Celestial bl(ack)ue

By Daria Galkina

If I am celestial blue,
Is there any celestial black?
In velvet,
Embroidered with beads?
In sequin,
Opaque and matted,
Noble.

Is there any celestial black?
In glory,
With cut out uncertainty;
Neat-handed
And with a lindy-hop talent
For dancehall?

Is there any celestial black
In grace?
Tits looking fit in décolleté,
Heels with the heels,
Glittery lipstick, smoky eyes –
Looking sharp?

If I am celestial blue,
Is there any celestial black?
23 y.o.,
Perky and beckoning,
Confident,
Red haired and weary,
Effeminate?

She Has Time

Senar Arcak

This was amongst my very first attempts in creative writing. I have always liked stories with a bit of weirdness and tried to in this very amateur writing to bring about the idea that “We are all a bit weird sometimes” with unexpected qualities. I wanted to share it with you, I hope you enjoy it!

What is about time that makes it so precious? Isn’t it something that humanity imagines and then measures? For Sarah and Nova the timing of their meeting was a good omen. It was two weeks ago in a crossroad of Irvington when Sarah lost control of her bike and almost took Nova’s left eye out. She wished she were dead instead of embarrassing herself in front of such a handsome man. But when she saw Nova just staring at her, she could do nothing except for asking his name, in half a smile half a blush. But within her excitement and happiness she never forgot time was tricky and wondered if that was an illusion too.

Now, Sarah has just moved into a bigger place in Lane Road, Irvington, and she thinks it is time she invited Nova to her new place for their third date. She cannot stop herself from looking out the window to see Nova. She knows that he is supposed to be with her now, but she doesn’t check the time to know that. 

Her new place has a cozy kitchen with light wooden floors and a big white window above the sink. Even though the kitchen is invaded with the heavy and sour smell of baked potatoes, roasting duck, and wine, Sarah doesn’t open the window or the curtains. The curtains in the new house are almost always closed. The coziness of the new place is wounded by the dimness and thus a sullen quietness rules the house.

Untitled

The weight of words thus impassed

on streams of sounds made him aware

of all the empty strings that lie

on a full and surely scriptable web.

Then spiders roam between the flying

lines, catching now and then

flies that thought not well enough

that they perhaps are not the most

important creatures in the air.

Hence they die, with tasteful flair.

A Restless Heart and Obsidian Skies

By Raph al Guul

Tender feet on stony ground, a scarlet moon in the sky. She had woken to the sound of passing time or perhaps just the shadow of a dream. Something had been calling her. And though she didn’t know what it was, she felt it best to find the call’s origin.

For too long she had been looking inward and found nothing but unrest. Years, perhaps ages she spent searching for her own genuine soul. And all that was there were burning questions born out of sheer self-doubt. Soon it would be too late for questions.

Unchain the Light

By Raph al Guul

The light has grown elusive. Lucky the man who can catch himself a handful. And we all know what he does with it.

Down to the cellar he climbs, his fist clenched shut. His arm shakes from the exertion, sweat on his brow. There lies the chest, made of wood and painted black. He heaves it open with one arm, his other ready to throw.

Draconian Love

By Raph al Guul

We all faintly remember the time when we could fly – but we can never quite piece together the day they took our wings. It is pain fading in the haze of time.

Butterflies

By Raph al Guul

Its wings are dark red with a beautiful blue circle on each side. I feel the warmth of your hand on mine as you gently shift your fingers to place the little creature in my palm. A faint shudder goes through its wings as if a sudden but peaceful breeze had caught it unawares. But there is no wind and no sound, just you giving me butterflies.

Looking Down

By Raph al Guul

In essence, that’s exactly what the world is; a tiny apartment next to a giant strip club. Blurred boundaries, the strippers almost intruding into your living room. Through the kitchen window you can see the neon lights and the men underneath, sucking down the smoke from their cheap cigarettes. The world is a place where you can stare through the glory-hole and feel good about yourself for being better than complete strangers. You can silently judge them while masturbating behind locked doors.

downward rumours

downward rumours

creaking cracking shrieking

every beating

of man of wife of tv

becomes ground in the tv series

thats now but noise

of murdering sirens

ive got the impression

of it on

every scale

major minor diminished

a third inversion, too

revolting against its roots.

high-pitched

and drumming

then

saturnal trans–

position yet

on the airless wings

of an instrument

of a creation

reproduced and reproducing

silence.

yet

Pressing on the earlobe, insistently

pressures the mind a ghastly fantasy.

emptys the neighbourhood

while neighbouring thoughts destruct the mood.

Exile

By Raph al Guul

An indeterminate amount of time after a violent separation, two old souls in young bodies with a long shared past meet again by chance. The encounter espouses no sense of euphoria. Rather, a deep sadness permeates the ensuing conversation: