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The Man Who Loved a Grave
Katya ran her finger over the round warm ceramic of the coffee mug. She had to admit to herself it was a comfort to have this portion of her life, her life with Nina, finished. Though just as soon, she was horrified. Her friend had died an awful death - sick from cancer, alone except for Katya with whom she split rent, estranged from wealthy parents, divorced, the mother of one selfish daughter who hardly visited. Katya believed herself to be a terrible person for thinking about her own relief.
In a silly moment, Nina had asked Katya to pour a cup of coffee on her grave at least once a week, maybe more, for as long as she was missed, then Katya was to be free of the routine. They drank bottomless coffee at a diner during mornings they worked in the shops on Park Avenue, during the days Nina was well. Nina also asked Katya to burn a letter that she had written out and placed in her jewelry box. This act of the burning seemed a bit more serious than the coffee ritual, and yet both involved performing an act over her friend’s grave. Nina made Katya swear not to look at the letter before the burial. One day after work, Katya stopped by Nina’s grave. She pulled Nina’s letter from her purse. It was in an envelope, sealed, and written on several sheets of small square pink papers, the stationary she started to use near the end of her life to make out grocery lists and requests for Katya. It read: The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Romani Folk PoemEditor's Note: Rita Banerjee, co-director of the Cambridge Writers' Workshop (CWW), wrote the following mis/translation poems during the CWW's Yoga and Writing Retreat in Verderonne, 2014. Mis/translation is a creative writing invention exercise during which a poem is performed aloud in a "foreign" language that none of the participants can speak. The participants then provide a "mis/translation" of the performed poem based entirely on the feel and sound of the words. Check out the CWW's Writing & Yoga Retreats in Paris, France and Granada, Spain this summer. The application deadline for both retreats in May, 25th. You may also enjoy the CWW interview with Quail Bell Magazine. Ederlezi (Mis/translation of the Romani (Gypsy) folksong/poem) Salve Roma, save, Soul Roma-- some call me Roma or a killer or a killer, defiant killer, my love’s dying my love’s defying, my love’s dying idyllically… Soul Roma…dying Soul Roma, papa, papa, is dying idyllically, see- idyllically, see- Soul Roma’s dying The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
My Pain, Your Pain, Our Pain
Image by Christine Stoddard
QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: It's difficult to wonder whether times are becoming more turbulent or if we are becoming more aware of injustices. Perhaps it is a mixture of both. In collaboration with Luna Luna Magazine, the following collection of poems and accompanied image is a tribute to collective pain and healing rooted in gender inequality. Each poem is an expression of the personal, even global, injustice that is faced each day from the devaluation of the feminine. With each word, we hope to encourage readers and writers to wield the pen in honor of truth and equality for all.
Beautiful Man
By Jeanne Joe Perrone I drank so much cheap brandy last night that my lip is twitching with a kiss I can’t give you who can I give it to if you won’t take it I’ll give it to the milkman the next caller the highest bidder the first man who whistles. You’ve made a whore out of me refusing my love, passing me over like the spirit of Death passed over the Israelites, like the darkness passes over the streetlights (I love the time of day when the streetlamps are lit and it is still light out) rendering useless giving no release no purpose cock-blocked saved and smart and not knowing what you want. What shall I do with this unclaimed love I have, welling up, stored, staling, that I thought was for you? I can’t keep it in much longer, it’s already clamoring clawing like a caged wild thing out of my chest any second now it will burst open the doors of my flesh ribcage cracking blood splattering weight lifting and fly freefall into the void with the scream that births new worlds and land like the maniacal anvil in Looney Tunes – God knows where – I, the spent chrysalis shed, burst, mangled with tears of blood, free at last, split open, a rustling carcass in the wind, gutted. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Indifferent DistractionsThere was talk of us moving in together. Camille was one of the most earnest girls I’d ever met. I usually dated younger women for their lack of ambition. They weren’t looking for anything permanent, while I thoroughly enjoyed their fluctuating moods. Inspiration came from such chaos, although I never put any of it down on paper. I’d done the whole column thing for this shitty little press that went under after eighteen months. By that point, I’d removed it on my resume. Thirty-two felt young until I got a call from my mother or ran into some smug intern with a ring on his finger at work. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Poem for Mahashivaratri
The cold is biting, sharp and fierce
And the fire is continuing to pierce Through the karmic cycles of death, Rebirth and the search for rest It is in your destruction that we Find the truth of what we may be Mountain people, strong frightening sages With healing herbs and a third eye that rages With fire and clarity and the rising sun With the end of this world, a new song sung Long meditations on a high mountain peak In meditation, you show what we seek In meditation, we hear the stars singing To your dance of psychic cleaning In meditation, we hear the sound Of you within us, being found. #Unreal #Poetry #Spirituality #Hinduism #GreatNightofShiva #Ceremony 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 Argument For Drink
By Craig Kurtz
QuailBellMagazine.com
Akhenaten was ambitious
and he changed the solar system; where art was once didactic, he decreed that it should breathe. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Mickey's Big Rumble
By Dan Morey
QuailBellMagazine.com *Author's Note: A gangland adventure utilizing the title of every movie I went to between the years 1999 and 2001, roughly the order that I saw them. It grew out of my lifelong, and admittedly odd, habit of saving movie ticket stubs.
