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Fancy was her name Editor's Note: This piece is on display at the Animal Welfare League of Alexandria as part of the Del Ray Artisans Gallery Without Walls program through May 31, 2015. #Unreal #MixedMedia #Collage #Fox #Foxes #NatureArt #RecycledArt #FoundObjects #PaperArt #Acrylic #FolkArt #Arts Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Hoodoo Nigger "You ready? Stop all that crying, Will! Bring your tail out that bathroom and stop stalling! Take this here hood and gloves and put it on! Well, well. Why son, you look like the bogeyman." Daddy laughs. But it doesn't make me any more ready for what he wants me to do later. I wonder…Were the other kids going like me? You ever wonder why I wore gloves at a picnic?
Once ago, there was this Hoodoo Nigger who started to put these strange notions in Niggers head. We wanted to show those Niggers how much magic he had. He wanted Coloreds to have their own stores, schools and vote in elections. One night, after we—the Klan, lynched the “Hoodoo Nigger,” something awful happened. A Klansman suffered as a result of it. I won’t say his name because I don’t want you asking folks about him. What Daddy will call him for you is The Red Man. He was the one who was in charge of getting souvenirs off of Niggers’fingers, ears, and toes and … After he cut off the ding-a-ling, his hands changed color and never turned white again. He washed and soaked his hands in bleach and even dipped them in lye, but that blood stain never wanted to wash off. Sometimes his fingernails bleed, leaving a trail of blood wherever he walked. If he was asked about his hands, The Red Man would tell folks’ stories how he his hands changed colors due to fighting with a wild Beast while hunting. He claimed the Beast came sneaking after him from out the bushes, growling. He told folks it had long, thick, hairy legs with a head like a cow. He described the Beast’s smelly odor as being akin to arms pits after a day working in tobacco fields. Blood stained teeth and a thick red slime covered his snoot and mouth. I guess he just had a late dinner (what kind of fool does he think folks are?), and whatever that Beast ate before was dripping from each side of his mouth. Acorns, twigs, branches were all tangled up in his mangy hair. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Blue Ember “We haven’t located us yet." - The Darjeeling Limited She lights up another cigarette. The frayed ends curling like the bare branches outside, stripped by winter's claws. She inhales. The pristine white paper she rolled with surgical precision disintegrates, while the tiny ember singes each wiry tobacco tendril into dust. She taps it back into the ashtray, exhales. She immediately feels guilty. So much for quitting. Another drag, another disintegration, and another sip of her hot water, lemon, whiskey drink. She exhales. Her body feels warm and shrouds the chill that has accompanied her ever since she left herself alone. She looks around the bar. A room full of no one. No one she knows. She wonders what it would be like to be in a photograph with these strangers: there's the man with the goatee and beret who would read her palms and tell her of her past life as a clown, the woman with kohl-soaked eyes and wrinkled lips and brass knuckles, who would tell her about the Hell's Kitchen brawls she led in 1968, and the bartender with arms littered in Sailor Jerry tattoos who would serve a glass of water with each drink, Stay hydrated, doll, he would say. Kindred fools. Bunny ears, crossed eyes, hair tugging. Each of them representing a world inside of her she has yet to explore. Each of them flaunting their personalities without regret, without shame, without fear. She looks to the ash tray for any hopeful signs of disintegrated remorse. “Zia,” he would croon, “tune out the noise. Why listen when it’ll only bang up your head?” She rubs her temples; the image of the familiar photographs with perfect strangers fades away to replace the familiar blue gaze the color of some starry night. No sign of blue in her ash tray. No sign of blue in her drink. No sign of burning or drowning this blue. Expectations litter her mind. Weighing it down with scraps of worries, anxieties, smiles, crossed eyes that were never her own. A puppet with tangled strings. This life is not meant to be lived for others. Maybe she is a bit darker than she thought -- than everyone thought. Maybe it’s the whiskey. #Unreal #Poetry #Photography #Solitude #LostLove #Noir #Imagery Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
My Name is Nima My name is Nima. The people you cannot see are in my room again. They say I am a bitch. I am afraid they will beat me.
