Too Real By Lisa Pellegrini
QuailBellMagazine.com
The abandoned office building
is run by vomit-green shadows
and dismembered mannequins.
Their rat-gnawed arms and legs
are strewn about the spiral staircase
that jiggles like colorless gelatin,
twisting through sweat and panting
up to a zebra-print door that glows
with faint words of warning scrawled
in metallic coral lipstick.
Blood-splashed streets of yesteryear
checkered with sticky tumbleweeds
lead to a periwinkle ocean
that moans like it is drunk on rum.
It starts off as deep as death’s
invigorating chill in late August,
the stagnant water as high as a redwood.
Must dive in.
Save loved ones.
Close eyes.
Hold breath.
Burst forth to land on concrete.
Squid-ink sky
drips
down
like sap.
Milky red figure’s crank-caller breath
injects my jugular with needle-like pressure.
Concrete turns into moving ramp.
Run up escalator,
skipping steps.
Get to the top--
Fade to midnight.
Credits roll.
Lisa Pellegrini is a graduate of Beaver College (now Arcadia University) with a Bachelor's degree in English. Her poetry has appeared in the anthologies Voices and Whispers by Iliad Press. In 2005, she wrote and self-published a romantic mystery novel, Kiss the Devil Goodbye, through Borders' Personal Publishing program. She has written and published over 160 poems and short stories on StoryMash.com, a collaborative writers' website.
Quintet
An Ancient Discussion of Life and Death By Tala Bar
QuailBellMagazine.com
It was a large inn attached to a temple that stood on the East Bank of the Jordan River where a bridge connected it to the West Bank; it created a crossroads and was designated for people traveling between four directions: in the west lay the Land of Canaan; northward, the road to Aram Zova; going through the desert and toward Mesopotamia in the east; and down along the Jordan river and beyond, to Egypt in the south.
At this inn, an impossible meeting took place at an obscure date between the years 3500 and 3100 BCE, of five women mentioned in two books of the Biblical Old Testament: four from Genesis and one from Judges, all connected with Jacob, third forefather of Israel. They were, in their order of appearance in the Bible, Rachel, wife to Jacob and mother to his son Joseph; Dinah, Jacob's daughter; Tamar, daughter-in-law to Judah, Jacob's son, and remote ancestress of King David; Osnat, Joseph's Egyptian wife; and Deborah, fiery prophetess and leader of the Joseph's tribes of Israel.
These five women belonged to different times and places, and only the author's imagination could bring them together at the same time, in the same place.
***
“I can tell you straight out that I don't understand any of that," Rachel said with a sigh as she sat down on the carpeted floor, munching absently at the almonds taken from the plate in front of her.
She was a very young Aramaic girl, very pretty with her blue-black long hair plaited down to her waist, flashing black eyes shadowed by heavy eyebrows and red, pouting lips. She had been sent to the Crossroad Temple following a request by the girl’s mother just before she died and at the decision of her elder sister Le'ah. Their father, Laban, a well-known and wealthy herd owner was reluctant to send his youngest daughter away from her family. But he was egged on by her older sister, fifteen-year-old Le'ah, who had grown tired of the girl’s constant agitation and thought that a long trip to a temple might help her quiet down.
Rachel had been at the inn for two days now, and her constant agitation had already affected the other four women who had been designated by the Chief Priestess to be her companions for the duration of her stay. As usual, Rachel did not really pay much attention to the talk around her; she was just venting some of her irritation. The whole scene was new to her: a number of strange women of various ages sitting around idle, and even lolling, in a spacious room, surrounded by stone walls and furnished with beautiful and scattered colorful cushions. What Rachel was used to were Bedouin dark-skinned tents, wide spaces of grass covered hills and large trees standing around, with flocks of sheep and goats scattered among them.
The women, though, took her haphazard words at face value. Dinah reacted in a giggle. She was a young woman in full bloom, a free spirit unattached to any man by choice. With a curvaceous body, dark red hair, and shiny, audacious green eyes, she had rejected a couple of marriage offerings, which her father Jacob had no heart to force her into. She said nothing, though, being silent by nature, preferring to listen before opening her mouth.
Greyhound as Second Home By Paisley Hibou
QuailBellMagazine.com
Editor's Note: We've chosen to publish this poem at a smaller point than usual to preserve the original line breaks.
There are two things that Richmond and Roanoke share in common in the average mind:
Both cities' names begin with the letter 'R' and both are located somewhere in Virginia.
But to you, Richmond and Roanoke are also the main stages for your autobiography.
You stab both black dots with pushpins on the big map hanging on your bedroom wall.
The map shows other states, but they might as well be foreign countries or planets or galaxies.
Some days, those strange places twinkle with the mystery of the stars, but, other days, your imagination dims their sparkle until the places tarnish and blacken into further oblivion
and Virginia glitters and glows on the map like the Promised Land; you don't know any better.
You were born in Washington, D.C. and you lived in New York City for a hot second as a baby;
an auntie lives in North Carolina, a place you visited too long ago to picture or hear or smell.
