From Afar, She Watches Director: Lindsey Story Photographer: Jasmine Thompson Stylist: Sidney Shuman Models: Ricky and Emily Kopf QuailBellMagazine.com    Add Comment Videographers' GuidelinesQuail Bell is a multimedia publication dedicated to all that is imaginary, nostalgic, and otherworldly. This includes the magical, the historical, the quirky, and the just plain weird. Our voice is off-beat, even eccentric at times. We value creativity, originality, and quality in all of our content. That includes any and all of our non-fiction videos. Whether you're presenting a video tour of a tea parlor or interviewing some artsy Goth girl, show us your fearlessness (but don't be afraid to add some cuteness to that edge if necessary). We like confidence. More specifically, follow these guidelines before submitting your video to us:
Royal AnxietyBy Christine Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com Cranberry JuiceBy Tyler Withrow QuailBellMagazine.com It was a windy day. It was obvious a sandstorm was about to pick up as well, making it nigh on impossible to find a way through the desert until it died down. The heat outside was deadly, as usual, so much so that I was sure that anyone who hadn't found shelter yet would have their bones picked clean by all manner of animals before the sun reached its peak. I sat back in my chair, and motioned to the bartender for more cranberry juice. I wasn't much of a drinker; I had seen what it did to my father and I was less than willing for it to happen to me. The bartender scowled at me and, coughing dryly, turned to fill my glass again. “What brought you into town, stranger?”he said, his back still facing me. “Same thing that brings everyone here. I need some money, and…” I paused, looking over my shoulder as a man in a dark coat pushed his way through the double doors, tipping his hat at the bartender. “Scotch,”he said, his voice rough and scratchy. He coughed, turning his head so that no sand got onto the bar. “…and a way out of the heat.”I finished my sentence, taking a sip from my glass. The bartender turned towards the man in the dark coat. “Any luck outside, Dennis? I doubt anyone can navigate out there, especially with a sandstorm brewing.” “Barely,”Dennis said, rifling around in his coat for a moment. “Found this, though.” He held up a severed thumb, grayed and weather-beaten. The blood at the base had dried and turned brown. I shifted slightly in my seat at the sight of it,adjusting the handkerchief that covered my face, and slumping further forward onto the table. “It's from Jenny the Slicer. Found her at an abandoned playhouse a few miles west of here. Bitch got away, but not before I got her thumb. Hell, I didn't even get a good look at her face.”The bartender laughed, crossing his arms and looking closely at the thumb. “Glad you gave her a taste of her own medicine! Jenny's been giving the people in this town trouble for more than a year now. Hopefully she won't be back anytime soon. Now put that away, you're making the lady sitting beside you uncomfortable.” I looked up at the bartender, startled. I pulled my mask closer to my face. “What are you talking about? I'm no woman.” Fiction Writing GuidelinesQuail Bell is a magazine dedicated to all that is imaginary, nostalgic, and otherworldly. This includes the magical, the historical, the quirky, and the just plain weird. We publish fiction for both children and adults, as well as for all the people in between those two age distinctions. Though we mostly publish fantasy, fairytales, and magical realism, don't necessarily let that prevent you from submitting your story. Remember our key words: imaginary, nostalgic, otherworldly. These are fairly broad words. At the same time, QB does try to maintain a certain a voice and atmosphere. Your story should "belong." That being said, don't send us the next Sweet Valley Twins--unless Jessica and Elizabeth have suddenly become steampunk feminists. Please follow these guidelines:
Graveyard ShiftBy Elwin Cotman QuailBellmagazine.com Editor's Note: This is an except from Elwin Cotman's new book, Hard Time Blues (Six Gallery Press, Pittsburgh.) The book will be published on the flip side of the same volume as Christine Stoddard's Once Upon a Body. The dual book comes out later this year. SixGalleryPress.com Night 1 The noise began as something like a screech. There was a vaguely human note to the cry of massive hinges turning—pain and surprise combined. Then it became a howl, like some forsaken ghost, rising until it assaulted the ears. Then a crash that shuddered your bones and made you feel like you’d split down the middle. The Careerist Vault was opening. I had seen the great vault open once or twice. For all its size it swung out light and easy as a screen door. Employees and shoppers stopped what they were doing. You could tell the first-time customers—the ones who dove for cover, thinking a noise that big had to be an earthquake or a bomb going off. Truth was, the shudder we felt was in our minds, a