Posthaste Quarterly No.1

8/7/2019 Posthaste Quarterly No.1

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(psthest)


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When you live in an underground bunker, all calls come from the future.

-BB


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The Secret Society for Creative AnonymityContributing Members

Adeline V. ProofBarley Boeman

Broken Spinach

Dioecious R. Ralequinn

J. Nimrod Babellock

Jane Marvel Quigleyll-ll-ll

Margaret R. Perriwitt

Olivia von Brock

Penny Dreadful

Ruth! Honestly.Terence Quibble

V. vulpes

In January 2011, Farrington and I sent out invitations by way of the United States

Postal Service to a select twenty-five writers, artists, and activists in six different

states. These are the pseudonyms of the brave thirteen who chose to respond to the

initial invitations, to join the Secret Society for Creative Anonymity, and to submit

original work to an unknown, anonymously produced, so-called, publication. As

editors, we bear soul-operating and editing rights to Posthaste Quarterlysubmis-

sions and ensure total discretion of participants anonymity. Submissions include

but are not limited to, works of poetry, comics, flash fiction, reviews, dreams,

essays, recipes, art, ideas, and news. This would not have been possible without

the exceptional talents of our contributors and we look forward to their contin-ued support as we work together to develop what began as a humble idea among

friends. I encourage our readers to respond freely and openly to this project for the

arts and it is my hope that you enjoy this premier edition ofPosthaste Quarterly.

Carnegie OzwaldS.S.C.A. Founder


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Posthaste QuarterlyTable of Contents

mountain duskBreathe, Spring: Post-Its and Scotchtape

time, lately, in lieu of

Butterflies can be Neck-Ties for Spoons

Little Girls

Pico de GalloThis is most unexpected

There was a man...

Swoons & Sways

Bastardization

Grains in a PhotographThe War I Waged On Our Broken Cord

Three hundred and ninety-one days

Group Chairmans Factual Report of Investigaion

Class of 65

Cover image byRuth! Honestly. P is for Pearl.


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V. vulpes - mountain dusk


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Dioecious R. Ralequinn

Breathe, Spring: Post-Its and Scotchtape

Post-it notes and scotchtape

My words oat and ow through the river and over the worlds.

Run together in streams and like cream melted from ice.

Pause to taste.

This print business. I want none of it. Stilted, titled, exact.

When each of my letters really connects to the ones next.

Connexts. Flohs! Oh! But those oes are for no one.

Just for me. The oating journal bits that no sees but me.

And the only time I even pause to look is when I go back.

Writing down, setting out doesnt usually involve any

Scrutiny. Just feeling. Feeling the innnnnnnnn and the

ouuuuuuuuuuuh. Hold for the exhale, expand with the in.

Goodness, shine.

Light. Dimmed to illuminight.

Sound. Quietude shharpens.

Draped and stretched.

Center, hinges, space.

So in this space. The hilted, jilted, here.

I present the ow within the context.

Journal words get dressed up to go out.

Finally the trapped thoughts get out of

their pajama tops and yoga bottoms.

The wind reminded life into a dead squirrels tail.Play, wind. But not tricks. Nothing could x that

broken body. I know.

I thought I wanted tape, but I needed a shovel.


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The trees are about to cry. Spring whispers.

Crying for ne wine-- dript before its time.

Spoilt food and soured milk

Flicked into a trash heap.Neglected on the side of a street.

An arguing woman badgered into the

telephone all her frustrations, forgetting

the spark. I wanted to post a reminder.

She needed to just hang up.

Remedial. Remedies. Just let it be.Let her throw a t instead of nding one.

I drove by the lifeless body instead of

Leading the funeral procession.

Down, down, down.

The street winds through the trees.

Turn to the furtherdown.

Cause of carchrash: Voice found,

poem down. Written before its lost.

Impatient faces if you dont

go at rst its green.

Downglance up. Catch the loosened

waters bottled. Its multi-lasting,

just avoiding disblaster.

Fine wines just juice. Saved foods blessedovers.

The air clears with pour. pour. pour.

And the wind makes its way around the lost.


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Adeline V. Proof

time, lately, in lieu of

under these blue skies

George Washington Carver pulled peanuts dirty,life pushes through from thick brousmounds, becomes munch, maintaining temperature.Loud brown.then still, theres trees that grow& we move clanging beneath,look ahead & cry, engines all speeding.artists never know truth-truth always knows them. follows them.arpeggios,links, Prolic echo.if You laid seed, walked away, youd diepretty underground & laid out like a lotus ower.

Margaret R. Perriwitt - Butterflies can be Neck-Ties for Spoons


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Bearing little girls

and their tin smiles,subconscious beauty,

exible curiosity,

until Im lost

in patterns, thin and light

dress up polka dots

and measurements smaller

than when I was young.

Baring little girls

preparing for the particles,

eternal beauty

chubby and malleable.

Strip off the blooming owers

to reveal underdeveloped

life in a box.

Burying little girls

living in preparation

to hold up the earth,

stand the pressure

of pounded elements.

After cutting out the hearts

the little girls can play.

Jane Marvel Quigley

Little Girls


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Pico de GalloFrom the Kitchen of Olivia von BrockIngredients

Red Onion Tomatoes Cilantro Jalapeos Lime Salt

Directions

Dice the onions.

Dice the tomatoes. Chop up the cilantro. Slice the jalapeos in half and scrape out the

seeds (if you love heat, keep them in!) Dice thejalapeos.

Combine all ingredients in a bowl. Squeeze the juice of a lime over all ingredients. Sprinkle ingredients with salt. Stir until well combined.Notes

Once you have diced, sliced and chopped, makesure you have equal portions of EACH ingredi-ent! The amount you want to make determines how

much to buy for the recipe. It all depends on thesize of the bowl you are looking to ll!


