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Cthulhu's Dawn
By Julian Drury
QuailBellMagazine.com
Ocean tides rise, one by one.
Majestic hands of unspoken depths, reach out towards the fleeting sun. You are dead, but can you still dream? Storm clouds are gathering. Great megaliths of unknown ages, monuments of dark anno. Your glory now exposed, slimy stones and jagged craft, rising forward from broken depths. Only to watch the final sunset. Reaching tentacles forward, from your sleeping house beneath the sea. Bleak as the fleeting day. Eyes open wide calling forth, to reclaim your kingdom. Sit upon your great throne, only to sink into the rising tide. With your rise, we all fall. If only you were as beautiful as the rays of the setting sun.
#Unreal #Cthulhu #FinalSunset #Poetry #ReclaimTheKingdom
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Magic Cottage
By Steven Joseph McCrystal
QuailBellMagazine.com
I dreamt a magic cottage once.
Under a healing moon. Where ghosts and ghouls from yesteryear: Reminded me of pain I forced one more smile; before it turned to tears, it swept my heart gently into beauty. A gentle wind picked me up and whooshed my mind to wander For a second in eternity... Maybe even two. Is this it? Could I be? Dipped in life’s elixir; surely I must be dreaming, in my usual fearful slumber. Open, pried, creaked, and cooled A barren heart stood torn asunder But a glance, a glimpse, a peak, appeared from a stranger at the window: A welcome look A welcome smile A welcomed comfort This time my heart was swept into beauty Under a healing moon
#Unreal #Poetry #Dreams #Imagery #Sorrow #Joy #Cottage #Magic
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A Night in the Life of Miss Kitty FantasticoMiss Kitty Fantastico stretched her limbs, entered the night and defecated in the neighbors' garden. She was the color of shade, invisible now except for her incandescent green eyes. Not entirely satisfied with the rations supplied by her own humans, she set off for a house that promised more food and adventure. Where the forest marked the end of suburbia, a quaint little apartment stood beckoning. Its appearance never changed. While other inhabitants of this bloodless town covered the utilitarian bleakness of their homes with pastel hues, the twins who lived here had better things to do. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Obituaries of the Undead
Words by Jody Rathgeb
QuailBellMagazine.com Edwin A. and Teresa C. Young, New Orleans, La. Married couple Edwin A. and Teresa C. Young, whose informal and illegal restaurant, Win-Ter, was known in its Bywater neighborhood for Monday R&B Night, died in a house fire one year ago today. Although the house has been razed and nothing remains but an empty lot, the Youngs apparently continue their activities in the area. Both of the Youngs were born in New Orleans, Edwin in 1950 and Teresa in 1952. They met during a second line parade in Marigny in 1978 and married in 1979. Their popular “restaurant” was a sideline for both, representing their shared love for their city, its food and its music. Edwin Young was a plumber who worked with several New Orleans contractors on both new homes and renovations. Teresa Collins Young was trained as a secretary and worked in the city’s Health Department. The real love for both, however, was the traditional foods of their Cajun backgrounds. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Mr. Bemis Casts His Eyes Backward
By Ross Edwards
QuailBellMagazine.com
From the mind of Henry Bemis, the lone survivor of a Hydrogen bomb on November 20, 1959.
It really isn’t fair. I feel the shards beneath my feet. I hear the silence of thousands of vaporized souls. The agony of the moment of impact rushes toward me in protest. Why weren’t you there? Why did you survive? Now there is no hope. How can I kill myself? With the shards of my broken glasses? With the gun I left at the bottom of the library steps? It might as well be hundreds of miles away—I will never find it in the blurry smear of my natural vision. There was all the time in the world to read these stacks of books… and now simply all the time in the world. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Spirit of Basatomba
By Iulian Ionescu
QuailBellMagazine.com
I woke up with a pungent taste in my mouth, the same I'd get after a whole night of drinking. My eyes were glued shut and my limbs boulders. For a moment, there was no up or down; I was afloat, hanging in the air, trapped inside a fuzzy cloud.
