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Blue Marble Review

Literary Journal for Young Writers

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Issue 24

Seedless Soil

By Mag Callahan

A tumbleweed blew by.

It was as dead as the rest of the small frontier town: dry, shriveled, a husk that was once a lively plant. The earth was cracked and dry, the sky a pale and unforgiving yellow. The hands of the clock tower pointed to high noon, and despite having ceased movement years ago, they still happened to be correct, just for this one passing minute.

Two figures stood on opposite ends of the main street, eyes shaded by wide hats with hands hovering over their belts. Off to the side, a pair of horses watched, bridles tied to the rotting post of the abandoned saloon. They had seen this showdown hundreds of times before, and would no doubt see it hundreds of times more.

Both outlaws sharply eyed a bird pecking at the ground. The scrawny thing wasn’t going to find any food in such a desolate land, but every day at noon, it returned nonetheless. Didn’t the simple thing know it was just wasting its time, tapping at the soil in a daily exercise in futility? The first outlaw squinted a little, teeth biting down on the straw in her mouth. The second curled his chapped lips. Having finally resigned its fruitless quest for seed, the bird between them spread its wings and fluttered off to wherever it came.

As soon as the bird’s tiny feet left the ground, two gunshots broke the silence of the dead town.

The wide hat of the first outlaw was blown off her head, her scalp only narrowly grazed by the bullet. The second outlaw’s hat, however, was the least of his worries. He staggered backwards, his head had been blown clean through. The chunks of skull and viscera never hit the ground, but evaporated into a thick black smog that hung in the air like a ghost. The first outlaw didn’t seem satisfied, sliding her revolver back into its holster on her waist as she sprinted to her horse, and pulled a long shotgun from beneath its saddle.

Running to the still standing man, she unceremoniously blew his head clean off, the blast knocking him to the ground. The wounds were exuding more thick, foul-smelling smoke, as though hell itself were reaching through his body and clawing its way into the real world. She blew a second hole through his chest, opening the coach gun’s breach and replacing two empty shells with a pair stuffed with silvered buckshot.

“In the name ov’ the Lord,” She loudly declared, firing her weapon indiscriminately into the body that still flinched and smoked with every shot, “deliver ‘is unholy spirit n’ta Hell, cast this devil n’ta the deepest pits a’ fire ‘n brimstone, t’whence it may never return!” 

She chanted for several minutes, invoking curses belonging to every religion and tongue, interspersing them with a double-aught chaser whenever she thought she saw the body move through the dark haze it produced. Once satisfied with these curses and banishments, she returned to her horse once more, retrieving a large jar of holy water and dumping much of it over the smoking husk. Then, she salted the body. Then, garlic. Then, drove a crudely silvered knife into where she imagined his heart would probably be. She used the buttstock of her shotgun to hammer in a few wooden stakes, just in case she guessed wrong. After lighting her lantern, she tossed it on the barely-recognizable mash of smoking remains, engulfing them in oily flame.

She watched the body for a long few minutes, hardly bothered by the suffocating plume that the wind blew into her face. The pillar of smoke hung high in the sky, thick black as tar and infesting the area with the rancid smell of death. Once she was satisfied, she returned to retrieve her hat, before retiring inside the abandoned saloon. Small book in hand, she began taking notes as to the exact procedure she’d undergone this time–her exact words, her exact actions, every last detail.

It wasn’t until the sun hung low that the woman heard the saloon doors creak open behind her.

“Sonnuv a bi–” Her curse began, cut short as a revolver’s bullet pierced the side of her head. Her entire body slumped to one side, hand reaching out to grab the bar top to prevent falling from her stool. A disgusting black smog poured from the wound in her head.

A man stepped behind the bar, sliding his revolver into its holster with a dejected frown on his face. His shirt was full of holes, beard singed and body a dark ashen color as though he’d lain in a campfire. There were uncountable faint scars on his chest and face, although the longer one stared, the harder they became to perceive.

He reached up on the alcohol shelf, fingering through dusty empty bottles before finally discovering one which still contained some diluted liquid. Pulling a pair of small glasses from beneath the splintered wooden bar, the dry man filled both as equally as possible, sliding one towards the hand of the woman still in the process of righting herself. In exchange, he flipped her notebook around, squinting at the poor handwriting.

