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Making Your Mark Words + Image: Garrett Riggs QuailBellMagazine.com When you painted yourself, the floor, the cat, wall—everything—blue, I laughed. When I tried to scrub the walls knowing we wouldn’t get the deposit back, I cursed. But, your handprints were your signature and my heart didn’t want to erase that. In the end, the paint left a stain like smashed blueberries. Your handprints bled through layers of the landlord’s paint, ghosts of the happy years before work and worry take their place in your life. Drive those dark spirits out with color and mess and love. Paint the whole goddamn world. #Unreal #Poetry #GarrettRiggs #Painting #Creation #Childhood #WorkingClass #Family #Handprints 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.
Old Letters I am reading old letters to a friend. From time to time I do this, try to sneak behind the curtains of prose catch a glimpse of my fingers in action, weed the root of all honesty. Words, under the stilted occupation of punctuation, subject to the laws of gravity’s grammar, maturing on the page, but unlike wine, lose all flavor, turn spontaneous thoughts into catch-phrase. In that moment as my eyes assimilate the comma and the onset, in the nucleus of a sound where creative material simmers, the hole has been pillaged, the trove emptied of content, unleashing shameless phrases to chase the line down into silence and heartfelt goodbyes. Goodbyes come too late. The pen moves under the invisible hand. The traces of footprints in the sand are left from boots I never wore. #Unreal #Poetry #AllanGould #Letters #Calligraphy #WordFlow #ShamelessPhrases #Goodbye 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.
Desert Woman I.
Between sapping limbs of plum and bark a child breaks the skin of her hands. Stopping the blood with sap, she licks off her fingers what she thinks will taste like honey. It tastes like sick and bedtime and she roars to me on the other side of the window sounds like war. Here is what her nature did: II. “It's easier for them to shoot you if you're up in a tree,” the father says, “Never climb higher, keep low-- hide behind cars or big boulders, telephone booths.” And the daughter. The daughter taciturn by the advice, the thought that someone would try to kill her is a thought-- I did not create-- I didn't create it—is a thought, I did not create, it is a thought, I did not thought to create, I did not create is a thought I did not create. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
You Were Asleep When chimes rocked her out of her chair, Emily’s face smashed against the cold floor. Coughing the dust from her lips, she pushed herself up as the clock tolled on. Groggy eyes panned the stained, thick wood panel walls held together by the black and white tiled floor. An ominous green velvet ceiling held the box room down, casting a cheap chandelier though the center. Directly across the poker chair she fell from was a grandfather clock, from top to bottom, clunking its pendulum to and fro as the face droned its last bell.
Emily rose on her failing legs and teetered to the clock, her hoop skirt tipping her over as if the room swayed like a ship. Swallowing and shaking her head, she made the last swoop to run against the glass handle on the clock’s door. Grunting, Emily heaved the door open. A hallway opened to her, only lasting a few yards before it collapsed into the darkness of the forest. Trees grew in the fallen structure, the branches sighing in the wind. The sound of running water pulled her attention to the left a stream stuttered down the cracked drawers before unfolding into a small pool. Emily pulled open a drawer. A key sat against the waterlogged drawer. Eyes narrowed, she started to reach for the key when a tentacle came out swatted her. Shocked, Emily jumped back with a silent shriek, the sound never leaving her lips. She was mute. A growl punctured the silence. Fear shot to Emily’s heart as she stared into the darkness, breathing hotly. A rustle and a pair of sharp, brown eyes unfolded to her. Silent cries spilled out her parched lips as she looked around frantically. The clock door behind her sealed shut with a click when she turned, and a whimper pulled out of her chest. The brown eyes started bobbing closer. Bolting to the dresser, Emily pushed her hand into the steely water. The tentacle grabbed her wrist. Whimpering, Emily turned to the eyes nestled in the head of a bear-like wolf that towered in the hallway. It arched its neck back, a stench thrusting into her nose as it snarled. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
I Worry Therefore I AM By Jessika Malo QuailBellMagazine.com I worry that the sun will forget to wake up to awaken the world I worry that the man in the moon will confiscate all the light I worry that the wave will forget the way back, then midst its return, its foam will suffocate its breathes I worry that although the tree tops prance over the back of the horizon; their roots are withered and sick I worry that we have lost the count, or the count have lost us I worry that you have confused the shades of my smell, That you have taught your body how to survive without me I worry that my skin keeps rejuvenating, farther and deeper, away from you I worry that you no longer can read my smile that you still draw yourself I worry that you have colored our memories with fade That you have erased the silhouettes of our bodies from the hearts of the walls that have leaned on us That you have picked up the noise, which I fell in love with, of nails dropping to the floor every time I shave for you That you have smothered the happiness of my face touching yours, like a secret handshake to the contract of eternity I worry that you no longer sip on the dew of my eyelids, announcing my mornings And without my mornings, I no longer am, Therefore I no longer worry, and that’s my biggest worry of all… #Unreal #Poetry #JessikaMalo #Photography #HumanCondition #Lost #Found #Peace #Worry 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.
