The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Junky
The man who walks around the town centre
talking to himself came into the pharmacy. The old women in there, didn't know who he was but I did and the chemist and staff did too. The chemist rushed out with a small plastic cup and gave him his methadone shot. They didn't want him hanging about with all the normal people there for too long. He knew who I was too only I didn't look different like him. We were the same in a way carrying around our own pain. You can smell it from people the ones that aren't normal but you can never know another man's pain he has to live that all by himself.
#Unreal #Abnormal #Junky #Poetry #Outcast
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.
Shadows
Words by Lynne White
Image by Hanna Bechtle QuailBellMagazine.com Editor's Note: Originally published in Calliope and reprinted here with permission.
I think I am less afraid of the dark
than of the light. I can hide in the dark, And seek comfort there. The light is a different matter...
It exposes that which should be hidden.
Shining into my hidden places, And yours, Exposing us to view. I am afraid to see these hidden places, Afraid of what the light will reveal in me And you. What lies beneath the skin is best hidden In the dark, lost in the shadows Where it should be. I don't know what the light may reveal - Only that I'm afraid to see it. #Unreal #Poetry #LynneWhite #DontGoToTheLight #StayInTheDarkWhereItsSafe
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.
Digital Evolutions
By Steven Joseph McCrystal
QuailBellMagazine.com
In a maze full of intrigue:
Faith, fear, and doubt. Our footfalls lightly step on trepidations Miscommunications? There’s no language to be found Our emotions tread carefully though a network of dead faceless blunders; emoticons for smiles, emoticons for faith, emoticons for fear, for doubt. What expressions we have now? Lost in digitalis A drug that warps the truth Denied a one on one: Of course, a simple language for some. A body; a grace, a smile; a frown but just jargon, a jumble for our other, our other selfies. A revolution of slaves transfixed with dedication To an awkwardness evolving in social situations #Unreal #Poetry #DigitalAge #Technology #HumanRace #Lost #Warped #Symbols #Emoticons 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.
Learning to Read and Write
By Steve Vermillion
QuailBellMagazine.com
I offer my friend, the bank robber, a deal he can't refuse. He is illiterate, can't read or write, and can't hold a job, which is why he robs banks. He says he’s going broke paying literates to write the things he needs written. I agree to write his holdup notes for him, asking only a share of future profits. Seems like a fair deal. It's not hard work, not very demanding. I could misspell half the words, neglect to capitalize the first word of a new sentence, even leave out the punctuation, and what the hell would he know? But I write the usual. I include a gun. This works pretty well for a time. He trusts me. He even asks me to write to his mother, tell her he's doing pretty good in his new job, and not to worry. She writes him back. I read her letter to him, tell him how proud she is, but leave out the part where she worries.
I don't know why. Sometimes he lays low. Money gets tight and so I write to his mother, ask her for money. Work’s slow, he'll pay her back first chance. This breaks his heart, but what can you do? I get a share of that money, too. Not much, but some. Things have all the appearances of working. Then, out of the blue, just like that, he gets full of himself, decides we don't have such a good deal after all. He doesn't want to give me my share anymore, wants to go it alone. Starts mailing his mother Hallmark cards he finds at the pharmacy. Happy Anniversary. Congratulations On Your New Baby, Happy Chanukah. What does he know? Just goes by the pictures. He doesn't even sign them. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Beauty and the Beast
By Larry Lefkowitz
QuailBellMagazine.com
Editor's Note: Previously published in the Pink Narcissus Press anthology Rapunzel's Daughters under the title "Getting Along With Mr. Wrong" in 2011.
“Beauty,” I queried her over our cups of tea (mine cinnamon, hers strawberry-lemon), “what are we to do today? It’s overcast, best we stay indoors – you know what rain does to my fur.”
