by Colette

Short Poetry Spotlight – Mattress and Graffiti

Written by Avantgardian

teddy_on_bed

How about a kip on the bed?
Image Courtesy of Inkblots

Mattress

battle arena for baby brothers
dance floor for sister’s dolls
keeper of coins yet to be counted
carrier of clothing spread and novels read

cover for cash and valuable deeds
habitat for spiders home to silverfish
a pillow harvest a stuffed bear preserve
snack bar washboard trampoline

lounging place for naked bodies
groping thrashing flailing sleeping
unseated table (topped in tasteless sheets)
that stirs a cerebral discussion

what stimulant of discordant dreams
what altar of opposite function.

Graffiti

Adversary of civilized men
petrified in dry cement
like an acorn thrown in reverie
these words the seed of artistry.

New contributor Avantgardian submitted a selection of  short poetry to Inkblots Magazine; our editorial team has chosen the two we thought explored such a simple object or theme in an intriguing light, offering new or a change of perception. Through his own style, Avantgardian has produced two top-notch poems, and we’re excited to see what else he creates. 

by Colette

Angela’s Touch

Written by Rob

diary_close

“I’d always felt Jenny had kept a part of herself in reserve.”
Image Courtesy of englishthroughlaxas.blogspot.com

I wasn’t even aware that Jenny kept a diary, until I found it lying in the hallway. I guessed it must have fallen from her bag. I recognised immediately what it was, even though it wasn’t written on a pre-printed, pre-dated book, but rather in an ad hoc collection of thoughts, scribbled into a well-thumbed, hard-backed book. I felt guilty about reading it; I knew I shouldn’t. She’d be mortified if she knew. Although we’d been married eight years, and we’d always promised each other “no secrets”, I’d always felt Jenny had kept a part of herself in reserve. It was as though there was a locked room inside her, that she’d lost the key to. I did not doubt she loved me, but I’d never felt that she’d trusted me with her inner sanctum, the core of her, the bit that made her tick. This memoire was too good an opportunity to pass over and so I sat on the “telephone chair” and read.

The early pages were mostly taken over with worries about the children: Derek’s first day at school, Linda’s poor spelling, Derek’s cut knee, and so forth. I didn’t seem to get much of a mention until I found “Kevin is a pompous arsehole!” in thick black letters, double underlined, following a passage describing our row about the Florida trip we couldn’t afford. That made me smile. I knew Jenny had come to my way of thinking about our budget a week or so later and, sure enough, there was the grudging, “I suppose he has a point,” two pages later. Continue reading →

by Colette

Monthly Editorial: December’s Content and a Christmas Eve Inkblots Special

Christmas decoration. vintage background with space for text or image.

If only we had some mulled wine to go with the sparkles – Merry Christmas!

Hey Inkblotters,

‘Tis the season to be jolly fa la la la la, la la la la – I honestly hope that’s the correct amount of la’s! So, as we all know it’s the beginning of December and if you’re not happily tucking into an Advent Calendar, then you’ll surely be getting into the Christmas spirit with Cyber Monday. Generally deemed as the busiest day in the online shopping year – yes, even busier than Black Friday – Cyber Monday is all the joys of hectic Christmas shopping without the frustration of standing in heaving queues. Although, I’m pretty sure surfing the Amazon page for “deals you’ve missed” is just as heavy on the heart – good job Amazon, we love you for that. But I digress, I’m sure you’re here to see exactly what we’ve got planned for this month’s content.

Kicking off content for December is Rob’s Half Hour Challenge entry “Angela’s Touch” from last month’s Book of Secrets theme. There’s a great twist in there, so we can’t give all the details away, but certainly look out for it on the 5th. We’ve also got two short poems from newcomer Avantgardian on the 8th, then later on the 20th Lost in a Dream has written a sequel (of sorts) to her highly regarded poem Rewind, which you can read on her blog here. Plus we’ve worked a few surprises in there too.

But with Christmas only coming but once a year, we’ve got an extra special post to upload on Christmas Eve in order to celebrate the fantastic theme this month. Exclusively for our forum members, the editorial team has hand-picked and compiled a 24 Door Advent Calendar with a separate theme and incredibly cheesy rhyme residing inside. So, just for you – our readers – we’re publishing three of the best entries, so be sure to check them out on Christmas Eve.

Last but not least, myself and the editorial team would like to wish you a Merry Christmas and a very Happy New Year. Thanks for reading/following, and we’ll see you in 2014!

– Silver, Inkblots Editor

by Colette

Spirit

Written by Silver

Bereavement_candle

“She sits as candle flickers to and fro.”
Image Courtesy of pincurlmag.com

Blissful liquor fills child of woe.
Drenched in moonlight by window’s sill,
she sits as candle flickers to and fro.

Wispy breeze chills the room.
Goosebumps rise from pasty skin;
she’s not surprised when shivers bloom.

Warm presence draws near,
touches with cold hands.
Affectionate memory shimmers,
draws forth painful tears.

