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Dim the Dark. Don't. Words by Madhumati Chowdhury Image by Elizabeth S. G. Hedgepath QuailBellMagazine.com Your fingers dim the slowly until the stars are but smoldering specks of d i s t a n c e of infinity, of dust and ice crystals and dead wishes of children. Your fingers dim the dark. Take those scissorhands and Snip! snip! At my emotions The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Lend Me Your CoatLend me your coat for the cold Sun. Let’s steal a few rays and bury them Between bones stuffed in nostrils, For the hallowing wind takes no breaks… Lend me your coat for your shadow that's free. Mine is thin, fragile, too weak. Let’s steal a few pebbles and ingest them. For hunger feeds on my barren skin, While a trick—a nip can save me still… Lend me you coat to shower myself in your odor, To confiscate from your pockets small bundles of memory. Worn-out tissue papers, forgotten bills, change you never cared for, And leave on your buttons, the stamp of me… Lend me your coat for winter has the audacity to crush my blossom. Let’s pray for a cloud, pregnant with star dust instead of rain. And follow it where hope has cracked and rage fueled in, Let’s watch it, get drenched in magic, let’s witness it win… #Unreal #Poetry #Winter #Love #Warmth #Imagery #Brisk #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.
Little Red Riding Hood By Gretchen Gales QuailBellMagazine.com Now Little Red Riding Hood was sent by her mother Over the hills, just past the holler Up the stairs til’ she reached the bannister To pay a visit to dear old Grandmother. And knocked on the door once or twice She could already smell the sugar and spice. And all the things that made her home smell nice Little did Red know she was rolling the dice. She cracked open the door and entered the room Lingering smell of grandmother’s perfume. Of course Little Red so innocently assumed That a visit to her grandmother would not leave her doomed. Alas, there grandmother was awaiting Licking her lips very strangely. Then Grandmother stated VERY impatiently, “How long were planning on keeping me waiting?” “Sorry I’m late!” Red said apologizing. “The long wait was certainly agonizing.” That’s not her voice… thought Red realizing It was not her grandmother in the bed that was arising. Because this mysterious figure was covered in hair, An unsettling set of amber glowing eyes with a ferocious glare. All Little Red could do was hopelessly stare It was a monstrous wolf with its sharp teeth bared! “What big eyes you have g- grandmother!” exclaimed Red, clutching her basket tight. “All the better to see your pudgy little fingers, isn’t that right? And those chubby cheeks and plump legs are quite the sight! It’ll be a pleasure to devour you in just one bite!” Just as the Wolf was preparing to feast A lumberjack knocked down the door and lunged at the beast. And after begging for its life the Wolf was released. Red Riding Hood was relieved, to say the very least. But even though the wolf had fled, Red could not forget what he had said. Every day she was haunted with dread. Just how long before another wolf will want to be fed? “My fingers are fat and my legs are large. And suppose my whole body looks kind of enlarged It’s now or never that I begin to take charge!” Her former self she vowed to discard. So the next time she visited her grandmother at her home, She would drink just water and water alone; Would smile in delight when her stomach groaned And soon enough she was all skin and bones. Her mother and grandmother begged her to eat But Red was much too proud of her feat. And the same process each day she’d repeat Though she was never satisfied enough to feel complete. But Little Red wouldn’t give up, not now not ever. For how could she know this was the wolf’s endeavor? Because Red did not realize the wolf intended to sever Her body, mind, and soul forever. He took delight in seeing her shrink With her abstaining from any food and drink. Dragging her closer and closer to the brink, Until her mind and body were no longer in sync. That was the day she collapsed on the floor, Her mother caught sight of her and soared Towards Red screaming loudly, more and more, Until her mother couldn’t feel Little Red’s pulse anymore. They buried her six feet under, next to her kin; Her family came and all her close friends Who picked up Red’s habits because they too desired to be thin, And the Wolf resurfaces again and again. #Unreal #Poetry #RedRidingHood #SocialCommentary #EatingDisorders #Folklore 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.
Lady Tori #Unreal #Canvas #MixedMedia #Geisha #JapaneseInspiredArt #OutsiderArt #WeirdArt #Collage #FoundObjects 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.
Estella and Steven Words by Adreyo Sen Image by Neely Johnson QuailBellMagazine.com Estella One of the patients in the ward was a little woman, grey haired, with a face heavily furrowed by wrinkles. She always had the plastic cigarette the nurses used to give us in her mouth, long after it had run out. Every evening, a tall and handsome man would come to see her. And every evening, before he left, he would kneel by her side and place a single rose on the lap that would never hold their children. And she would fuss at him with her little fists through her tears, the most beautiful smile in the world on her lips. Steven My roommate at the psychiatric ward was a tall, agonized whisper who paced the room in a blue jersey, a Bic pen in his mouth. He held me by the throat when we first met. “Is it true?” he demanded. “Of course not!” I squeaked. He stared searchingly into my face and was evidently satisfied. The next morning, he sent me to therapy with an apple he’d been saving for a long time. “Run along to school,” he said. And every evening, he’d set me impossible subtractions, with exceedingly long figures. Quite incapable of calculation himself, he’d either pat me on the head and give me his little, worn doll to cuddle, or slap me across the face and send me to bed. #Unreal #FlashFiction #Relationships #Interactions #Imagery #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.