natural reaction to that disaster of a sound. After a few moments we went back to our business, pushing on through the noise, our heartbeats going faster. The noise lasted a long time. There was something sad about it. On my blue vest I wore a button that said, HELLO, MY NAME IS ENRIQUE. HOW MAY I BRIGHTEN YOUR DAY? It took half an hour to reach the center of the store, where we held evening meetings. It wasn’t hard to find. The 24-hour Mason’s superstore was simply that big. Walking the aisles always felt like a descent, a subterranean journey into white metal shelves and cardboard displays. Lemon-yellow signs the size of billboards said ENTERTAINMENT, COSMETICS, HOME IMPROVEMENT. SleipnirBy Laura Bramble QuailBellMagazine.com  Eden RestoredBy Christine Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com Even as a babe confined to my cradle, they were still there. Bleeding bats and ashen corpses slithered through my mind's labyrinth, scattering their moltings across my mental terrain...flickering their evil little tongues. My thoughts were slain and replaced by Satan’s, many before they fully blossomed. The word of God was ablated with a single shard of flint and monsters reigned in glory, as my dreams withered into his own. It was his glory of death and fire entwined. And I was the one dying. Out of pity, the beasts gave me a crude little box to store my memories in, but it was so cramped that as each new memory entered, an old one melted into the constellations. But I was strong. As my memories faded away, I remained stoical. I tried to forget how a dragon's scale shimmers in a world painted in hues of gray. I tried to forget the warmth of a sister's smile or the love in a brother's laugh. I could not hold onto anything for too long or it would sew seeds in my head too painful to eradicate. It was better to forget. Or t’was so until one Hallows Eve. The night was freshly spawned by the sky, like spider hatchlings trickling down their mother's silk. The wind seeped through the walls and into my bed, nipping at my skin with autumn chill. I crumpled my body, folding my arms tightly around my chest to prevent my soul from lithifying. Then came a cackle colder than the wind disturbing my slumber. It echoed, pulsing in the air and into my ears with defiance. I was thrown to the floor by an invisible force and plagued by convulsions. My head burned: there was a scream so piercing that it stabbed Orion's nebulae in the heart. Stardust enshrouded the ground and my frock was dripping in mud and worms. I shivered, suddenly aware that I was outside. Panting, I ran in whatever direction seemed right at the time, searching for help. By Starling Root QuailBellMagazine.com Once upon a time there lived a deaf boy who simply went by A because that was the only letter could actually pronounce. Since nobody in his tiny farm town knew sign language, A lived everyday in silence, reading or wandering around. The only people he spent considerable time with were his parents but even they made little attempt to communicate with their son using anything but exaggerated facial expressions or rough hand gestures. No poetry existed in their conversations, or rather fleeting interactions. His mother and father shared but a sliver of interest and even less serious compassion when dealing with their son. After fifteen years of trying, they had given up. Thus, as an unwanted son and even more unwanted member of the town community, A felt lonely. He just lacked the words to describe his loneliness. Most of the time A figured it was easier to pretend he didn’t exist. Instead he focused on the songbirds’ gray feathers or the shade of an oak leaf at different seasons during the year. They seemed more real to him than even he did to himself. In fact, A believed that everything he saw was somehow more tangible than he was. Sometimes he extended his lanky arms to examine his hands but he cast aside his fingers and his nails and his wrists as nothing more than figments. The illustrations in storybooks seemed more real for at least they had a voice and a real name. People looked at a picture of a cat in a storybook and understood that it was cat because such an animal is called a cat and such an animal says, “Meow.” People looked at A and only shook their heads in pity. He did not have a real name or a real voice. Besides wanting to talk, A’s greatest wish was to destroy that pity. But A could not destroy it so instead he escaped it. PenserPhotographer: Alexander C. Kafka Writer: Paisley Hibou Model: Luna Lark QuailBellMagazine.com  Pensiveness, noun form of pensive, hailing from the Middle English pensif, derived from Old French/ Softer than think, not as brusque or pointy, like something about to clink and clank/ against the kitchen counter on its way down from your brain,/ tumbling from the canals running through your mind,/ lobe to lobe to lobe to lobe to lobe,/ before it sinks into your life/ and becomes reality/ | The Unreal
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