Critical Mass of a Mortal Have you ever felt you’re just a symbol to the people that you love? The saintly or the sinful—daughter, lover, friend—enough! The clash of titans was to gods mere sibling rivalry. To my dearly disconnected loves I may be Fun, Cold, Business Opportunity, Female. Can we ever know another person? Does it matter if we can't or can? I find I can persist as lover to impersonal Man... It seems my matrix of emotions is off all maps but mine. Perhaps this furthers plans of the Uncanny and Divine? For others I'm Extension, variations on a theme: I've no option but to play myself in this jigsaw-puzzle dream. #Unreal #Poetry #JeanneJoePerrone #Painting #ElizabethGilliamHedgepath #Labels#Masks #Matrix #Persona 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.
Love At First Grade I was only on my first of twelve grades, so the time for slacking had yet to arrive. Some kids, however, found their shoelaces, the window or the floor more interesting than our addition problems. I couldn’t help but feel these kids had underestimated the importance of the ability to add single digit numbers. Granted, it seemed to be a somewhat abstract concept, one only adults needed to know. But our teachers reminded us we’d be adults soon enough.
1+3=4. 2+2=4. 3+6=_?____. Geez, our lessons were moving a little too quickly. It’s hard enough learning all the numbers that can add up to four. Dismay spread throughout our class when the teacher announced we’d be moving on to a new concept the next week--subtraction. I personally didn’t understand how we could be expected to learn a concept whose name we wouldn’t be required to spell for at least another two grades. Anyway, I shrugged off the news and returned to my problems. I was working on my last few problems when Brandon dropped a folded sheet of paper on my desk. “What’s this?” I whispered. “It’s a note from Jessie,” Brandon said. I looked across the room and blonde-hair blue-eyed Jessie was staring at me intently. An unfamiliar sensation ran along my spine; butterflies fluttered in my stomach. Brandon nodded suggestively, so I went ahead and unfolded the note. It read: Kyle, I love you. -Jessie The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
(Spill-O's Dubious Advice) A sneering truant from the wheel of life; Spill-O, in his recreational despair, skips family functions, hot showers and clean clothes, and then blames poetry. “We’re just haunting this world until we overturn our convictions,” he says, holding onto the wall. “The world, is a consequence, like the freestanding throat of a vanished volcano.” A book about the fifth dimension rests in his pudgy hands. “Once you submit to procreation, you can’t honestly argue with anything. You can’t get drunk as you need to be at a Marriot on an expense account.” Eyes bagged, mouth uneven, Spill-O doesn’t look so good. “No one will exile you. You have to exile yourself,” he slurs. Colin Dodds grew up in Massachusetts and completed his education in New York City. His poetry has appeared in more than a hundred fifty publications, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. The poet and songwriter David Berman (Silver Jews, Actual Air) said of Dodds’ work: “These are very good poems. For moments I could even feel the old feelings when I read them.” Dodds is also the author of several novels, including WINDFALL and The Last Bad Job, which the late Norman Mailer touted as showing “something that very few writers have; a species of inner talent that owes very little to other people.” And his screenplay, Refreshment, was named a semi-finalist in the 2010 American Zoetrope Contest. Colin lives in Brooklyn, New York, with his wife Samantha. You can find more of his work at thecolindodds.com. #Unreal #Poetry #ColinDodd #AdventuresOfSpillO #Existentialism #HotelBars #DrinkingByYourself #Drunk #Exile 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 Way Back How do we live our lives? The Way Back Lights the secrets. Why we care-- Dark side Danger exists: Social Distortion Like percussionist kamikazes Lost in translation. Attention must be paid. #Poetry #Photography #NaomiYung #TylerRosado #Diction #Past #Secrets #Distortion #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.
'Some birds are not meant to be caged, that's all.' This fall, the Homeless Children's Playtime Project, a nonprofit based in Washington, D.C., is holding an auction to support their programming. Capitol Hill Arts Workshop instructors (c'est moi!) were asked to make a piece of art for the event. I came up with a birdhouse sculpture using recycled materials: birdhouses, a shutter, old nail polish, crepe paper left over from someone's birthday party. It's a whimsical piece for a group dedicated to providing Washington's homeless kids with a safe place to play. The Playtime Project's fundraiser will take place on Oct. 8th at the Carnegie Endowment for International Peace in Washington, D.C. Learn more about the event. #Unreal #Sculpture #Birdhouses #RecycledArt #FoundObjects #FoundArt #BirdArt #Whimsical #Quirky #Collage #Birds Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. |