“Garlic’s a no-go.” The woman commented, running her hands through her dry hair. The deathly fume pouring from her temple had faded, what was once a lethal wound replaced by nothing but a scar.

“Donno why you even tried, we ain’t vampires.” He commented, raising his dusty glass to his lips.

“I don’ know, I jus’ thought… I don’ know. We’re runnin’ out’v shit ta’ try.”

“You might be, I’ve got plenty more ideas.”

The woman scoffed, taking the second glass. The whiskey was ancient and spoiled, it barely tasted like anything, but it was ritual at this point. “Y’said that yest’rday. Y’hit my hat.”

“Still shot first. You’re getting slow.”

“Got’ya today, didn’t I?”

The man gave a brief chuckle and a small nod of acknowledgement, swirling the faded liquid around his small glass. Neither of them got much out of the near-empty bottle, but it wasn’t the whiskey they sat in this empty saloon for.

“I’m gonna’b awful lonely once I send’ya t’Hell, huh?” The woman mused, after a long minute of silence between them.

“Don’t count on it. Tomorrow’s the day I put you down for good.” 

It was the woman’s turn to scoff. They’d spent countless years locked in this halfhearted contest, she hardly let herself hope for such sweet release. Maybe one day one of them would discover the miracle necessary to break their unholy curse. Both were beaten, whipped, they’d outlived everything that mattered to them. They shared a hollowness, a dryness, a certain solidarity two outlaws cursed with immortality could only experience. His lips were chapped and split. Her hands were dry and rough. Their nails were chipped and eyes dull. They were tired, but they were each others’ only lifelines.

So, the two drank and spoke for a time longer. Once the moon was high, they mounted their horses and went their separate ways. The fire from the lantern oil was still smoldering on the dusty main street when the weary pair rode past. The moon set, the sun rose, and come midmorning, a pair of figures rode into the otherwise derelict settlement. They exchanged a few brief words, before taking their places.

A tumbleweed blew by.

 

 

Mag Callaghan is a student attempting to study English and Education in cruel and unforgiving rural Ohio. Their interests involve visual arts and flash fiction writing, as well as tabletop role-playing games, acquiring keychains, and describing themself in the third person.

 

Smoke Ghosts

By Norah Rami

I lit a cigarette on my way to the grocery store. There was something in the wind that made its light sputter, so I offered it mine, to breathe life in the transaction. I store every cigarette stub I ever birthed in a box. I feel bad simply throwing into the trash or onto the sidewalk what had once been alive. There are a handful of stubs at the bottom of my purse that have not yet been embalmed for their funeral rites. I simply haven’t gotten around to it.

I used to save the Boy’s stubs too. This would make him laugh as I stole them from his grasp, or caught them in my palms as they dropped, softly if I was catching a baby. He dropped one on the sidewalk once and I got on my hands and knees to save her from mutilation. He laughed.

The Boy laughed like the wind. Which means everything. I think that is why I loved him even as he swept me away.

I used to keep the graveyard under my bed, until He complained of the smell. It was like living at the bottom of the bonfire. So, I exhumed the corpses to my kitchen cabinet. It is unfortunate one will open a door expecting to find a plate only to be met with death. The Boy threw them out once as if it was a favor. After he left the next morning I pulled out the trash and got on my hands and knees to find every last body.

He dropped them on the sidewalk often. Mostly in the night where no matter how hard I tried I could not save their souls. I would cry in the bathroom at a funeral without a body. Then I would kiss him till I came back alive with tears to spare another day.

When the baby dropped between my legs, the doctor blamed the smoking. I laughed at him like the wind then brought what was left of living to flame. The smoke tasted cool against my skin.

I could never save a stub The Boy did not give me willingly. Which means everything. I think that’s why I loved him because some days he would come home with a palm of cigarette stubs, and caress my hair as I performed the funeral rites under his watch.

My graveyard is public property. For my corpses and his are all treated the same. Cleaned softly with a tissue paper and then returned to a cigarette case, as if they were never born at all. In that way, there are always ghosts, though I never know if I or he created them.

