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Stop Talking at Me By Ghia Vitale QuailBellMagazine.com This isn’t a conversation. This is you, Talking at me, Masturbating your tongue with the soundwaves that deliver your thoughts, To unwitting ears, Next to a mouth whose opinion is very - You couldn’t care less, About whether or not their minds are open or receptive, To even materialize a response, The ultimate receipt and proof of purchase. Words melt into everything and immortalize themselves as stains, On our tongue, on our lips, on our skin, On our brains, And wherever else we chuck them. When you impose a one-person dialogue upon an unwitting me, You are hogging one of the most finite resources of our life: Time, Without concern nor interest in, The universes sitting beside you. Whoops! Did I just derail your train of thought? Since you’ve given me no choice but to listen, I might as well return the favor: Do you ever think of all this beauty that eludes you, Simply because you’d rather assault ears, Than indulge in the thoughts of others? Beauty never faded, But you did. But for now, I’ll continue sitting here, As my fingers type frantically, With my eyes, cemented to the screen, And occasionally humor you with a monosyllabic response. As you talk at me, not with me, And disregard an entire world that you’ll never (want to) see. #Unreal #StillReal #Poem #TalkingAtMe #ShutUp #YourSilenceIsGolden #YourTongueGotLoose 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.
Four Points Hidden away a lone cross stands; In a valley ever shrouded by mist, Hearts thrive and dreams persist The idol not built by mortal hands. Four points come together, There rests a symbol on each And to the deepest fathoms reach, All are joined at the center. Engraved on the head a nameless tome, Holding what is and was in the world, By this all secrets be unfurled, It stands for all things known. A dragon sits at the left-hand path, The creature of strength and power, To defy the world in every hour, Symbol of wisdom and wrath. At the right a Phoenix rests, Returning from every death, Soaring higher with every breath, Blazing proud through harshest tests. At the base a red rose there grows, Its beauty to sight is lost, Hidden from all by layers of frost, The side that never shows. #Unreal #Poetry #Nature #Life #Spirituality #Power #Soul #Spirits 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.
Nightmare By Sarah Sullivan QuailBellMagazine.com On a quiet Monday night in Phoenix, Harriet met Death for the first time. He wasn't particularly imposing, she thought at first, no hood or staff; he was short, rumpled, and balding, in an ill-fitting pair of khakis and a blue striped shirt. He looked like an IT consultant or a bewildered dad at a PTA meeting. The only way Harriet knew her opponent was that the room turned black, and he was oddly floating towards her.
"Hello?" she asked shakily, sitting up in bed. Her copy of Ladies' Home Journal slid down to the floor, queasily resting on a pair of house slippers. "Can I help you?" "Eh," he said nervously, fumbling with a rumpled legal pad. "Ahem. So, I think I have the right person. Harriet Simpson. . . 52 years old. . . bank manager by trade. . .763 Altoona Lane?" She considered denying it, but realized that if the man in front of her was floating, he probably knew more than she did. "Yeah," she said after a minute. "That's me." The specter uncomfortably adjusted his thick wire-framed glasses. "Well, Harriet, I've got you down on this list unfortunately. I think we both know what's about to take place here. Looks like at 9:55 tonight, you're going to have a brain aneurysm. Fatal, I'm afraid. Your husband is going to find you at. . ." he scrolled apologetically through his legal pad- "ooooh. Not til tomorrow morning. Guess the Ambien really knocked him out. Should be careful with that stuff." Harriet fleetingly thought of her husband, conked out downstairs on the recliner, before her thoughts turned to her own life. "Please," she begged Death, tossing aside the paisley comforter and prostrating herself on the matching paisley sham set. Her thighs quaked in fear; a lone tear washed mascara down her cheeks. "Please don't kill me now. I have so much to live for-" "Look," he explained reluctantly, "I don't give the orders-" "-but you carry them out," Harriet sobbed. "Please, please don't carry this out." Death grunted and flipped his notepad impatiently. "Well, according to protocol, someone has to die tonight." The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Fishy By Peter McMillan QuailBellMagazine.com Fishy was a betta...bright, beautiful, and blue. He lived in a little, round fishbowl with a 360-degree view. The water was always clear and clean and every day the food came from above. That was in the beginning. Only rarely, but then it became more often, the food didn't arrive, and