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Raining Man
By Julian Drury
QuailBellMagazine.com
The figure of Alan arrived on the steps of his parents’ house, drenched from rain as it seemed. When his Mother saw him, standing in silhouette at the midsection of the white-painted steps leading to the front screen-door, she nearly fainted. She immediately dropped her iced-tea to the floor, shattering the glass cup and leaving a streaking puddle of sweetly concocted beverage strewn about the floor and sliding off the marble kitchen counter. The reaction of her husband, Alan’s Father, was much more subtle yet still riddled with utter shock. The reason for their reactions to seeing their son on their doorstep was for the simple reason that Alan should have been dead.
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Standing in a Street
By Katherine Givens
QuailBellMagazine.com Here I stand in my corner, As I do every day. Silent, unnoticed, Simply withering away. I create stories in my head For all passerby, But none will hear the tales Spurred by a sigh. Bumped into, elbowed, Shoved to the side, I endure the neglect For the chance to collect Ideas for my journal’s pages Before abandoning my corner For my tidy writer’s nest. #Unreal #Poetry #Writing #Inspiration #Muse #Strangers 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.
To Stravinsky
I write to you, Stravinsky,
Because he, for whom you are named, Is nowhere to be found. You sit on my desk next to keepsakes From his short life And are easy to take care of, Therefore easy to love. Let me tell you how you came to occupy This tiny exalted place... Three days after I lost him I cleaned mindlessly, Brought out the vacuum and went to work. Being blind helps forgetfulness: Out of sight out of BAM CLATTER I hit the aluminum dog bowls And probably shrieked. I picked up the two bowls As if they might bite or squirm And dropped them into recycling. Then I went and cried in human arms. In those arms, Deep within my sobs, I conceived a ritual from nowhere, A rite of spring. I want to go buy a plant tonight, I will name it Stravinsky, Spirit of Igor. I picked out and washed the water bowl, Set it on my desk, Another empty vessel. At the florist I asked for a plant That was easy to take care of. The woman named one And I asked if it was viney. She said No, That one stood straight up like a tree, A popular plant, Recommended by some celebrity doctor For its air purification properties. I was not interested in pure air. I wanted prehistoric leafy tendrils Of encroaching flourishing With minimal fuss. Like all dark relationships, Ours, Stravinsky, is complicated. I might have hated plant life Since green grass tempted him And led him to swallow the neon vine That stuck in his stomach That led to the surgery That sliced the tiny incision That led to the microscopic sepsis That led to the systemic failure That led to the pneumonia That gave final cause for his Being nowhere to be found. But I do not believe in fate Or in the culpability of nature Any more than I believe you to be A fit substitute receptacle For my I love yous. Even so, I love you Stravinsky. In his bowl I keep you Healthy and happy. It is easy to water You every ten days, Gratifying to have your reachy growth On this simple expanse of desk. Still, if you do not outlive me, I doubt I will cry at all. #Unreal #Poetry #Ekphrastic #Stravinsky #Love #Music #Art #Composer 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.
Martha, My Dear
By Mehi Loveski
QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: This piece was previously published in the September 2014 issue of Heater Magazine. It takes Mort some time to figure out where he is. He is lying, half awake, on a spacious bed in a strange room filled with unfamiliar smells. The potted plants on the windowsill look well-tended but slightly grotesque. The shelves running the length of the wall display rows of neatly arranged books interspersed with gaudy bric-a-brac. On the armchair, like a huge petal left by a forgetful giant flower, withers a bright-red peignoir. It is only when he sees an exquisitely-made wooden doll’s house on the night table that the penny drops... |