QB
Staff of QB
Rejections
CITHARA PATRA
Today, I received a rejection from someone I wanted to work with. The sadness I buried earlier crawls back out as my eyes well up. I don’t understand. I hit all the right points, expressed enthusiasm and skills, and vowed to do my best. In the end, they went with someone else. I’m not sure if that person was more qualified than me or if they got in through knowing someone who worked here. My heart hurts reading those same words.
Thank you for your time. It was a pleasure to meet you. We’ve found a better candidate.
It’s not my resume. It’s not my work ethics. It’s that invisible barrier I can’t break through. I punch and kick and it never comes down. With one more rejection, my spirits sink low as dark thoughts fill my head. The world’s crumbling. Wars erupting, lines being drawn, and death toll rising each day. Does it matter that I lost another job? In the end, none of us may have work. The higher-ups will look for short-cuts. They want to work quicker not better.
You have a lot of merit. You meet the requirements.
Still, buried deep inside this pain, is a glimmer of hope. I tried. If I died with nothing, at least I can die trying to make a difference. I can die trying to make something of myself.
I’m rooting for you. I believe in you.
And that’s better than letting the rejections take over my life.
Grate Escape—Part I
JESI TAYLOR
July 10, 2026
The first time it happened, I watched the train and tunnel rise to the water’s surface from my bedroom window.
It was only a matter of time before the subsurface heat island effect imploded a subway station and forced hundreds of thousands of gallons of salt water through the weathering bedrock, sand, and silt holding the underground infrastructure in place.
I wrote about these dangers in multiple peer-reviewed articles for decades. Local politicians and scientists were thankful I wasn’t talking about my data and research–only publishing in journals, newspapers, and zines–because it was bad for business and shed light on their violence and neglect.
A mute expert in climate disaster risk management is a non-threatening one. Until they find a way to reach and convince more people of the truth. Or until they’re forced to.
The latter is what happened to me which is why I’m writing this testimony now. From Rikers.
The second time it happened I was, unfortunately, there. On the train. In a station as it imploded.
If it wasn’t for the wisdom of the Sandhogs I would’t have made it out alive.
Artisans
E.J. LEROY
All those failed dregs of the arts gathered here
The musicians and writers and dreamers
Nursed all their sorrows on local craft beers
Like sad lovers and liars and schemers
But every one of those souls was sincere
Seeking fortune and fame and believers
Each one thought himself the next Hemingway
The drinking part they mastered anyway
I steal the pennies from the wishing well
MYKAH GREEN
My pockets are heavy with wishes. Children wishing for a Labrador puppy or for Dad to get a new job. Men wishing to be loved and women wishing to be listened to.
The one-cent lottery.
Sometimes someone drops a dime; either they have a demanding wish, or theirs has already been granted. The cold water closes over my hand, and when I withdraw, I will wash it off like blood. Out, damn spot. I wonder if I am pickpocketing dreams, this way. I don’t really believe; I only want something to eat; but these secondhand wishes will have to do.
Sleeping bag
MICHAEL GALE
I don’t know who previously owned my sleeping bag.
I don’t know who ashed their cigarette onto it and burned little holes - where the plastic or vinyl or whatever it’s made of started to bubble and harden, scratching at my skin while I lay awake staring into the darkness while my eyes adjust and try to make out the ceiling.
I don’t know who chose it - a bright orange and green sleeping bag - faded from what smells like about 40 years of sun and weather damage.
I don’t know where it came from. I don’t know why the zipper doesn’t work. I don’t know if it had many owners or just one who loved it until it stopped working.
I know it keeps me warm. I know it smells like moth balls. I wonder if someone died in it. I know it makes my other blankets slip off my bed In the middle of the night.
I know it’s pilling. I know it's itchy.
I don't know where it came from, or where it will go next.
Maybe it's recycled textile, maybe it's frayed by time into numerous chunked up pieces choking sea turtles. Maybe it's a national flag, an oil rag or lining the walls of a coffin. Or softening a nest for bird eggs, or left to rot and mould and breakdown for the next couple of thousand years - if that's even possible - or exist in this same exact state for eternity.
Previous, current and future owners, awake, annoyed and stuck.
Harvest
E. FLORIAN GLUDOVACZ
The Reaper of Souls stood in silence, surveying all that lay before him, measuring and gauging weight and size with a practised eye. Some days were easy, some days much harder, but it all balanced out in the end.
This was his time, his place. He lost himself in the moment as he closed his all-seeing eyes and drank in the silence. Soon it would be over and the deed would be done. He relished the moment as he knelt down and in one swift, sure motion plucked the ripe tomato off the plant and popped it into his mouth.
This month...
Contributions from...
E. Florian Gludovacz, Michael Gale, Mykah Green, E.J. LeRoy, Jesi Taylor, Cithara Patra, Robert Walton, Chris Clemens, Adrienne Furio, Sage Collins, Kurt Newton, Jesi Taylor, Denny E. Marshall, Ben Daggers, Nicholas De Marino, Ken Kakareka, Megan Diedericks, Lauren M. Connolly, Stephen Mead, David Blitch, JR Vernham, Joshua D. Martin, Jim Courter, Robin Blasberg, Natalia Plos, CJ The Tall Poet, Kristen Allen, Claudia Wysocky, Jaina Cipriano
Cover art
featuring Coming Squall (Nahant Beach with a Summer Shower) (1835) by Thomas Doughty
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