Fishy had to wait. Fishy got to thinking. There would be food several—three, four, even as many as ten or eleven—days in a row, then one day it wouldn't come. There was no pattern. Then there were periods when the food wouldn't show up for days at a time. It was completely random. Fishy started to pay closer attention to the world outside the fishbowl. He'd become good at judging the passage of time from the changes in lighting. That was how he'd come to count the days in the first place. But then he began to watch for movements. There was the cat, but it didn't matter as long as it kept its paws out of the fishbowl. There was also the person, a large dark shadow who used to stop and look in but now zipped past. Something had changed. Something about the food. He wondered what had brought about the change and why it had to be that way. He became anxious and sad. One morning he awoke and looked up to find a pellet on the surface. Starving from a week without food he quickly swam to the top and gobbled it down. He became hopeful again. The next morning he surveyed the surface from his perch on the bottom but there was no food. He waited anyway. Nothing came. He gave it one more day. Another day. And another. Then one day a morsel appeared. How to make sense of this. Once the food had been as regular as clockwork. Then it became unpredictable and finally it disappeared altogether. And suddenly, out of the blue it had returned again. He reset his internal clock so that he could be awake and see when the food came. He woke up earlier and earlier but never could catch the moment when it was dropped into the fishbowl. In the meantime, he tried to enjoy it when it came and not worry about when it would come again. But that was easier said than done. As soon as he swallowed one piece of food, he started thinking about the next one. The pleasure was fleeting, and even with all the mental energy he could summon, he couldn't prolong it. For days and weeks he lived in anticipation. Fishy was sad, though on the bright side, he was wasn't going hungry as often AND he had begun to acquire knowledge. #Unreal #Fiction #Pets #Fish #AnimalStories #PetFish #MyPet #PetStories #Prose #Literature #FlashFiction 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.
Mouse House You carefully arranged each piece of straw, each stolen shoelace, each scrap of newspaper. Mama Mouse wanted her nest. She wanted to burrow deep into that hovel on Clay Street and cozy up to her mate. The love will come, she said, The babies will come. All my dreams will flourish.
But the love never came and the babies never came and there was no flourishing of dreams. They festered instead. When you scurried away to build your nest elsewhere, I cried because you were alone. Mice are not meant to live alone. But sometimes sister mice must live apart. I remember the headline from Medscape Medical News: “Mice Can Avoid Menopause, But Can Women?” Back when I edited copy for the hospital, I ran into more pregnant women on a daily basis than there were people in my high school graduating class. That's what I get for growing up in Appalachia but living and working in Norfolk. Too far from Richmond to snuggle with you and gnaw on wood. I had my own nest in Ghent, a warm one not built for love but by love. Papa Mouse loved me and I loved Papa Mouse. We were getting on like mice in love do, so we knew we'd be not two but three soon. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Hebron Words + Voice by Elizabeth S. Gilliam Hedgepath QuailBellMagazine.com i was born on those boulders like a crawling thing might be a lizard-like baby girl i basked and bathed in the sun i borrowed a boy and brought him there though not first or last blonde, euphoric, lusty witnessed my baptism of broken bone blocked the current administering the icy water sanctified, blood, bathed, older, and briefly, i grew boisterous, obnoxious, a young adult babbled and blathered but not there so much there where i grew some reverence and i always returned i became soft, quieter, and burbling became whispering and gave way to silence i began to search, stretch husssh sliding and seeing and self-aware on the same boulders stretching much like a skulk of foxes might on a soft snow i climbed them, mothers unchanging year after year, sweeter, stronger the only fearful place on earth i do not fear where solitude is satisfying there are far more beautiful places on earth than this one - they say there are far more beautiful women on earth than i am - i reply but this one chose my soul and silently absorbed itself into my consciousness so i'm always there staying, trying to keep moments caught in brain folds like fireflies kept in jars cruelly captivating but fleeting once the lights are turned on #Unreal #Poetry #Nature #Life #Imagery #Spoken #Mountains #RockClimbing 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.
