April 1st, 2021 When we started Blind Corner Literary Magazine back in the fall of 2019, we had no idea how far it would take us. We had some hopes, a lot of motivation, and maybe even a few good ideas, but nothing that could prepare us for what was to come, or how quickly the magazine would find its footing.Issue 7 is HERE — Blind Corner Literary Magazine
So many emergencies,
Or a dozen,
On a wave that never seems to break,
And drown us all,
Filling our lungs with sludge,
Until there’s nothing left,
In water so toxic,
It should glow green,
With all the radioactive sludge,
It’s made of,
Once I tried to build a surfboard,
With bargain tins,
And a cardboard box,
As I imagined what would happen,
When the end came,
Now I just hold on tight,
As I wonder,
If it isn’t best,
To be the first,
A ravening metal spider,
Sprawls with its legs in the sea,
It’s beauty lit,
By the dragons breath,
Of its stacks,
Reflected in a thousand eyes,
That wink in the night,
Each one a warning,
Of what we cannot,
The Hhest, my ancestors, called this soft twilight Ssayat Tlichat – the Awakening Hour, holy to harvesters and hunters and travelers and priests. Holy to the hundred thousand ghosts of the deep desert’s heart, whose numbers I will soon join if no one answers the bell I rang at the shrine. I did ring it, somehow, with a dagger in my chest. It’s still there; I fear to remove it.
Oh, Khassa. I want to close my eyes to stop seeing his face, but they have dried open. I can only lie still, bleeding out drop by drop into the cooling sand, and pray silently as the sun gurgles wine red on the teeth of the dunes.
I listen, until the vibration becomes a song under my skin, to the droning chorus of waking predators, and the answering frenzy of their prey, snatching up the last fruits of the day…
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If I’d have known that it was going to kill him, of course I would never have done it. We were young and in love. It was a joke.
The way he smelled. Like a forest.
His ID bracelet caught in my hair during our first kiss.
Every single thing about him was sexy. It was 1985. We were nineteen and in love and he could have worn shoulder pads and a crop top and I would have thought he was sexy.
I loved passing gum back and forth between our mouths when we were kissing. Yes, we were young.
I imagined him giving me the ID bracelet when we moved things to the next level. In novels, guys in the army gave women their ID bracelet. I hadn’t seen anyone our age wearing one. Maybe my gorgeous Michael was old-fashioned in this single lacuna.
Lying in the grass, I…
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The Chamber Magazine is seeking articles, reviews, essays, poems, and short stories of approximately 5,000 words (more or less) including flash, micro fiction, smoke longs, drabbles or of any flavor of short fiction that demonstrates the art of writing dark fiction, whether it be prose, poetry, one-act plays, or any other form of literature. We […]The Chamber Magazine is Seeking Dark Fiction and Poetry from Around the World — Phil Slattery’s Blog
Doors 145 – Just some doors dotted around Bristol that took my fancy
I so desperately want to post some magnificent doors from a stately home or National Trust property or something like that, but I still haven’t been out much, so I am stuck with the ordinary everyday doors from around Bristol. Here we go for another Bristol doorscursion:
Door and steps, Saint Phillips, Bristol, April 2021
Two graffiti doors, Stokes Croft, Bristol, April 2021
Door within a door, Bristol, April 2021
Sliding doors, Easton, Bristol, April 2021
DNT, Nine Tree Hill, Bristol, April 2021
Bricked up door with the original gate intact, Bedminster, Bristol, April 2021
The weather is improving and lockdown is easing, so it shouldn’t be too long before I can get out and about for some fresh doors. Overseas holiday doors though are still a distant dream which is a pity… patience is a virtue.
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Author: Stuart K Watson As I wake, I think: Today would be a great day to start the next world war. I look outside. The lawn is still there, with the neighbor’s scooter lying on its side in the middle of it. Unwarranted incursion. The trees are still standing. Birds still fly. Nests still hide…Why the Next World War Won’t Start Here — 365tomorrows
A clockwork home,
With capsule rooms,
And a plastic smell,
Awash with tides,
Of transient dramas,
Served on one night slices,
With disposable names,
Force fed through your eyes,
Each baggage collection lock,
Securing a vacuum with a bed,
A void with a loo,
Where you eat,
And get out,
Before your new friends eject you,
When the reception’s till,
Into the cold white light,
That are somehow,
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