Black Petals Issue #91, Spring, 2020

Blue Bell Hill Beast
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A Hole in the Somewhere-Fiction by Richard Brown
Everything Echoes-Fiction by Todd M. Guerra
Exit to Dove's Tail-Fiction by Ken Goldman
I Dream of Fire-Fiction by Matthew Penwell
Living Doll-Fiction by Carl Hughes
Angelika's Tough Decision-Fiction by Roy Dorman
The Cat-Fiction by Chris Alleyne
The Demon-Fiction by Misty Page
The Run-Fiction by Thomas Runge D'Amore
We Are the Monsters We Seek-Fiction by Karen Heslop
Brother of Mine-Flash Fiction by D. C. Plump
New Terror-Flash Fiction by Denis Alvarez Betancourt
The Flapping Thing-Flash Fiction by Robert Masterson
The Clown Loved Cherry Lipstick-Poem by Daniel G. Snethen
Ganymede-Poem by Daniel G. Snethen
Space Probe RH 120-Poem by Daniel G. Snethen
The Buffoon-Poem by Daniel G. Snethen
Just Another Day in My House-Poem by Tom Davidson
Blue Bell Hill Beast-Poem by Richard Stevenson
Plum Island-Poem by Richard Stevenson
The Thing in the Woods-Poem by Loris John Fazio

Blue Bell Hill Beast

Richard Stevenson

 

The village of Blue Bell Hill, near

Maidstone, Kent, is said to be haunted,

so a psychic friend and I went

to check out the BHM and ghost reports.

 

Turns out the Big Hairy Men might be

Somethin’ other than British Bigfeet or ‘Squatches

windin’ their watches.  Could be the ghosts

of long-haired, bearded Neolithic hunters!

 

All that extra hair could be fur jackets and vests.

They march in and out of hellmouth portals

near the Kits Coty House stones – maybe

the last of their Stonedhenge Neolithic church.

 

Hunters on a mission.  Intense mo’fo’s

with spears and hatchets, jacked up

with stone age slogans and testosterone,

intent on bringin’ home a Woolly Mammoth maybe.

 

Wrong time zone?  Who knows? 

The whole quaint hamlet

seems like a wayback machine.  Geiger counters

go wonky.  My friend’s psychic radar’s barkin’

like a dog at some abominable swamp slob.

 

Whole time I’m thinkin’ yeah, well, why not?

Beam me up, Scotty.  There’s not a helluva lot

goin’ on down here most weekends.  I’m up

for a time trip.. De-materialize me, please!

 

I’m not on my knees, prayin’ for redemption or anythin’

I just think it would be a gas to explore the past

by trippin’ the light fantastic through a wormhole

aboard a saucer or on an agnostic walkabout.

 

Think of it as Jurassic Park – for real,

only safer than a boob tube.  No gamma rays

to pit yer ship or flip grandma’s wig.

No babbling in tongues or hallucinogens.


If the Blue Bell Hill beast wants to materialize

for some feast in Eden, cool; I’m down with that.

If he is some relative of Gigantopithecus Blacki,

That’s wack, but we can play in the same sand box.

 

Long as the portal don’t give me

mental distortions or cause contortions

or torque my body out of shape permanently,

or I end up on some creature’s plate, I’m great.

Richard Stevenson has recently retired from a thirty-year teaching gig at Lethbridge College and has published thirty books and a CD of jazz and poetry in that time.  His most recent books are Rock, Scissors, Paper: The Clifford Olson Murders, a long poem sequence from Dreaming Big Publications in the US (2016), and A Gaggle of Geese, haikai poems and sequences from Alba Publications in the UK (2017). Other poems from Cryptid Shindig have appeared or been accepted by Scryptic, Star*Line, Altered Reality, Cryptid Culture, Polar Borealis, etc.