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ManticoreBy MaryLee Pry QuailBellMagazine.com  “MaryLee,” the professor drawls, and my head snaps up, the dreaded news already dragging a bone-chilling claw down my spine. “You’re up.” I push back my chair, veins already bursting from blood that only seems to rush when everyone is staring at you. As I begin the mile-long walk to the front of the room, I feel sickly moist breath sending spider-like tingles down my back. The manticore has arrived. Prowling in the back of my throat, blocking words that long to escape. Herding my heart to my ears, where it can pound on the drums. Sweat-slicked palms slide against each other, as the voice grows from a quiet growl to a loud roar. Seven feet tall, always in my shadow. A shaggy obsidian mane perpetually oozes green fear. Eyes smoldering like coal stare, a constant reminder of what failure means. Wings the color of smoke from a funeral pyre; a violet paw, as large as I am; a scaled tail, the length of the room, ending in a barb dripping with paralyzing toxin. As I turn to stand at the front, my sweat-slicked palms slide against each other. I prepare to force out words my mind can’t seem to grasp, praying that no one can see the beast at my back. #Unreal #Poem #Poetry #Manticore #MaryLeePry Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.
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