On the table next to my bed is a picture. It is the only thing I have from my home. It is a black and white photo of me when I was a little girl. I am wearing a lovely dress. There is a small pot of flowers at my feet. However, my face is sad. There is fear in my eyes. The people you cannot see laugh at my picture. They tell me they will beat me like a dog. I grew up in a village in the northern region of Somalia. Most people there were poor and lived in dilapidated houses. Crime was everywhere and sometimes soldiers from the Mogadishu warlords would come to our village and steal money and food. It was a difficult existence, and as a Muslim girl, I was the lowest form of life in that barbaric society. Yet as a child, I did not understand this. I was so afraid of my family. None of them loved me, but I never knew why. When I was little my older brothers would beat me for no reason. They would say I am a bitch. They would say I am crazy. I was so afraid. They would not let me out of the bedroom. I would cry endlessly. My mother and father would get angry and tell me to leave the house. Sometimes they would not let me back in, even at night. As a little girl I was always scared and lonely. It was then that I first starting hearing the voices of the people you cannot see. They would say I am an ugly bitch. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Ariel By Adreyo Sen QuailBellMagazine.com When I was eight, I lost my voice. I was still a manic surge, I capered and danced, seeking to be the sunlight I always was. But now they thought I was storm, I was pressed into sober dress, once so much more, I was now less. I sought to be in vivid smell. I was unwashed and therefore more myself. My presence was discomfort. Exiled, I dwindled away. I came to life again. I fell in love. With you. My love was the cake at your door, the phantom kiss on the unfeeling shore that is your neck. But you didn't see me. Yesterday, I railed at you and when you looked through me, I knew I was not real. Perhaps I never was, not even when I was wind and air, inveterate scatterer of the leaves and other people's cherished dreams. I woke up today and looked into my mirror. I was no longer there. #Unreal #Poem #Poetry #Ariel #Love #Folklore #Hans Christian Anderson #Lost My Voice #Vivid #Phantom Kiss #Broken Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Stupid Father, Stupid Son The Father was a large man with thick sideburns that ran into his mustache. His belly hung down over his belt. He sweated through his shirt as he swung the pick axe. The Son was also large but with a clean face though he was twenty-seven. The Son was the hardest worker on the line.
“This heat son is a keelin me,” the Father said. The Son did not respond. He kept his head down swinging the pick. “You ain’t afraid of Horse are you,” the Father asked. “I ain’t afraid.” Horse was a lean man with a short rifle and black rimmed hat he pulled down low on his head. He rode the horse slowly up and down the road. The prisoners called him Horse. Johns was a prisoner at Elm Hurst as well, but they let him walk the road unshackled with a shotgun. “Johns,” Horse yelled from down the road. “Daddy Boy ain’t swinging. Get him swinging.” Johns walked over to the Father and Son. “Hurry,” the Son said, “start swinging.” He spoke in a soft voice through his teeth. He looked at the dirt as he spoke. Johns walked to the edge of the ditch. The sun came down hard on their bare necks. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Cusp of Now the cusp of now is anticipation, conviction, the leap, the fall, the ascension-- all at once the cusp of now is pitting all that is human hungry against all that is in human bidden from hidden the cusp of now is a second decaying free found by oblivion cradled in the sticky claws of chaos the cusp of now is your next breath in honor of the breath before and in thrilled pursuit of the breath imminent the cusp of now is #Unreal #Poetry #Poem #PhotoArt #PhotoCollage #DigitalArt #CuspOfNow #Anticipation #Immediacy #Spontaneous Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Angels My wife let the angels into the house with the lighting of a candle and an opening of the door at 10:30 p.m. They immediately set upon the bread and butter she offered like they hadn’t had a bite to eat in weeks. “They’re really hard to see,” I said to my wife. “Of course,” she said. “They’re just beams of pale light.” Oh, so that excuses all manner of things then, I