It's been a while.
First, let me say thank you. Thank you for sticking with us; these past couple of months have been really challenging and I'm glad that many of you have stayed and still read our content.
Second, thank you to our contributors: all the talented poets & writers, photographers & painters,... that we were incredibly lucky & honored to feature online and in our first issue.
Third, I'm sorry I haven't been available to you these past few months, I got hundreds of emails and I just couldn't keep up anymore but I've got some days off from college right now so I'm doing my best to read all of them. I've received so many submissions that I still have to review for our second issue (Anatomy of A Melancholia); thank you to all the talented and unique souls that have trusted us with their art & work. We, as a team, are very grateful. I promise that I'm gonna do my best to answer (but know that if you don't get a response from me that it's not personal - I'm doing the best I can, which means failing a lot and trying again and again, and sometimes it means not answering to emails because I forgot...sorry, I'm working on that).
No matter what, I DO believe in you. Try again. Never stop dreaming. Never stop asking for help, never stop asking for more than the 'now and here'. You're worth it and I believe in you. Thank you so much for believing in Peculiars Magazine; it's not much but it's here and it's here to stay if you let us.
A few things before I go: the deadline for our second issue has been delayed. You have until July 31st to send us your essays, photography,... I will let you know which organization we'll be donating to this time. Many things are gonna change (the shipping, for example! There were too many issues with that) but our heart & soul remain the same: we're survivors just like you and you're not alone.
Please, keep going.
PC: Lexi Jude
I would like to rip my skull open,
scoop out my pathetic, overworked brain;
squeeze it until it oozes between
my fingers like an over-ripe banana.
I’d smear it all over the walls and ceiling,
and yell at it for being broken.
I would like to scream at it until
my throat burns raw, my lungs aching and empty
working to shriek, but producing silence.
My body would shake but my lips won’t quiver.
I’d shout until bile bubbles and threatens
to overflow, and then I’d shout some more.
I would like to peel the freckled skin from my face,
dig into the doughy flesh and rip. Start
at the hairline and work downwards. Feeling
the layers tear from the bone, gleaming
white exposed to the harsh fluorescent lighting.
My naked skeleton sighing in relief.
About The Author - Hannah Buckley
Hannah Buckley, a graduate of Westfield State University, just recently made the transition from strictly prose writing, to poetry. She quickly fell in love with the endless possibilities poetry allows and loves playing with form and the way the words look on the page. She spends most of her time in the woods with her dog.