Sinister Short Stories

The Witch's Factory (Poem)

Little bitty kiddies, One by One I locked them in the cellar

Won't let them go, they cry for "mama", want to run and tell her

Some are short, some are tall, some are fat some are thin

Some are gorgeous, some are ugly as sin

Short ones, I shape and shift which is rough and fun

Tall ones, I break down, until enough are done

Gorgeous ones I turn to porcelain beauties

While others watch as I fulfill my wicked duties

Ugly ones, I remove their faces and turn into wooden sticks

As their regular faces would most often make me sick

Ones that are plump I turn into stuffed plush

Or if I am hungry I grind them into mush.

I had four or five locked down below

Then my own daughter saw them below.

She heard noises up and down the halls

Trying to convince me there were walking dolls

Trapped in the dolls are spirits but not their innocence

Instead I lock that away, never said I was benevolent

I try to pass my wicked torch to my little daughter

But she refuses to be part of this porcelain slaughter.

One day she tried to burn down my factory of creations

Hard to believe to her I have a relation

I cast a spell with a bloody tear

And trap her in a room that I know she fears

I don't care if her hair is a mess

At least I gave my daughter a pretty dress