QB
Staff of QB
On the surface of the lake, the moon was a silver coin paying the boatman. The women dove beneath, caressed by weed and embraced by water. They sank with purpose, eyes open. They sank through time, though the water remained the same, and the moon, too. They sank to the depths. They saw the foundation of things, where the weeds rooted and the water settled and the moon touched only lightly, scattered and shaded. They scooped handfuls of mud and let the silt run through their fingers, cling under their nails. They burrowed. The moon watched them go.
Jay Castello is a writer, editor, and creative found by the river or at @jaymcastello.bsky.social.
ONE. Procure nitrous oxide. Amateur
comedians who stare at their feet
every Thursday night may resort
to desperate measures after years
of shame. For suicidal dentists,
this step is simple.
TWO. Generously donate ten canisters
of “stage fog” to Laugh Machine,
to be installed near vents. Rig secret
remote triggers on each: you’ll TELL
them when to laugh!
THREE. Alone in the spotlight, release gas
as needed to survive coughs and smirking
faces. UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES
should your sweaty fingers jam the remote
buttons, releasing all the gas at once
with a faint hiss.
FOUR!? Between giggling gasps,
try to warn everyone
maybe
although
every word you say is hilarious
everyone’s finally rolling in the aisles
together
and the laughter goes on and on
Chris Clemens lives and teaches in Toronto, surrounded by raccoons.
Earth had been sick for a while
Humanity being the root cause
A spiral that only went deeper as time went on
Everyone knew, saw the signs, did nothing
Then, as predicted by so many, it’d finally happened
Humanity was facing its demise by their own hands
Earth was getting rid of the infection that’d been slowly killing it
At long last in the eyes of Mother Nature
Floods, Tornadoes, Volcanic eruptions, Typhoons, everything in between happening
The weather was taking over, washing everyone away
Much like the Biblical floods once did, only worse
Nowhere was safe from anything
People dying instantly while others died slowly
Millions dead within the first twelve hours
Leaving millions of others knowing they were likely next
A fate that seemed worse than death being what it felt to them
Five million survived out of eight billion
They’d did what they’d needed to survive
They began using what they could to survive and rebuild
All five million were unsure of their future
Knowing they still very well might be on borrowed time
No amount of planning would help other
Too many unknowns to attempt it
They came together anyway in hopes of rehabilitating Mother Nature
Asher is a Transgender Man living with Disabilities. He writes to help others in some way through their writing
You walk down the wooden sidewalk with your husband. His steps are slow, hesitant. Boards creak underfoot. When you round the corner, a woman springs out of a restaurant. “We’re open!” She sounds hopeful, yet desperate.
She means takeout, since it’s illegal to dine in a restaurant. The iconic bars sport heavy padlocks. Big Nose Kate’s. Doc Holliday’s. The Four Deuces Saloon. Closed indefinitely, until owners get the all-clear.
The main street is empty, except for a photographer with a fancy setup. He’s standing in the middle, snapping away. His apparatus looks like a mechanical praying mantis.
You think of old Warner Brothers cartoons. Tumbleweeds roll down the street like spiked bowling balls. The desert is a harsh and unrelenting place, but roadrunners always rise again.
Usually, Tombstone’s streets overflow with gunslinging cowboys, searching for tourist dollars. “Goin’ to the gunfight today?” they snarl.
If you say “no”, they follow you down the street. “You sure?” Insistent, like they might shoot if you say no. “Two PM. Watch them fall like they did in 1881.”
Death isn’t a kitschy joke anymore. It’s a real possibility. Everyone’s huddled indoors like the cavalry might appear at any moment. You take a deep breath of the dusty air and snap a cellphone photo of an overhead sign. “Ghosts and Legends.” Ominous shadows stretch into the distance.
Your husband’s cancer treatment begins tomorrow. Still, you feel oddly peaceful. Tombstone has never been so quiet. You clasp your husband’s hand and keep walking.
Leah Mueller is everywhere and nowhere. Her work is published across the internet and in print.
Memories crack head-on with now,
smack bang in the middle of the road—
none giving way,
none slowing.
Her brain’s a bloodied knot
of yesterday’s smoke and today’s hazard lights.
She reaches out like roadside assistance—
but this wreck’s deep in the woods,
long past the guardrails of reason.
How do you salvage only half a soul?
Can she bear to see one crawl free
while the other’s laid out like a funeral?
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Latest book “Bittersweet” is available through Amazon.
“My God, Shade,” Minx McCambridge said, letting out a heavy audible sigh. “Is that what you’re wearing on our date?”
“Pretty spiffy, huh?” I said, tugging on the lapels of my vintage 1974, powder blue, leisure suit.
Minx let out the sigh again.
“You know we’re going to Molalla Estates for a wine tasting, right?”
“Yep. I never touch wine, so the jacket’s huge inside pockets come in handy.”
I opened the coat to reveal the PBR tallboys stuffed inside.
Minx sighed again, shaking her head and rolling her eyes.
“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all,” she said. “When you got the proof of Mario’s infidelity, getting me my huge divorce settlement, I thought a little celebration would be in order. You are kind of attractive in a rugged, gothic sort of way. But it turns out you’re crass and uncouth, with no sense of style or decorum.”
Another sigh.
“Yeah, you’re right,” I said. “This wouldn’t be much of a date. You’re just gasping at flaws.”
Lee Hammerschmidt is a Visual Artist/Writer/Troubadour. He is the author of nine collections of short stories and illustrations. Check out his hit parade on YouTube!
Hello, I’m not at home
Please leave a message
With the banana phone
What’s that you say?
No answering machine
Good, now go away
You see, I’ve cut all obnoxious ties
To asinine jokes, doomscrolling,
Petty political stunts, and lies
Until I replaced my smartphone
I had no idea how much time could fly
Now I do, thanks to my banana phone
Smooth yellow crescent on my wall
With no irritating texts, pings, or calls
You’re the least annoying phone of all
So, if my number you cannot reach
That’s just too bad
Tell it to the banana—beep!
E.J. LeRoy is a Pushcart Prize-nominated writer with a forthcoming mpreg novella. Curious? Visit http://ejleroy.weebly.com.
Mother’s voice forever echoes in my head: When I was your age, I’d already caused eight psychotic breaks and scared three people to death. You’re an embarrassment, Gary.
She never lets me forget she was first in her class at Spooky School, or that she broke every record in the Scare-O-Lympics.
That she’s the best.
I study my reflection in the bathroom mirror, try for a Frightening Face. Fail miserably. Maybe I’m just not cut out to be a Monster.
You’re an embarrassment, Gary.
“You can do this,” I tell my reflection. “Don’t let Mother down. Not this time.”
I melt into the floor, then worm my way through the house. When I reach The Boy’s room, I ooze through a crack in the floorboards and re-form beneath his bed.
Then I wait for him to turn out the light.
The Man stomps into the room, growls, “I told you to get some sleep. You’ve got tryouts tomorrow… Don’t embarrass me. I was state champ three years running. Being the best isn’t optional in this family.”
He flips off the light and exits without even saying goodnight, leaving The Boy alone in the dark.
With me.
The Boy sniffles back tears. My own eyes prickle in sympathy.
You’re an embarrassment, Gary.
They’re Mother’s words, but I hear them spoken in The Man’s voice.
Fire ignites in my chest. A monstrous rage blooms at last. I slip into the floor, creep towards The Man’s room.
Mother will be so proud.
Corrie finds inspiration in nature, bubble baths, and carefully curated playlists. Find her online: www.corriehaldane.com.