When the Boy was looking for a plate and found a shoebox filled with ashes in my graveyard, right next to a stack of cigarette boxes that could never be used and were in use, he lit a cigarette and left the house. I found the stub by the front door when I came home. I was careful not the step on it as I opened the front door, just slight enough to not let the cold in. I imagine by now, the wind must have carried the corpse away, that body, I did not kill but still did not venture to care for.

 

 

 

Norah Rami (she/her) is a pun connoisseur, professional cloud watcher, and writer from Houston. A member of Houston’s Youth Slam Poetry Team, Norah’s work has been published by Prospectus and Brown Girl Magazine as well as shared at local venues. She is a current senior at Clements High School.

Dead Birds and Dead Families

By Srina Bose

i.   I remember my sister once found robin eggs in the post-box. She tells me they were bluer than a shipwreck, but when I ask her what happened to them, she says she doesn’t remember.
My father breaks nests in our house every week. He once threw a birds’ eggs down our fifth storey balcony. I think his hands reek of the daughters he has killed before they were even born.

ii.   I have a photo album from which I cut out pictures to stick on my wall. They flutter furiously to the wind and refuse to be held down by the tape I attach. Yesterday, I cried for an hour trying to find more tape, and maybe it’s the universe trying to tell me that no tape could hold back a broken past. That it’s time to let go. Maybe I’m a dead bird waiting to sink into the graves of the sky.

iii.   My mother likes to stand at the edge of the balcony at exactly 10:47 p.m. and feel the breeze brush against her skin. She says it feels like her dead father giving her a hug, but sometimes she stands on her toes and tips over a little too much. Then, in her eyes, I see a world pulsing. Maybe she doesn’t do that to hug her father. Maybe she wants to see him. Maybe she stands at the edge of the balcony every night at 10:47 p.m. because she likes to watch the ground murmur the names of all the dead birds whose ashes stain this family’s hands.

iv.   My heart remembers too much. It throbs and searches for names of dead lovers on everything it sees. My heart remembers too much and though I forgive the razor, I forgive my hands, I forgive those who saw in me a shipwreck and watched me drown, and I forgive the birds that knock on my ribs, asking to be let out saying—please? Just tonight? Let me be free?I forgive them but my heart is cruel. It doesn’t forget. My heart still remembers the hurt.

v.   Sometimes, I am threatened by the abilities of others. I look at my hands and see a lost soul. I watch others standing at the peak, while I am still trying to drag my feet. I’m still searching for reasons to not fall.
I’m still lying on the ground; dirt seeping into my hair and I am watching the birds in the sky. They tell me it’s time I let go of this heavy pretence of sorrow and do something. Something. Anything. It’s time I bleed meaning into this life, they say. And in the blink of an eye, the birds aren’t dead anymore.

 

Srina Bose is a high school student based in New Delhi, India. She has previously had her work published in “The Ice Lolly Review”, and “Cathartic Literary magazine.” She has also published her own collection of poetry titled— “Roses In My Mind”, which is commercially available.
You can find her poetry blog on Instagram at @teardrops_of_ink

The Window

By Jack Arnold

The window saw. It saw people come and go. It saw happiness, anger, pain. If you were to look through the window, you could see just about anything.

The window was a gateway. It saw worlds crushed, and worlds built back up. Life, death and destruction. Sometimes it showed things that it was supposed to, like the weed-strewn sidewalk in front of it.

Other times, it showed empty space, sprinkled with stars. A flooded world. A futuristic pet shop. An elephant, silently trumpeting as its herd migrated. A necromancer, bent on power, sending his skeletal armies to conquer anything they could find.

But today, for the first time since its creation, the window showed nothing. An expanse of white, devoid of anything. Passersby wondered at its inherent emptiness. Some fretted, worrying about what the blankness could mean. Children came by to watch the goings on within the window, but quickly became bored.

None owned the window, for it stood free of any barriers or walls. None knew where the window came from, or how it was built. They knew only that one day, it appeared in front of a vacant lot, bolted to a three-legged wooden table. That was all.

Presently, within the white, a dot appeared. It grew closer, becoming less blurry and more pronounced with each step, until it was discernible as a humanoid. It appeared to be calling something undecipherable. Sound does not travel through the window.