Tree Man By Alexander C. Kafka QuailBellMagazine.com life like electronic advisories does not accommodate replies nature by nature is unnatural turning nothings into somethings then back again as if to see simply whether it can you are one with the wild not because you're wild but because the wild toys with you makes you this and not that arbitrarily beautiful artfully ugly gone today here tomorrow my sorrow your joy and then switch and then peel me sprout blossom whither given giver rooted seared and split by lightning I was here I will be again #Unreal #Poetry #Poem #Naturalism #DaDa #Nature #Flowers #Trees #Flora #AnimalSpirit #TreeMan #Gardens 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.
Gluttony By Madhumati Chowdhury QuailBellMagazine.com I love you undone. with the wind a whisk in your cake batter quiff. you are Christmas and pine and swept under carpet, new year resolutions you are the everyday walk and the trudging responsibilities at home you are 6 year old grudge and six month old telephone you are myriad music from an imagined gramophone you are high-waisted jeans that still don't fit you are the ill gotten means and the end of an aged beginning your are the dew drop on leaves and butter faced thief you are my favourite lace lingerie and empty box of sweets. you are red you are eternal you are changing shape you are a headache, a moron you are the measly treat I can afford. you are the jangle of my keys and the dangle of my fingers out the window at 3 am you are the fire escape and the bellowing flames of deceit you are the pointless blog and mouth full of stars you are parks and orange snowfall you are marshmallows and a corner you are hasty dust off of lips you are a wild oozy high FILLING. your are a string of unlit bulbs and the warmth of blue polka dots you are the shriek of ecstasy and climaxing runs you are... you are... you are... a name I've forgot! ...NOT "sigh" you are a street where my college is you are a road where i get my cigs you are and was and forever will be! you are a butterscotch tart, and a red velvet soufflé OF GUILT. #Unreal #Poetry #Imagery #Metaphors #Memory #Love #Relationships 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 Little Russian Pot I have a little Russian pot That held the greatest tea Or so you said that time in bed 'Fore you gave it to me. But maybe that was all a lie Like the mirage of love-- That's what you said to her in bed As I watched on above. I wish you were still alive, dear You're the boy time forgot But I still have your ashes in My little Russian pot. #Unreal #Poetry #Poem #RussianPot #TeaPot #Death #Love 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.
Slave Hands Editor's Note: Here's a piece in honor of Black History Month. Read the context and submit your Black History Month story. Shakora Forbes has a shiny round face, big brown eyes and lots of braids with beads in every color.
I hate her. Not because she’s pretty. What’s pretty, anyway? Something that girls decide. They’re always clumping together, clacking their beads, then coming out with today’s silly rule. Socks should be rolled down to the ankles, not folded. Mrs. Williams is the best teacher and the prettiest. Boys should wear their school ties loose, not knotted high. Joseph Stubbs has slave hands. The only reason Shakora noticed my hands was because I helped her balance on the playground wall. If I didn’t grab her arm, she woulda fell. Then she goes and says that. The other girls took it up. “Slave hands! Slave hands!” And then the guys wanted to measure hands, and sure enough mine were the biggest. Mrs. Williams pretended she didn’t hear or see. Mama was no help. “Child, I just got home from work. Don’t bother me. Go talk to your grammy.” Grammy held my hand up, looked it over real careful. “Uh-huh,” she said, then let me go and looked over her glasses. “You got your great-grandfather’s hands, and his were big too,” she said. “Now, he was the son of a woman who remembered growin’ up on one of the Middle Caicos plantations, so yes, I’d probably say you have slave hands, distantly.” |