Mickey Blue Eyes and his gang, the Cockney Crooners, had already eliminated the Fight Club, The Crew and the Wings of Desire, three of the biggest mobs in Brooklyn. If they won their rumble with the Kings of Comedy, they’d rule the borough.
As Mickey was leaving his apartment to stock up on bandannas and brass knuckles, his girlfriend Lola came around the corner. A Cadillac pulled up beside her, and Mickey shouted: “Run Lola Run!" It was too late. A couple Kings in jester caps jumped out and threw Lola in the trunk. "Just some insurance to make sure you show tomorrow,” said The Messenger. Mickey felt like crying, but held it in. His mother, an immigrant from Notting Hill, always told him, "Boys Don't Cry, Mick. They get even." If he wanted to save Lola, he’d have to strike fast, like a Ghost Dog, and send the Kings on Felicia's Journey. There were some Sweet and Lowdown characters in the Kings of Comedy (Mifune, Guinevere, and Titus, to name a few), but they had nothing on Mickey Blue Eyes. Once, Mickey stabbed a drunk in Mansfield Park just because the guy told him he looked like Hugh Grant gone terribly wrong. A few years later, a Girl Interrupted him during an episode of Dynasty, and he bludgeoned her with the remote. Mickey would shoot the Man on the Moon if he grinned at him funny. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
LightningWhen Aarthi arrived at the Santhanapuram Palace, located at 20 km from Nagerkoil and 50 km from Trivandrum, with her pet cat Pissi, thunder struck the Palace. Wait!! Did I say, “a thunder struck the Palace?” This is why one should not narrate a story in the shivering cold. I should have said that, the Palace struck like a thunder in her. She was really amazed at the dimensions of the Palace. The Palace was very much wide with a beautiful fountain that stood to welcome tourists. The lawn at the recess was beautifully fenced. There were ducks here and there standing on one foot. People were taking photographs sitting with them. There was a shop, people were going in and returning. She heard thunder. Sky looked like a child about to cry. It looked like the rain might shower anytime. The wrist watch on her left hand ticked 4PM. The Palace would be open only until 5PM. After that, the main entrance would be closed. There was hardly an hour left to explore the entire Palace. If it was not possible to see the Palace thoroughly, she wanted to finish at least a portion of it so that she could save the remaining for a later visit. She was not the kind of girl who, never knew before that, visiting more than one place on a single day might throw her only half way through. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Promises Under the Moon
By Katherine Givens
QuailBellMagazine.com
Wreathed in silver light,
Beneath the wandering moon, Love comes slow. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
I Miss You This Much I
Words by Janeen Pergrin Rastall
Image by Cheryl Angel QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: Both of these pieces are a part of Les Femmes Folles Presents; TALES, A Group Exhibition
make a little circle,
touch my fingertip to thumb, a line of flesh that does not end. This is not the ring that you forgot, not the shape knuckles make on thighs and breasts, not the hole of days I dug and dove into. This is the circle you did not expect, the manhole cover I crawled up to, the shape of lips saying: “No.” This is the drain I place on my chest to siphon off love’s residue. This is the zero, the nothing left, the blast site center aftermath. When I lift my hand, this is my sign: three fingers splayed, without you I am okay. #Unreal #Poetry #Painting #DomesticAbuse #Feminism #LesFemmeFolles Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. |