In a Normal (probably-pre-apocalyptic) Reality

The story or poem that used to live here is being rewritten… or, is on its way to a new home. But worry not, I’d never leave you without something to read. Just click the following links, and you’ll be able to delight in the newest Stories and Poems I’ve published on this blog.

51 thoughts on “In a Normal (probably-pre-apocalyptic) Reality”

  1. Holy Hannah! Such terrifying beauty, such heart rending clarity, a clarion call for kindness and good sense all crafted into a piece that shouts, “Magaly’s back!” Welcome home, dear one! Thank you for the wisness of your words and the talent that puts them into such wonderous order! (Can you tell I missed you?)

  2. Oh, what a comeback! Great to see you around, and with such a passionate piece of writing. I will be following your series closely because I too lust after “prose poetry that shows teeth”.

    Welcome back Maga, hope you had a restful and lovely time away. 🙂

  3. Your pieces and style are always so captivating.

    “Then, Ermintrude Ethelswaite, one of my nicest neighbors, began to iron her carpet while screaming in strange tongues” … That sure made me grin. 🙂

    “Trudy had just ironed through my sheets and right into the skin of my left inner thigh.” … Oh golly! I hope this is 100% imaginary!

    “Fear-fed folly massacres nuts and fruits alike.” … Boy is that fantastic philosophy.

  4. Wow! Those words… out of her mouth…..”….of lust that knows itself to be love waiting for consenting hearts to nurture it into being..”
    You wover this together beautifully!

  5. This was a magnificent read… what a great (and scary story)… I hope this is the apocalypse…it cannot be any worse. I’m all for the pitbulls now

  6. I love this! And the last paragraph, “I reached for a mango and stuffed it in my mouth to keep my enthusiasm from kissing her wise lips in agreement. I’m extremely attracted to sense.” == I’ve had that feeling, too bad I didn’t have a mango. One gets in trouble when one doesn’t have mangoes on hand.

  7. Hugs and kisses, Magaly! Prose poetry is something I haven’t tried very often – yours has just knocked my socks off. I love the references to some of my favourite science fiction and at the moment my word is ‘a cold, cold, cold place’ and I feel like an innocent puppy with little protection against British snow! Keep eating those mangoes.

  8. Finally I am back home at my keyboard and can actually talk about how wonderful this is in(hopefully) meaningful ways. And with enthuspasm 😉 Probably one of my more favorite things you’ve ever written, which is saying a lot considering everything you write generally becomes a favorite–and re-reading it just makes it richer and better every time. I’m amazed at the sheer humanity you’ve packed in here, along with the subtle music, the tonic of laughter and the bitterness of an unwanted reality which all too often becomes surreal. I could start quoting, but I’d be here all day and night just trying to type things out while I crumple up with laughter or tears…you are VERY very good at this prose poetry thing, Magaly. From the’ sickening tarpaulin of inhuman hair..'(!!) to the real time suck of post-rationalization, this rocks, every word. (You have no idea how it comforted me in the halls of medicine where I was forced to lurk for the last three days–they can get pretty inhuman too.)

    • I’m grinning like a crazy person. And so very pleased you like it so much. The truth is that the only way that I can stand (and many times process) most of what’s happening today is by mixing it up with some humor. If I don’t, well… perhaps it’s best if we don’t find out. Yay! for laughter… and for not having to curb our enthuspam.

  9. While Catblossom and Crackblossom are disturbed by this talk of cats without jobs–so much so that they slowed in their reviewing of “Unreadable Poems Of 18th Century Bulgaria”–I still love a woman in uniform, especially when she puts a stop to a steam-iron wielding nutcase wearing a Confed flag ‘do rag. Most terrifying to me was the leech-in-chief with the fearful yellow hobgoblin on its head. A tweety bird taught it saw a putty-tat–one which stole an unwanted job from an apocryphal native specie–and immediately collaborated with the leech to hand out diplomas to skeletons on elevators in luxury hotels. The horror, the horror, is all I can say.

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