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Beach House By Julia Tranchina QuailBellMagazine.com They bought a beach house in 1978. They bought it from a weird woman who made pottery. This weird woman’s ex-husband was stalking her, so the weird woman sold the house as is and left town. My parents and I spent weekends going through the weird woman’s things. The weird woman, let’s call her Janine, liked earth tones and collected fish. Janine was also fond of two. We found two crock-pots, two sewing machines, and two sets of identical outfits, one in a women’s size 6 and one in size 12.
The house needed work but my parents were up to the challenge. My father rented a roto-tiller. My mother considered the orange and red shag carpet a bold visual element to build upon. My father nailed shingles and rusted farm tools on the bathroom walls and painted the woodwork crimson. My mother bought large ethnic pillows to sit on in the living room, Indian style. She incorporated the fish pottery as a theme for our numerous holiday parties, to add an element of whimsy. One Friday when we arrived at the beach house, my parents and I found the back door broken and ajar, but nothing was taken. When the police arrived they dusted for prints and took our statements. My parents and I were shaken up. We felt exposed and violated. This put the kibosh on our Valentine party. We spent a restless night and left the following day.
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Captive, A Modern Fable By Jennifer Alexander QuailBellMagazine.com Once upon a time, that is how these stories usually begin. A little bird was gliding on a warm summer breeze. She sang her salutations to the all creatures of the forest and they greeted her in kind. She had flown far ahead of the rest of her flock and decided to rest for a while in a woods nestled deep in the middle of a range of impassible mountains. The forest was ancient, full of gnarled trees as thick as elephants entwined with swaggering skeins of Spanish moss that danced like ghosts in the wind. This was a world untouched by the tarnishes of mankind, for the most part.
There were no roads or paths through this forest. No gift shops or gas stations to clutter the landscape. However, there was a cabin, just one. It stood on the left bank of the river right past the waterfall. A lovelier spot never existed. The river was always full of fish and the trees there offered berries so sweet they could be called ambrosia. The smell of wildflowers lingered on the air and birdsongs haunted the winds. Old Hank had lived there for longer than even he knew. Time seemed irrelevant since he had come to the mountains. The family he had once loved was but a distant memory and loneliness was all that was left. He had grown old. His clean shaven face long ago became a tangled beard and now the beard had turned from black to gray. Crow’s feet lined the rims of his pale blue eyes and a long scar marked his left cheek. He walked with a wooden cane, limping slightly sometimes. His clothes were made of animal pelts as were his shoes. Virtually everything he owned he made himself: from the bow that sometimes hung off his arm to the belt that held up his pants. He prided himself for having conquered the wild and believed that mankind’s greatest gift was his ingenuity. One day he was walking by some nearby trees full of succulent berries when he heard a squeaky little voice, “These are the sweetest berries I have ever tasted.” Hank looked around, “Who said that?” “I did,” the voice replied. Hank craned his head and turned to examine his surroundings but he did not see anyone. The only thing he saw was a small bird. He gazed at her, The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
My Six Little Fears I fear that he’ll break my heart And go off to marry my little sister That I will lose my sight in my sleep And miss out on the beautiful fall I fear that my professor will say I’m too good For my poetry classes And that the rain will fall on my hair And mess up my neatly done curls I fear that I may not make my dinner tonight And go to bed empty. That one day I will grow old And watch the innocent fall in love before my eyes. #Unreal #Poetry #CynthiaAbdullah #Photography #DenizAtaman #Fallibility #Fear #Human #StreamOfConscious 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.
When You Let Her Go Words: Charice Cejas Image: Neely Johnson QuailBellMagazine.com Long, golden locks and cold, ivory skin trapped inside a lonely box, hiding from within. You came with curious eyes, looked and looked again. But, much to your surprise, she’d locked herself in. You had always held the key, as you would quickly realize, and you so foolishly released the key to your demise. For when you let her go, she began to see there is no such thing as “no” and nothing she can’t be. #Unreal #Poetry #ChariceCejas #Independece #Femme #Uncaged 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 Absence He was friends with Silence. And one winter morning he slipped away in her wake into the moist grief of the sky. We only knew him when we missed him. #Unreal #Poetry #AdreyoSen #Absence #Grief #Missing #TawnyDavis #Photography #Shadows #ArtisticCollaboration 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.
Relics of a Night Well SpentEditor's Note: This piece was first published by The Horror Zine and reprinted here with permission. You’re just another severed head, To place on the post of my bed-- A trophy, prize and ornament, To signify a night well spent. How we met, I don’t remember-- My brain was soaked in gin, Alight with some lustful ember, The revelries of sin. I knew that I wanted a taste, When I beheld your skin, And it would be a crime to waste, The most perfect satin. Back to my abode, you were lured, Where you’d moan and quaver, Forgetting every tale you’ve heard, Of nights growing graver. Our bodies and tongues did enmesh, A moment to savor, But I exposed your concealed flesh, To sample your flavor. The relics of a night well spent, And carnal affection, Rendered you blind to the intent, Behind my selection. Hoping to fill that black chasm, Of candid rejection, You died by your last orgasm, Without much objection. Now, my home is fully-furnished, With all of your bones, as I’ve wished. The star-struck eyes lodged in your head, Watch me eat my breakfast in bed. #TheHorrorZine #Halloween #Cannibalism #Vore #BathSalts #Zombies #Vampires #Predators #Decapitation #Sexy 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.
