Upon The Blasted Heath

The three witches planned a hell-broth for Macbeth. Their boiling cauldron was ready for the eye of newt, toe of frog, wool of bat, tongue of dog…

“Wait a minute.”

Hecate, the main chef, added extra frown lines to her wrinkled face.

“Look at the flies on the newt’s eye and frog's toe.”

The dog’s tongue, lizard’s leg, and Howlett's wing were also covered.

“The recipe doesn't call for that many flies.”

So Macbeth passed, on his way to Duncan's camp, undisturbed by the Weird Sisters, but swallowing flies. The bulbous-headed insects were murderously thick that night on the heath.

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Sailing To America

There was something about the endless sky, gray and somber, and the ship’s surging through the dark swirling waters of the Atlantic, that prompted Macbeth to worry about the past. The witches. The blood. The trouble that followed. Was there a route to forgiveness? People went down on their knees, didn’t they? Could he hire someone to do it for him? He was still royalty, wasn’t he? But the breeze was so soothing, the trouble, so remote. Surely Scotland was a memory best forgotten. Besides, in the distance, he could almost see, shining like a pardon, the Statue of Liberty.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda Lowe's stories and poems have appeared in Gone Lawn, Tiny Molecules, Eunoia Review, Misfit Magazine, Six Sentences, and others.