After a few minutes of mental emptiness, a sharp burning sensation began to creep all over my skin. A heat wave was pushing down on me, burning my flesh like a flame. Initially I came to peace with the fact that I was probably dead and most likely gone to Hell, but that thought lasted just a brief moment and disappeared as soon as I realized I had to pee. I peeled my eyelids open and the sunlight knifed through my eyes into the back of my head. I blinked a few times and the images started to come together. That's when I saw a silhouette hovering above me, blocking the sky. An electrified chill passed through my spine so fast, I actually peed in my pants. It wasn't the silhouette itself that terrified me; it was that lower lip, a fleshy loop hanging low by the corners of the mouth, swinging like a jump rope. She put her hands on my shoulders and lowered her head. Her lower lip brushed against my face and everything went dark. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
WomanizerObjectified, penalized, apologized. Oh you think you have boundaries sweet child? Here let me show you a trick. Become weak, embody it. Here is where you belong Just below my thumb Here is where all you thin, long-haired females belong. This my dear is a gift to you tied up in a sweet feminized knot; so tight that your words are choked before they complete logical thought. May all your thoughts be jumbled so that forever you may fumble. You talk too much. You think too much. You feel too much. Mistake? ha ha Direction? You have none. For you are a woman. Your roar is that of a sex kitten. Your height is that of wedges. Your poise is sweet. May your strength be shattered. Your opinions always be shaking. For you are a girl, wrapped around me, in hysteria. To that, we respond, Oh Sweetie…. whose blood and sweat birthed you? Whose mistake which impregnateted you? Who has intentions that prevail over mistakes? Whose samsara moans so sweet and gentle? Whose hips did your head slip through? I am no longer a sex object I am no longer a human. I am a woman that will prevail.
#Unreal #Poetry #Painting #Collage #Power #Woman #Feminism #Gender #Stereotypes #Strength
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A Hand Not Held
By Katherine Givens
QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: This poem was originally published in The Screech Owl.
Empty.
I curl my fingers, Hoping to feel the warmth Of another’s flesh, But I clutch at nothingness. Empty. I glance down at my fist, Thinking perhaps I missed, But I realize I am alone. No one stands beside me. No one waits for my touch. No one belongs to me. Empty. But beyond the stage, Beyond the realm of myself, I see outsiders with expect faces. All glance in to witness The girl with a sense of self, of purpose, But none stay long enough to give. Empty. I lift up my hand, Reach for someone to hold, But all sidestep my clasp. Empty. I show myself my palm, I study the lattice of etches and creases, The calluses born of hard-work, The scar slashed across my thumb. Complex, resolute, pained. But no one to adore These perfections and imperfections I am marked by. Empty. I lift my hand, not held by another, And caress my own cheek. I offer my own comfort, Take myself for who I am, For I refuse to change for anyone Not willing to prize my all. Alone, But waiting for someone To fill the emptiness With what I deserve. Acceptance. #Unreal #Poetry #Love #SelfWorth #Value #Relationships #Solitude 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.
EncounterI walk down Strawberry Street midnight after a party, two friends as bookends. We're headed to my house, stumbling across cracks, for another drink laughing loud until we see someone. She stares at street signs at a loss. She calls to us: Help. I'm lost-- I need a taxi. Where? What street? Two two seven six one, two two seven six one she slurs I lost my friends. She must have had too much to drink. I understand the confusion. My house beckons with soft bed to house my head and dream. The woman, lost, says the number again and drinks air in gulps. Just digits, still no street. I want to help her but my friends look uneasy. She's adamant: Can you call someone? Please, help me, two two seven six one. My friend calls a cab, asks her: Where's your house? while the phone's at his ear. It's my friend's place, Fredericksburg. My god, she has lost her mind, that's an hour away and the street is empty except for us, we all sound drunk, so the cab company hangs up. No drink has done this to her-- twotwosevensixone twotwosevensixone she says nothing else as if streets could change with her chants. The houses around us do not care. I am sorry for her loss whatever it was and ask my friend if we should we call 911? No! My friends just left. I just need to go. Five drinks in and clueless, I stare at her loss of balance, she sways in rhythm twotwosevensixone. I ought not bring this stranger home but we can't abandon her in the street. I glance away for a moment and our friend is gone she’s drunk on the number, running by houses down the block, soon lost in the darkening street.
#Unreal #Poetry #Poem #Party #Friends #Drunk #Strangers #Darkness #Lost
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Not Personal
By Maya White-Lurie
QuailBellMagazine.com If every poem is a prayer then, Honey, all the Richmond lights are bad dads, hovering attentive until needed then vanishing breath time. Old noodles sour in the garbage bags we leave for gloved hands each Monday, train tracks rattle through typewriter letters, your stubble rasps my palm. Fireworks and the party across the alley continue all night in independence key, but everything shits when it dies. Everything. So, Honey, throw that hoop about your hips remember we are drifting crusts on magma. #Unreal #Poem #Poetry #Richmond #LivingLife #Party #Noises #Disturbances #Magma #AlwaysMoving
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