sneered to myself. I assumed that the bread and butter they ate transubstantiated into soul energy borne in the form of light. Anyway, it started getting trickier to handle when the angels began to sleep with me. My wife and I took separate beds years ago. Our sex life had fizzled and we each discovered that we much preferred a good night’s sleep over a good night’s romp in the hay. We were in our late fifties. The spunk just wasn’t there as much as old. The angels, though, wouldn’t hear of sleeping on the air mattresses we had set up just for them. They liked my bed in particular because it was big and firm, so they crowded in with me. All night long there were these beams of light shooting out from underneath the blankets that I later learned were angel farts. They not only farted there but goosed me and tickled me, which drove me to all kinds of distraction and insomnia in the night. By morning I confronted my wife. “You let these angels in and all they do is cause havoc.” “They are good spirits. I invited them in to help us.” “They are not. They’re pests.” “Maybe they think you need more attention than I do.” “Well, I wish they didn’t. They’re your guests, not mine.” That was the attitude I adopted from then on, that these were not my guests, and so I needn’t even be kind. I made sure to hog the bed when I laid down in it, spreading my arms and legs akimbo. Still, this didn’t faze the angels. They merely slept on top of me, their ethereal weight like small stones upon my skin. The badminton games were infused with angelic cursing, which I couldn’t translate into earthly tongues but just sounded gross with all the slobber in their voices when they spoke. Plus they lit the yard with their continued farts. Finally, I had enough. I blew out the candle and held the door open. “Get out,” I said to the angels. Only one of them moved past, stealing another crust of bread along the way. Where might be the rest? I ran from room to room in search of them, only to find them all nuzzled under my blankets, no room for me at all, now giggling like school children, now cursing and farting like sailors more than angels. I didn’t spend a minute more inside that room. I went over to my wife’s room and told her to move over. “Why?” “Your guests have thrown me out of my own bed,” I said. She scooted to one side and I slid in next to her. I couldn’t sleep. I fumed about the angels. My wife was kind enough to rub my neck to try and calm me, but it did little to suffice. I turned to speak to her and was greeted by a warm and loving kiss, which I gratefully returned. Next thing you knew we were making whoopee in her bed, a long time having passed since we had even seen each other naked. While we lay exhausted afterward, the angels made their procession of light past our door and out of the house entirely. “Mission accomplished,” my wife said to them as they passed. They winked and farted in commiseration. #Unreal #Supernatural #Sex #Angels #FlashFiction #Fiction #Writing #Prose #AltLit #AngelStories Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Play | She's Art | Incipiens | sharpen this pen coil strummed strings around my teeth as white as piano keys, and play to a beat that is my own. ladies. yes, ladies and gentlemen, she's losing her hair, and her eyes, the color of violet rain. and she's here to shed her locks and cry amuck, while the grand folk rattle luscious jewels, suck on stringy baubles and quizzically mutter, she's art. #Unreal #Poetry #Photography #Sexuality #Female #MixedMedia Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Nothing Compares By Phil Brooks QuailBellMagazine.com Whether it be a crystal clear lake, glistening in the moonlight, A shooting star, flying through a cloudless night, A sun that’s rising in the morning or setting in the evening, A stained glass window rippling in the church bells ring, A view of a forest from twenty-five thousand feet above, A newborn kitten, puppy, human, or dove, There is nothing I can find with my eyes, That compares to the beauty that you shine, The sun’s heat cannot radiate as strong, Time itself could never last as long, Your beauty can not be measured up to, and it shall never end, These words are all fact, when describing you I’d never pretend, I only speak the truth of the one I love. #Unreal #LovePoem #Love #Comparison #Lyrical #AltLit #Rhyme #Dating #Relationships #Romance Visit our shop and subscribe.Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. |