Beauty didn’t answer, caught by a magazine article about Lady Gaga. “Beau-ty,” I repeated. Beauty liked my syllabic pronunciation, preferably with a Noel Coward accent. She looked up. “Did you say something, Beast?” “I did. I inquired as to what we should do today. “ Beauty sighed in that dramatic way of hers, stolen from a BBC reenactment of one of Jane Austin’s novels. “I suppose,” she said, turning the pages of the magazine absently, “you will ravish me.” “Yes, it cannot be ruled out, though it gets increasingly fatiguing. And you comply so nonchalantly lately. Not like in the old days when you would beat on my chest and –“ “Yes, I know, Beast. Something’s changed.” She said this without looking up from her magazine. “Maybe we should vary the routine. I could dress up as –what’s his name? The actor you like. The Caribbean buccaneer. Or go back to some of my past routines. You remember? The bagpipes? “Roamin’ in the Gloamin”?” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Shadow Monsters
Aimee was finished for the night. She dutifully packed up her things and gently placed the book she was reading back on the shelf. Aimee’s room was kind of small which suited her because she was only fourteen. It was one of many rooms in the hotel she stayed in. Her parents had decided to quit the rat race and take on their own business. It wasn’t a large hotel as hotels go. It could support a family of four and function as a restaurant and pub at the same time. Her favorite feature was the big sandstone eagle that sat on top of her window guarding her from the trees that tapped against her window during the night.
It was a good book that she was reading because it gave her nightmares. The book was called Shadow Monsters. She was at least half way through reading it and it was beginning to get really scary. She had a very coy smile on her face when she placed the book back on the shelf. Aimee felt a snack coming on so she nipped downstairs to the kitchen for a mug of Horlicks and a couple of digestives. She didn’t believe in chocolate biscuits at this time of night because she had to watch her figure. Aimee had just found a magazine called Cosmopolitan in her mum’s collection and her bossy boots were a thing of the past. She was now a lady. Well at least for a day. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Never Ending
He walked up the cracked, dirty sidewalk, slowly approaching the door to knock with hesitant deliberation. Visiting Sam’s widow and daughter was the most important thing to him after the war, but his nerve was failing in a different way than it ever threatened to in battle.
He last saw Sam with his mouth agape to the sky as if to release his soul to heaven, or to let the final agony and resistance to death escape, his supine corpse savagely ripped open by the cold science of ballistics. He knew the worst to suffer was the little girl in the picture Sam kept in the inner pocket of his frock coat. Sam had told him to make sure he was buried with it. They’d had to retreat. He couldn’t be sure that had happened. He didn’t like to think about that. He knew Sam’s little girl’s suffering for her daddy’s killing in that field would stretch the decades. She was eight years old which had to be about the worst time to lose a daddy. At night the real munitions of the war still came to him, the mud, the mosquitoes, flies, blood, decay, maggots, fear, dreaded disease, the enfilade of despair. He never spoke of the plangent cries of the barely living, those soon to die, some screaming for water, others, the young ones, calling for their mothers. Those men continued to die in perpetuity, their pleas continuing to echo, at night, in his mind. She answered the door and confirmed she was Sara. He revealed his identity and she hugged him with tears welling, assuring him that her husband mentioned him, always fondly, in his letters that made it home from the fields of the war. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Dandelion Seed
Words by Lynne White
Image by Gretchen Gales QuailBellMagazine.com Editor's Note: This piece was first published in To Hold a Moment Still Anthology - Harbringer Asylum and reprinted here with permission.
Caught in your hair,
A fluffy wisp of white and grey, Hangs there. Suspended in your frothy crown, A shimmering seed, Sits like a star in a wiry halo, made by the light. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
My Muse & I
By Steven Joseph McCrystal
QuailBellMagazine.com There are many fine words to define a woman and her intense elegant beauty. I believe that most male minds – my male mind - are in orbit around their muse: forever lost in a dizzying puzzle of thought. She is clearly an enigma to me so I dance around like a love struck fool in a silly attempt to impress her perfect animations. I am stunned and stuck in a loop: my desires, my curiosity, my passion, my love always perplexes me so. My pulse quickens amidst her looks. My thoughts immersed in a dream. My heart simply skips a beat as I smile in response to her blushing eyes. A glance that creates a fire from just that little spark. She is depth personified. My fascination as to who she is or what she says is enticement running wild. I lose myself. I listen to her beat: her pulse, their life, their dreams, her fiery passionate soul. I carry her thoughts wherever I go. She’s an enigma to puzzle me constantly; and my love struck soul. There are many fine words to define a woman but some I’ll never know.
#Unreal #Prose #Women #Beauty #Prowess #Elegance #Gender #Love #Fascination
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 Fire Has Gone Out
The flame now gasps for air
on my doorstep, below the same choking stars that once burned just as brightly and warmed my thunderous heart.
#Unreal #Poetry #Love #Break-ups
Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.
|