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Broken Spinach - This is most unexpected


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There was a man who spent all of his days reading. He had large stacks

of files spewing constantly, leaves from within. He often hated the words

that he found. He knew that he must have written them at some point,

but how? Why? How wondered;

If I spend all of my days reading, when did I ever find the time to write

these things? And why cant I remember them? And why is it all so

bad? What a dreadful life I lead.

And so he walked over to his typewriter and began writing. He set

forth with all of his heart. He tak-clap-punched for twenty weeks. Fires

burned. A life-long collection of vitamins and minerals started their

grand escapade from his pores to the floor. He nearly died. He did die.

He began to worry. The only things he had ever read were the horrible

words in which he lived. How could he come up with anything better?

When he finished writing would he find the same rubbish? Was he

doomed to fail? Was he a time-traveler?

He couldnt take it anymore. He ripped the page from his antique ma-

chine and rushed over to the first words he had ever read. He had to

know if he was starting the cycle anew. He feared for his children, his

wife, his parents, and his garden. Specifically.

What had he done?

He compared the two pages. Stale dry air poured from his forehead.

His heart began beating.

It was different. It was better.

The man was relieved and quite thirsty. He grabbed a glass and headed

toward a nearby stream.

He was never heard from.

-Barley Boeman


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Penny Dreadful

Swoons & Sways

Indeed the lass did wait,

For her lad was out to sea.

Letters and parcels he sent to her

While he sailed along the quay.

With each note,

He proclaimed his love,

My lass, I live for thee.

And she swooned and swayed

From the poems he wroteAs he sailed across the sea.

Until one day the lass did meet

(and how could she foresee?)

Another lass who swooned and swayed

With femnine curiosity.

Afore long they beat the waters

Together (and heartily!),

With swoons and sways

Among the waves

In their own Liffey.

And poor lad,

What happened to himOn his voyage across the sea?

Among the sharks he went for a swim,

And now an amputee.

For fear he would disgust his lass

(for what a sight was he!)

A rope he roped around himself

And fastened to a tree.

With one last breath he swooned,

Proclaiming his love to she.

Poor boy, he still hangs there

Swaying over the sea.


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The wall was made of puzzle pieces. Four months later she was dead.

-B.B.


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Barley Boeman - Bastardization


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Solitude stands on a street corner,stinking of kerosene. He sighs: this has

to end. People bustle around him.

Solitude works, pursues his business

in a cramped, disheveled office.

Behind a file cabinet, saltines grow mold.

Solitude does his taxes. He has notfiled a late return since 1983.

Smoking in the alley, Solitude watches

birds gather at the stagnant pool

under an air conditioner. It drips

forever.

Solitude bites his nails.

When does Solitude sleep? He isnt sure.

Pill bottles clutter his nightstand.

In a dream, Solitude kneels in a crosswalk

beneath a blinking stoplight. This has to end.

He strikes a match, flickerschaotic against the dark.

Solitude rises from bed and turns

off the TV. Its four a.m.

He decides to dust the house.

Solitude sits in a restaurant. He waits fortwenty minutes before his coffee comes. This

has to end, he mutters. Hmm? the waiter says,

placing silverware, then hustles off to greet

a girl standing rain-drenched in the door.

Terence Quibble

Grains in a Photograph


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ThefurtherIge

tintothedepthsofge

nius,theartsofstagin

g,thepracticeofpret

ending,

themoreIfeeluncomfortableincrow

ds.Mythoughtsrace&Icantkeepfocuson

one

thingforfearofwhomightbelooking

.Ifeelshbowled&li

kestandinginfrontof

a

classroomofea

germindswillmostassuredlyleaddirectlyt

omyinevitabledeath.Even

symbolically.

Intimeslikethe

se,Ireadhisoldthoughts&Iplaythemthroughmymindlikearo

ugh

uneditedmovie

.Thecachesavedinzeros&onesisnotenough,butitisallIhavenow.

Heclearselds&musesonclavicles&

forceslightsintosha

dowswhilethewholetime

pressingmyeartothesky.Thediere

ncebetweenhismind

&othersisthatIenjo

y

exploringhis.O

therpeopleseemtypical,whitewashed,&stale.Alreadypicked-th

rough

soextensivelyt

hatthereisnothingle

ftworthyofdiscovery.Ihaventseenaclassroom

intwoweeks&Icouldnotfeelmorelikecreatingsomethingbeautiful.Iwanttoc

lean,I

wanttohaveabeeratlunchtime,Iwanttoenjoylife&Ican

tdothatifmyheadisina

publicschoolbuildingallthelivelongday.

Whatdothescripturessay?Raiseyou

rglasstotheclouds&

say,AllIwannadois

sleeponthebottomoftheocean,bu

trememberthatourhandshakesareonlyg

ood

under11-footroofs.

Youmeerkat.Youchef.Youartist.

Allthosetimes,Ialwaysknew.Youha

veawayofmakingev

eryoneknowthatyou

are

alwaystemporary&thatswhytheyfeelsostronglyaboutk

eepingyou.Theychaseyou,

theyareterrie

dwithoutknowingit.Theycanseethatyouslipallthetime,in&o

utof

love,in&outoflives&stories.Youloveitwhenyoucanstay

AdelineV.Proof

TheWarIWa

gedOnOurBroke

nCord


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In St. Louis the theft of entire buildings is commonplace. Brick by brick

these structures are stolen to be sold on the black market.-B.B.


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Ruth! Honestly. - Three hundred and ninety-one days


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A matter of survival. We must rescue [the concept of experience]

from [the market].

-B.B.


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ll-ll-ll - Class of 65 (Males, Descending; Smallest to Largest)


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Documents

Posthaste Quarterly No.1