Soothing voice echoes in mind.
Dancing with fondness,
erupting in glee.
No longer confined,
completely free.

Tender care needs no words.
Arms outstretched, she feels so close.
But the pull of life is much preferred.

He kisses her forehead,
breathes heat into her lungs.
And silken hands lift her to bed,
her travel to death not quite here yet.

Spirit was written on behalf of Silver’s struggle with two recent losses in her close-knit family. The process of bereavement is personal to each individual, with each death taking months or years to accept. If you wish to see more of her poetry, be sure to check out Fudge and The Recurring Nightmare. 

by marleylilith

Where Angels Fear to Tread

Written by Lilith

One of the six, Michael's wrath is feared by all...

One of the six, Michael’s wrath is feared by all…

Michael’s shadow fell over the land, his outstretched wings blocking the light over acres of blood-soaked soil as he reached out to the souls beneath him and collected them into his wake. There had been a great battle today; some bastard king or other was warring against his younger brother in the east and the conflicts were spreading far and wide. Michael was helping them spread, in his own way, his gift of wrath turning father against son, mother against daughter and bringing the common people to arms to join the fight. The war itself had been begun by Michael’s younger brother, the angel Lucifer, who had domain over pride. It had taken very little interference to push the royal brothers into a full blown civil war when both their egos were on the line.

Somewhere below Michael’s shadow a voice cried out – one living soul struggling amidst a sea of death. He searched the fields until his bright blue eyes came to rest upon the body of a young man, his face smeared with mud, his clothes stained with the blood of his enemies, or his friends. His body shook as he cried, but he seemed to be entirely unharmed. His curiosity piqued, the Angel of Death swept down towards the boy. Continue reading →

by marleylilith

Parnassus Park

Written by Lost in a Dream

Even stone angels wear away in time...

Even stone angels wear away in time…

A neat row of marble statues either side of the path,
They certainly looked impressive under the street lights.
Symmetrical and complete.
Smooth marble so glossy I could almost see my reflection.

Yet, when I look into their eyes I can feel no story,
Just an empty, soulless stare.
I held their hands and tried to make a connection.
But I found them cold and hard.
Emotionless.

Away from path, hidden among the undergrowth,
Their contemporaries gather:
A collection of stone angels
Sinking in the mud.
Their features rugged and incomplete.

In the knot of shrubbery,
With half-formed wings,
An incomplete angel offers a rugged hand.

Through the angel’s abrasive hands,
The sculptor carves his pain.
I could feel it, experience it.

It spoke more than a volume of polished prose.

If you enjoyed this beautiful poem by Lost in a Dream you’ll be pleased to hear that she has several more published in Inkblots! Here is a link to one of our favourites; “Masquerade“.

by Doishy

Risen From the Alleyways

Written by Blue-Eyed Devil

Would you walk this road?

Would you walk this road?

He stretched out his hand. Wet. It was wet, falling from the sky. He had never liked it. It was always cold. It made his nose run. He couldn’t feel his fingers. What was the point in finger-less gloves anyway?

He pulled his hand back under the dripping cardboard roof. It was a good home, but if this downfall kept going like it was it would start to sag. Then it would fall apart and then he’d have to find a new home. The prospect scared him. Everyone wanted the best home. Sometimes they’d fight over them. He wasn’t much for brawling. Never had the knack for fistfights.

He watched as a pair of feet ran by his door. Two different shoes, different sizes. Another like him, then. Trying to find a home tonight. He guessed that he wasn’t the only one who didn’t like being wet.

Eyes clenched tight, he tried to remember being warm. It was hard. It had been for some time but he managed to pull some shade of memory from the recesses of his brain, somehow, and he suddenly felt a bit less cold. The power of the mental process? Could he summon a pair of gloves that had fingers on from nothing too?

With a soggy sigh, the roof of his house gave out. His shoulders slumped as a cascade of cold wetness trickled over his woollen hat and down his back, sending shivers up his spine and dispelling the imaginary warmth he had been able to pull up from his mind.

He guessed he’d have to look for a new home now anyway; either that or go to sleep in the cold. Continue reading →

by Colette

Fiction Frenzy Winner’s Piece – The Princess and the Dragon

Written by Blue-Eyed Devil 

princess_dragon

The intriguing relationship between a princess and a dragon.

“You know, I’ve never really got Halloween,” he said to himself, trundling down the street. Packs of squealing children ran wild, with worn-out adults trailing after them like old sheepdogs herding baby sheep. Scratching absent-mindedly at one of the patches of dead skin that afflicted his face, half hidden by an unkempt beard, he continued chattering away to himself.

“Kids spend their nights terrified of the monsters under the bed and in the closet, but once a year they dress up as little monsters and go around knocking on doors, demanding candy. Trick or treat, they say. What is that? Is it like the saying: your money or your life? It’d make sense; I’ve never once seen one of the home-owners give them a trick.”

