QB
Staff of QB
like a rotating crane
towers over a
foundation pit.
you ever think
you can all the way
finish? I know,
man, I know
that you can't, but
then sometimes
I wish it: that we could
just build and be
done, having built it;
not maintain
for the rest of our
stink-fucking
parasite
lives.
A politician thinks of the next election; a statesman thinks of the next generation.
— James Freeman Clarke (1810-1888)
Here is a complete, practical mental routine for the performer.
It requires a minimum of props and preparation.
The objects used may be carried in a small briefcase.
The tempo will mount as the action progresses.
The first feat will catch your spectators immediately.
Your last move will end on a dramatic high note.
You must practice until your performance is letter perfect in every detail as if it were second nature.
In order to fully invisibilize / first unlearn your story / Obsessional tendencies required / Now we see it / Now we don’t / Rifle through your glossary of / duck duck roll / Master countable ways / to orbit / to break the band / to barge through the screens / Sleight of hand / palm face cards / of wealth & whiteness / Nail nick / your sound bites Plunge daggers / into rag dolls / Look down / your nose / under velvet blindfolds / Command samples / of skins / to vanish / in your petrie dish / Shuffle whispering Jokers / Nurture top hat skills / of super psychometry / for divining facts / from cyborgs / Caress soft thighs / of social media / your lovely assistant / Giddy with abracadabra thrall / double down / way past / the far / as you / will go.
Everything will depend on your abilities as performer
for the Impresario who will build these feats to miraculous proportions
in the center ring of this once upon a nation.
I’ve never been
psychoanalyzed.
At least, not by experts.
Can’t afford it.
But readers,
that’s a different story.
One once said I was
an alienated but feeling soul,
haunted and humble,
with an exposed and vulnerable
feminine side
and an ingrained access
to the creative unconscious.
He bought my book.
He paid me.
‘Odd,’ he thought, as the particle disintegrator split his body into a million atoms and spread them irretrievable across the known universe…
Clearing my mind reveals a dirty floor full of holes. Some old dog still lives in the basement and keeps the rats out.
“I should put you down,” I tell the animal, “doubt you’re catching rats, anymore.”
“You see any?” It asks. “You’re ungrateful as ever.” It chews an old shoe. “You could retire me upstairs. Let me enjoy the sun.”
Broken pillars of light project through the cracks above.
“You’ll wreck the place,” I shake my head, “and I haven’t found your replacement.”
The dog hacks up a shoelace.
“Real valuable landscape you’ve got, with your piles of trash and peeling walls.” I stomp a foot. The dog growls and bares it teeth.
“Rats might improve the place,” it laughs.
I leave my maze and return to half-hectic existence. Headaches start coming on.
“Shit’s probably falling back onto the floor,” I figure, without stopping to investigate. Sleep heals for a while. “Quit chasing your tail,” I yell to the ratter. It doesn’t reply. The knives don’t take long to return and two gnawing spots behind my eyes force me into a dark room. Wine makes the situation worse and I drop into my head.
Everything is knocked over and chewed through, magazines are sawdust, photos reduced to colorful ribbons. I descend to the basement to find the dog. It’s gone, replaced by a churning mass of rats. Luckily, before they can eat me, the floor caves in and my mind gives out completely.
Samuel Oliver Sullivan was a most unusual man, who diligently followed the concept of taking the bull by the horns.
Since his childhood, Samuel suffered from an innate fear of spiders. They terrified him; so, when he was just 16 years old, he bought his first tarantula. For the next three years, Samuel’s daily routine included precisely 10 minutes of “spider time”, in which he sat with his hands over his lap and watched the spider walk from one hand to the other.
Heights were another thing that terrified Samuel, so, when he was 20, he took a job with a scaffolding company. The first week was the hardest, but sheer determination and force of will got him through, and it was not long before he was climbing the scaffolding like an expert and had earned himself the nickname Monkey Boy.
Of all his phobias, Samuel the Monkey Boy Sullivan considered his fear of water to be the most ridiculous. Again, he took the bull by the horns, and, by the time he was 21, he had amassed an impressive collection of swimming medals.
When he was 24, Samuel killed himself.
Two wrongs don’t make a right.
Three rights make a left.
Eight lefts summon a déjà vu.
Sixteen identical turns—sixteen of anything—is a lot, though you return to where you started, having made zero progress in this, as in the rest of your life.
Thirty-two turns—and by now, left or right is irrelevant—and you question all the choices that have led you to the here and now.
Sixty-four turns—and the doubt grows, even as familiar landmarks blur together.
128 turns—and it’s time to face your demons. It is time to return home at last.
Crumbs Vol.001
a drabble writing contest
We are pleased to announce that submissions for our first themed writing contest are now open!
To kick things off, our first theme is quite apt for the name of our semi-monthly contest:
OPEN TO ALL GENRES FOR FEBRUARY'S CONTEST
Emma and I can't wait to see what you come up with!
Entries cost $1.50 each, with a cap of 150 submissions per period.
Ten stories will be selected for publication in Quotidian Bagatelle magazine and on the web. That's a one in 15 chance of publication! All published pieces will receive payment. Nine drabble writers will receive $5, and one will be crowned champion and receive a whopping $15.