Methuselah

Today, I felt disconnected, forced into the shadows of sunlight behind the wandering leaves. It does not seem enough to belong to this world but, instead, disrupt it by lying half-naked on the shoreline. Who is it that has forgotten me? Have I not screamed loud enough? The wolves are all hooded and succumb to the caverns of our suffering. Such, these wolves struggle in silence and display their pain as an excuse to forget disobedience. It is I, a wolf in this Midwestern city, suffering. Yet, losing my suffering. Has it been so long? My supposed pain appears now superficial and with no valor or human worth. Today, I sought the sea to reconnect. Here, in the outstretches of discovery, I hear the swirling whispers gently recite a prophecy -

The world has begun to destroy humanity. They have forgotten what it means to connect. They are consumed by vanity. Possessions are fleeting. Your suffering holds the pure truth. Yet, others have turned struggle into a vanity. They have sensationalized pain. They have lain it on a shimmering steel hospital bed and asked for its euthanizing. They have tried to escape, but you must embrace it. Suffering must no longer be swallowed, forgotten, and placed into martyrdom. One does not rise from suffering. One must accept it, embrace it, and change it into glory, hope, and beauty. Pain is no longer a reason to escape our world. It is the vehicle to forever alter our connection. Our suffering connects all humanity with each other and with nature.

... As the telephone rings, I answer and hear an unsteady voice proclaim that we are all descended from Methuselah. Methuselah, indeed.

- Neall James

Automations of the Sea

Aloof grumblings of some malleable kind

womanly tapping reminiscent

the sea calms in the roar of its skyline

rights are spread across an envelope

like a blade swimming in Rosetta stone

white maelstroms caress the ground and my flesh

the stones molding into clay

a pedestal far from reach

but close to heart

When will it end?

in a nebulous burst beyond the periphery.

Saints tatter around my swinging feet

evening comes sharply

like a disconnected telephone

your voice crackling on a frayed wire

We are left alone

with a thought of weariness

to be head cold in an April breeze

The Sea.

The Sea.

The Sea will drown all these

empty-headed fears

and take back the hallowed

piece of me

It will dance

like a velvet dream

through our corrugated lungs

It will scream

an old, haunted spiritual

to rest in our supple graves

The ghost of a half-eaten moon

to see the vision of shadowy beams.

- Shaun Millard

Welcome

Welcome to Bubbly Creek Press! We will be gouging your eyes out with the latest in fiction, poetry, zines, and art. We will be posting poems and novel excerpts from Shaun Millard, zine excerpts and journal entries from Neall James, the latest artwork of Seamus O'Broin, and a myriad of thoughts, music, and videos from our world. Be sure to view our weekly podcast coming soon. Bubbly Creek Press intends to force-feed the world with a new literary vision and destroy the long-winded "sophisticated" writing that has surely bored our youth into a disdain for literature. If you have a fresh vision in the form of poetry, fiction, zines, or art, please email us as we are always interested in publishing those unknown gems.

Ahmet Dogan
Bubbly Creek Press