If he noticed that most of the adults were steering the kids as far away from him as possible, he did not show it.

“Or maybe they’re just worried about getting egged? Kids expecting sweets and getting a show of someone pretending to pull their thumb off might very well get peeved. Or maybe they’d use toilet paper? Or rocks? I’m not sure what kids throw about these days but -”

“Who’re you talking to?”

He jumped, making an odd yelping noise as he did so, when he heard the little voice, wondering for a second if his mind had actually started talking back to him. But it was just a little girl, all dressed up as a little princess. The tiara that was loosely placed on her head wobbled a bit. She tilted her head to the side in her curiosity. Continue reading →

by Colette

Residue

Written by Magnificent Mayhem

a_little_princess_emily_doll

Sara Crewe in A Little Princess, clutching Emily.

She is a glass doll.
Stunning in the light,
Brittle lashes and lifeless eyes,
Her slick curves, angles, cold to the touch
Until they’ve been greased with prints.

Familiar hands know every line,
Could trace these planes in darkness
Drawing forth memory
Of each previous encounter,
All dalliances with dust and dirt forgotten,
Loved now by someone’s sticky hands.
Wet with sweetness wiped
From the corners of young lips,
The kind of hands that are never clean,
That plainly show where they’ve been.

They leave trails of new care and old saliva,
Over scars feathered so carefully they were surely placed there on purpose,
Perhaps in anger, or simple carelessness
In their blatant disregard of her worth: you are nothing
These cracks scream
To be so easily abused this way.

But fingers damp from moistened mouths feel none of this.
They search eagerly instead for the curve of her shoulder, the dip of her neck,
Reveling in the reflection of ecstasy on her face, recognising an eye or lip,
Claiming it, for now, knowing later she must be relinquished.

And someone will have to wash her of the stains these filthy hands have left,
Before setting her back on display to be picked up again.
She is a glass doll, slowly shattering.

“Residue” is Magnificent Mayhem’s first published piece in Inkblots Magazine. Often writing free verse poetry in her spare time, her inspiration for this particular piece was taken from the similarities between how roughly a child may play with a doll or toy and our tendencies to treat people as property – succumbing to our selfish desires.

by Colette

The Locked Room

Written by Bobartles

oviatt_building_angel_doors

The grand double doors of the Oviatt Building in Los Angeles, California. These majestic works of art could very well reside with Gabe and Lucifer’s dad.
Image Courtesy of bigorangelandmarks.blogspot.co.uk

Peter took the steps three at a time, bounding towards the top floor at a speed a good deal greater than his wizened frame and long brown robes would seem to allow. He pushed through a small choir of residents on the landing, sending at least one priceless lyre crashing to the ground and knocking a small cherub over the banister, where it vanished into the gloom with a muffled curse.

“Sorry!” he called back, without stopping or turning to meet the indignant glares of the residents. Sandals slipping on the polished marble tiles, he turned the last corner and saw his quarry pacing back and forth outside a pair of very bright, very intricate and very heavy-looking golden doors.

“Gabe. What’s wrong?”

The man by the doorway winced a little and turned to face him. At nearly seven feet tall, he loomed over Peter like a strikingly blonde and particularly well-dressed oak. As he turned, his hand fell away from the slight bulge in his immaculate white suit jacket; the only indication of the concealed holster Peter knew lay beneath.

“Peter,” the man’s voice was deep and calm, but trembled slightly with hidden concern, “We’ve got a problem. He’s locked himself in again.”

“Again?” Peter glanced up at the ominous double doors. He raised an eyebrow and turned to his friend.

“Before you ask, I’ve tried knocking,” the white-clad man murmured, “I’ve called through, too. Hell,” he winced again, “I’ve even tried leaving him a message the old-fashioned way. That’s why I called you. It didn’t work. Not from me, and not from anyone else.”

“You mean…” Peter’s voice trailed off as he saw the panicked expression on the suited man’s face.

“Your kind were always his preferred children,” Gabe whispered, “Above us, above any others. He once said he’d do anything for you. And now he’s ignoring them.”

Peter muttered something foul under his breath. Gabe twitched.

“How long?” he asked. The man in white shrugged.

“I don’t come up here very often anymore. Nobody does. Could be hours, could be decades. But you just have to look down to see that something’s wrong. He’s lost interest.”

“Well…” Peter looked up at the doors, “Have you tried forcing your way in? Surely he’d understand that you were worried…” His voice trailed off as he saw the look on Gabe’s face.

“No. The last time that happened…” he closed his eyes and grimaced for a moment, before his expression changed suddenly to one of hope. “Wait. We can’t open it; trust me, you don’t want to know what he’s like when he’s angry. But…” he glanced up at the doors, to a slight bend in the upper right corner, “… there’s someone who’s done it before.”

Gabe flipped a slim mobile phone from his pocket; opened it with a snick of steel.

“John. It’s Gabriel. Get me the Morningstar.”

*

Continue reading →