All My Love to the Monster Devouring Me When you first appeared in my room, I was captivated by you. You should have scared me, I know most people would be. I wasn't. It's been so long since I've had a visitor. I thought I could live without people. I grew tired of that years ago, and became so lonely. Then you arrived. I could smell your stench immediately. It was repulsive, but enticing. Sewage, copper, fresh blood; this was your perfume. I can recall it now. I saw your figure looming deep in the shadows of my room. Your large, sharp teeth were the only light in the room. They're so pretty. I stared at you as you let out a growl. It kept me frozen, not out of fear, but because I wanted to hear your song. So melodious. You grabbed me with your tentacle, your slime staining my pajamas and giving me a chill. I didn't mind though. No one ever held me like that. You pulled me close, your embrace tightening. I could feel my body seizing up, but relaxed as it did. I didn't mind how it felt. I saw your mouth widen, a black chasm with no end. I could have stared at it forever. But you had other plans in mind. So I waited. I hope you remember our time together. I never will, even as you gnaw on my head. Please remember the taste of my blood, the texture of my bones. Remember me. Even if you choke on my bones, remember the little man you ate. That man, who was so happy you came to visit. Even if it was brief. I was just glad you wanted me. It's flattering, and I hope I can be useful to you, however small. Just know I'm happy we met. #Unreal #Halloween #Death #MonsterPoem #MonsterPoetry #NibbleOnMySkull #MonsterStories #ScaryMonsters 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.
Coffins Jamie opens my chest and it’s full of small empties, boxes from fancy candles, cheap rings, tiny Whitman’s Samplers. She says, “Honey,” and I, “Yes,” and she, “Honey, time to discard,” but I can’t. Sometimes what needs burying is small Jamie leaves. The cat sits in front of the full length mirror blinking. I tell him, “You’re cool.” He won’t believe me. I say, “Hey, that’s my friend you’re talking about.” I like you. I write it on the mirror, we watch ourselves until I take it off the wall, push to the back of the closet I find picture naked white tangled white white sheets white hair open white mouth red white leg white chest blackletters. It’s not my picture, Jamie wanted me to find it. Dark nail push all, redbutton dark hair dark lips. I buy sugarwater feeder for Jamie, keep the box. Tell backyard Florida, “imagine prehistoric,” Jamie says,“Dejavu simplesyrup.” I tongue tiny hairs, capillary pull Fuck coffins. Now I hummingbird olive tree Now I black spider eat jelly beans. #Unreal #Poetry #ClaireNelson #Cramped #Metaphor #Imagery #SelfAcceptance #JasmineThompson #Photography 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.
Mailbox Anna/2012/medium format film The red mailbox reminds me of you. Your mouth was a mailbox into which you deposited large parcels of food. And when you departed with your usual haste, it was as if you’d gone delivering them to their destination. Only, of course, you had no true itinerary. You always returned, blasé, till you yourself were a post office, closed for business on a white bed, against a white wall, your dulled eyes no longer telegraphing their tales. #Unreal #Poetry #CreativeWriting #AdreyoSen #Metaphor #Imagery #LostLove #IngaSchunn #Photography #Collaboration 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 Quiet Ones
Michael ate lunch at his desk every day. He brought in leftovers from the night before—a piece of shepherd’s pie, takeout pizza, a beef and onion pie, lentil soup—and warmed them up in the break room microwave. He used paper towels as pot holders and carried his steaming food back to his cramped little office and hunched over the plate, reading reports as he absently ate. He must not have been a good cook, though, because he always threw out more than half of whatever he had brought.
Clara hated to see Michael bent over his desk, eating alone and working away. She imagined he was desperately lonely. The poor man was terribly awkward, shuffling down the hall, not making eye contact and getting flustered when someone greeted him with a cheery “Hello!” He was the sort you just wanted to fix up, she’d told her mother. “Don’t meddle in the man’s life,” her mother had said. “You can’t fix whatever is broken inside a person like that.” Clara supposed her mother was right, but she could see so much potential there. Like a house with “good bones” or a fine piece of furniture that just needs new upholstery, Michael could be cleaned up and given more appeal; if he only took a bit of care about himself, everyone else would see what she saw. Michael had lovely dark hair that was wavy and always just a bit too shaggy, and it made such a dramatic contrast to his pale skin and blue eyes! Clara thought he looked like a young Richard Burton or one of the glamorous Hollywood stars of the 1930s—a Clark Gable or a William Powell. All he needed was a good suit and a better haircut. She wished she could find a way to get him out of his shell. |