QB
Staff of QB
Apocalypse
ASHER BOMSE
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
Tombstone, April 2020
LEAH MUELLER
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.
PTSD
JOHN GREY
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.
Leisure Suit Yourself
LEE HAMMERSCHMIDT
“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!
Banana Phones Are the Smartest Phones
E.J. LEROY
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.
The Monster
CORRIE HALDANE
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.
Strong Minds Discuss Ideas, Average Minds Discuss Events, and Weak Minds Discuss People
Rachel Rodman
After the Symposium, we recline on the balcony in our togas. Below us, in the shopping district, Athens’ lesser inhabitants bustle. They exchange gossip and sports statistics. They take satisfaction in things.
What limited brains!
What limited lives!
“Weak,” we spit.
“Average,” we sneer.
Our analysis is, however, only preliminary; with our strong minds, we rigorously extend it. Our ideas are immense and intricate, provocative and paradigm-defying, and we are confident that they comprise the rudiments of a new theory.
But our standards our high (we are great philosophers, after all) and we recognize that our work remains at an early stage. Additional—and exquisitely specific—proofs of these contemptible individuals’ behavioral inferiority will be essential in refining it.
See her, doing that?
(Remember her?)
See him, wearing that?
Is he actually wearing that?
We discuss.
Rachel Rodman is the author of three collections of short fiction.
A Story Entirely Inoffensive
KARL EL-KOURA
A person walks down the street. I do not say that they are the protagonist of this story, for why should one person be any more important than any other? I give this non-protagonist (which is not to say there is anything wrong with protagonists) no name, and I do not wish to describe what they look like. I do not say they look like anything in particular.
I say only that this person walks down the street. They arrive at the end of the street and turn in a particular direction. I do not wish to say which direction. The less said, the fewer offended, am I right? Or am I left? I do not say one word should be used over the other.
This walking person (I do not say walking is superior to driving or rollerblading or any other form of transportation, simply that in this particular case the person walked), this walking person arrived a short or a long time later at their destination, which I do not wish to state. This person, as I say, arrived at their destination, and this person was happy to do so. I do not say happiness is better than joy, or even more desirable than a quiet contentment; only that this particular person, who happened to be walking in particular, was happy to arrive at their particular destination.
Karl El-Koura works a regular job by day while writing fiction at night.