The humanoid’s movements became more frantic, panicked, as it searched for something unseeable.

A frequent visitor of the window, bored and requiring entertainment, brought a lawn chair and sat facing the window, watching the humanoid scrabble around. The frequenter was joined by two others, all dissatisfied by their current state of boredom. One coughed.

The humanoid’s head jerked up, and it glanced around. One of the other frequenters laughed. “It heard you.” The person said, jokingly.

The humanoid stood up straight, bones snapping audibly, despite the constant silence of the window and the distance of the humanoid.

One of the frequenters looked at the window oddly. “It’s never made noise before.”

“Yeah, that’s weird.”

The humanoid walked closer to the window, and its features became distinct. It appeared to be a male human, with a sweeping cloak around his shoulders. His eyes were without white, an empty endless black.

He got closer, and closer, still very slowly. The frequenter who had coughed shuffled nervously. “I don’t like this. I’m headed home.”

The frequenter left.

The man in the window did not. He kept walking until his face was directly in front of the glass.

He pulled open the window, a feat no other being had ever accomplished, and stuck his head out. The remaining frequenters screamed.

The man looked directly at them and said seven words in an emotionless voice. “I will be taking my window back.”

He grabbed the sides of the window and pulled it inward. The window popped inside of itself and disappeared. One of the frequenters fainted.

 

 

 

Jack Arnold spends most of his time keeping his three younger brothers wrangled, but when he has time, he writes (or reads, whichever he prefers). Usually about characters he’s created with his brothers, who are an excellent source of inspiration.

portrait as a winter afternoon

By Norah Brady

the rink is closed, the sky is purple and full
of ice, we could say the sky is a bruise and
not talk about what might have happened
to bruise it, but it’s raining, and a flock
of dogs are pointing south through the park
where the train blurs our words together: howl,
for this is not a garden, for this is not
the garden and I drove us here for nothing

and perhaps we already left the walls and there
is no garden to return to, and maybe this fact
has nothing at all to do with us, young and trapped
as we are in the past with no place to go, beating
the ground with our feet for something to do

if today were a bear trap, I would be the spring
gauge lying tacit in the snow trying not to feel
too beat up about the neighbor’s pear tree
(they took it down with a wrecking ball)
(a wrecking ball, and I think about how I might
hurt the people I love) and how I love my eggs in a basket,
how I love the basket and its nest of perfectly timed
meetings, all my thoughts like ribbons
pinned into dinner party art, eating themselves

look, why would a tree be mine, it is not an
egg, it is not a basket, and the wrecking ball is
not a bear trap, something looking for a fight,
something transparent and lonely

look, the ice is melting anyway, the tree
has forgone all possession by becoming a
ghost, the ghost doesn’t want to talk to you
but that’s ok, you’ll both come around

and we’re not talking about any of this really,
who would, when there are so many places to
warm your feet, we’re listening to classical music
on the drive back from the rink, because
the dial’s stuck, because maybe
the world ends, because I know all the words

 

 

Norah Brady is a moon enthusiast, haunted house, and mountain poet. They were a runner-up for Youth Poet Laureate of Boston in 2020. Their poetry and short fiction can be found in Rookie Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, COUNTERCLOCK and Kissing Dynamite.

Birthright

By Mofiyinfoluwa Okupe

when they ask you why you do not whisper, tell them fear was not buried in your mouth. your mother’s blood opened your eyes, loosened your tongue, sharpened your teeth. this is your birth right. let them know you belong here. leave no room for mistaken assumptions. fill every room to bursting with your presence. never shrink. for him. for anyone. spread your abundance in every crevice. suffocate them with your light. let them look in every corner and find you. smear your blood on the temple gates; they will not pass over you. when they ask you why you do not hide, tell them that creatures of light have no kinship with the darkness. you inherited fire in your blood, if they touch you, they will burn.

 

Mofiyinfoluwa Okupe is a reluctant lawyer-in-training writing from Lagos, Nigeria. Her work explores the complexity of human emotions, with a deeply introspective self-lens. Her work is published in Guernica, The Kalahari Review, Agbowo and forthcoming in Black Warrior Review. She tweets @fiyinskosko and publishes monthly pieces on Medium.

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