prized delicacy, Blood frenzy mingles with death's choir, A living essence merged with undead fire. No loving touch nor warmth of light, I must stay numb, shun my plight, Solitary, not lonely; sated yet lost. A fickle captive in my permafrost. I spurn self-pity’s indulgent call, My wastrel's drudge to primal thrall. A millstone for necks of mortal strays Perishing slowly in diminished ways. An inversion of creation, a deviant lie, A predator's bloodlust can never comply, Rogue feeders, unbound by pack affliction. Until driven away or freed of addiction. © 2025, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”

“Knowhere by Stewart Stafford Poleaxed by vampiric tapping— rattling timeline of a loop lapping— Hypochondriac paranoid toothache, tasting everything I see and break. Showed my tongue to an undertaker; licked his face — proved I’m no faker. A measured, grim diagnosis followed, matter from a cardiac pump hollowed. Draped loosely in a tea towel shroud, resurrected—naked, loud, and proud— Rocket to the pub for a post-wake baptism, a ploughman’s lunch with relish schism. © 2026, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.”