Season of Mists By Archita Mittra QuailBellMagazine.com Editor's Note: This poem was previously published in the Statesman Voices. I. The sun hangs low Like a ripe pomegranate. We play in the dust Among the maple Till the moon swallows us up And we disappear Into nothing. II. Dreams are such Fleeting moments Dangling In that misty realm Of dusk, or dawn An in-between world Of lost things Like an autumn Orange and fiery Seeping in, As worlds die. My shy sprite With a tiara of russet leaves Sparkling In that golden dusk Where spirits meet Shimmering Like a remnant Of a long forgotten dream. Our blackbirds have left Their nests In the skeletal trees. They sing no more. (At least we do not hear them sing) So we gather The nuts and berries Into a cornucopia Of love and longing For spring (And for the squirrels We do not meet) As the wind moans In loneliness. But we smell that sweet Scent of decay When we hide behind That pumpkin patch Or steal apples, Pretending They are rubies As nectar drips From our laughing Mouths. But the touch of autumn Is colder than winter Because it promises so much It foretells so much Because the nights are so long It feels so endless And I’m running out of tales To keep telling myself I’m not Alone, My ghosts are with me. I like to think We will be here Till the end of time Together. Forever. III. We play no more Among the maple Because the blackbirds told me When they came back That there never was a we Only an IV. Half in the dark, Lost in the mist, Longing for light. #Unreal #Poetry #Seasons #Nature #Longing #Imagery 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.
Garnet By Taylor Sykes QuailBellMagazine.com my birthstone didn't mean much at the start of things when it was just the jewel on a plush white bear or the glitter in my ring necklace earrings because of January just a stone just a rock just a symbol of an idea of who I am and it's bloody I said like the death of an unborn child or empty eye sockets which once scared me but now means more means life full of paper cuts roadkill and the organ donor heart means the color that looks best on me the shade of my moods the sheen of my hair in the sun my best compliment my signature statement and really just explains everything and nothing because I am sometimes vibrant but I'll admit mostly that strange dark red #Unreal #Poetry #Warmth #Birthstone #Gems #Energy #Heat 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.
Girl On the Terrace My tresses waltzing to a moonlit sonata, Dark lips murmuring a syrupy melody The stars in my eyes shimmering. The moon’s silver kisses Soaking into my gossamer skin Beneath a silken summer dress. Veins dancing In the lullaby of the night. Tonight Somewhere between The zig-zag skylines patterning this world And the starlit dreamy ocean, I find myself. In this magical moment When the city is singing to me I am The enchanted princess, Breathless with euphoria #Unreal #Poetry #Imagery #Feminine #Ethereal #Ghostly #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.
Shofar An alarm clock went off in a second-floor bedroom in one of the houses on Robinson Street. The face read seven-thirty. A quick hand emerging from the bed slammed the ringing machine against the end table. Some trinkets and a bottle of Vick’s rattled and fell in all directions.
This profited little, as only a moment later there was a sharp set of knuckles on the door. “Jerome Isaac, are you awake?” Most children of fifteen dread the middle name when called by their mother. But Jerome Isaac Hershel was an exception. He expanded on this typical phenomenon to also include the first name, deciding he wished to be called “Jay” and not anything remotely like Jerome Isaac. And that would be that. However the knocking continued. Jerome Isaac? I want you up and out of bed.” He stuffed a pillow over his ears. The door opened and light from the hallway spilled in. There were no locks in the Hershel house. “You need to be up!” Jay’s mother said almost in a bellow. Of course she wasn’t angry, as anger is something that must pass at some point after enough exertion. This was her way. It had been her way since Jay’s father had temporally relocated to Kensington Hospital and then permanently to the Hebrew Cemetery two years ago. Women from the neighborhood had come by day and the men from the temple had come by night the in week following. One they were gone all that was left was a mother’s sharpness. The curtains were now open and his mother’s hand had pulled the pillow away. Jay sat up. “The bathroom’s free so you can wash up. Your sisters are ready, they’re going early with me to help set some things up in hall.” Jay shut his eyes. “I’m not going today.” “Jerome Isaac.“ “I’m not going today,” he repeated. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
lone tree: nature communes in a dream-like landscape Lone tree: nature communes in a dream-like landscape Never picture ready, Joan of Arc is also illiterate. A catnap under a weeping willow and branches are limbs penning the future on themselves: papyrus was cheap in 1430. The Elm as dark sky serpent. The Elm as ink challenged octopus clutching eight styluses. Deciduous beasts cheated all of history’s haikus keeping them secret inside initialed trunks. Huge dinner plate leaves are refracted elbows stroking a soft shoulder, Joan stirs, hating a gentle breeze. Knowing one is a good fit for a cause is different than swimming with poisonous tree frogs. French optimism floods the springs not with macaroons, but mercury laden sewer water. Now the conqueror of snow-capped mountains, tremors. Who is she kidding? The beetles spawn, flip over on their backs, and wave six legs in the sky: a friendly gesture goes unnoticed. This vaudeville act ended hours ago. Volcanoes surround sound in ashy doom. Play this tea party out. Flesh and brain cannot comprehend such a placid Monet mise en scene. Slice it with a butcher knife and it is a mere fragment, no music to entice punctured ear drums, no teeth and tongue parting to sing along the Seine. An embrace from the inside is all anyone wants. Like females, lava has a love hate relationship with rules. #Unreal #Poetry #JenniferMacBainStephens #Metaphor #JoanofArc #Compassion #Fire #Imagery Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. |