You do not know Inner Harbor or the Liberty Bell or Bethany Beach or the Smithsonian
the way a little white girl your age born and raised in the West End would know the terrain
from Atlanta to Portland through family trips and summer camps and soccer tournaments.
You know the broken pavement of Jackson Ward, the broken windows of Jackson Ward,
the broken cars and bikes of Jackson Ward, the broken dreams and spirits of Jackson Ward.
Your mama does not 'plan vacations' or 'pencil in play dates' or 'sign you up for sleep-away.'
Your mama half-packs your backpack with a bag of chips and a book some charity gave her
before picking up the phone and calling Big Mama, your grandma, who's all of forty years.
Big Mama borrows the neighbor's car and pulls up in front of your row house, honking twice.
You look for Mama, but she's watching her stories and you know better than to interrupt.
The bus station sits two miles away and Big Mama plays a Gospel station the whole drive.
You hum along, sometimes muttering a lyric or two when the chorus comes around again.
When Big Mama says, “You gots an angel's voice,” more than once, you smile like an angel.
Your heart pounds furiously when you spot the silver dog running at the bottom of the hill.
You are not ready for your River City week to finish and your Star City weekend to begin.
You know the broken sidewalks of Southeast, the broken windows of Southeast,
the broken cars and bikes of Southeast, the broken dreams and spirits of Southeast.
And they are not the sidewalks and cars and dreams of your 5/7 of a home, Jackson Ward.
But when Big Mama sighs and clears her throat and wipes your brow and grabs your wrist,
you know that it's time to board that bus, board it now, board it without any little girl tears.
Roanoke is not a foreign country or planet or galaxy, nor is it Inner Harbor or Bethany Beach.
It is Daddy's city, the place where he and his girlfriend found bath salts and your step-brother,
the other point on your giant map, the point you stabbed so hard with that damn red pushpin.
If you're lucky, Daddy will remember to pick you up from the Greyhound station this time.
If you're lucky, Daddy won't drag you by the ear because you didn't hear his mean whistle.
You pray like Big Mama taught you; you pray like a pilgrim, eyes pious, hands clasped firmly.
You ask God to bring you back to Jackson Ward in one piece, because Mama may ignore you,
but at least she doesn't beat you, and then you open that church book and bag of stale chips.
You try not to fall asleep because Big Mama warned you about the boogie men on the bus,
but you are just six years old and slumber comes as naturally to you as your angel's voice.
There are two things that Richmond and Roanoke share in common in the average mind:
Both cities' names begin with the letter 'R' and both are located somewhere in Virginia.
But to you, Richmond and Roanoke are also the main stages for your autobiography.
Delta Town, Sunday
By John Grey
QuailBellMagazine.com
The summer heat is also a tourist guide.
You can follow your sweat
on the trail marked by
the Chamber of Commerce’s brochure.
The fountain’s spray is dead,
and the pool water’s
grown skin as thick as horsehide.
Thanks to the creep of algae,
the concrete’s turning green.
The cemetery’s overgrown with weeds
though there’s plenty room below for bodies.
A boy kicks a tin can along the main street
Every few feet, it lodges in the heaps of clay.
An old-timer complains about his tooth
but the dentist’s only open Tuesday, Wednesday,
and every day is Sunday in these parts.
A rope twists above the dried-up swimming hole.
The choir shakes the tiny stuffy church
from floor to ceiling.
It takes a lot of boisterous voices
to lure the sinful back to God.
Under a magnolia tree,
a young man struggles to arrange his body
in the shape of how tired he’s feeling
from the heat
Every store is closed but for the gas station
An old woman sits out on her porch,
waving her fan,
just in case some air’s been by.
Necromancy By Amanda-Gaye Smith
QuailBellMagazine.com
Returning just in time for the whine of the coal car switch,
She’d smack that annoying June Nazarene who
makes her play a Lazarus--
conjured from the south
up familiar sandpaper stairs.
Wading in sudden,
she re-lives to see a body unlike her recalls which
live tan, wick, and brutish in old t-shirts
under a two years younger sun--
Now spider-bagged beneath his eyes, slack
in a button-down making his shoulders droop.
Her bored tongue rattles for an hour
at grocery aisle anecdotes. Half stories
living beyond the hardwood root-line
with shore birds tracing the swivel of turtle tracks--
He’s asked her up in the heavy weather,
the day wet houses balloon on windshields
and kudzu spreads fast as hurt--
But he only retorts in turnstile about spaghetti,
bad plays, and a rotten gut
which now even willow bark cannot relieve.
In April 2011 Amanda-Gaye Smith was broke and desperate for adventure. To ease this she left the Blue Ridge Mountains on a Virginia Creeper-like path around highway overpasses down the Southeast coast for the swamps and cypress knees of Gainesville, Florida.
Lady of Letters By D.J. Granger & Luna LarkQuailBellMagazine.com
From the Eyes of Frances MacDonald
Editor's Note: Frances MacDonald was the sister of the famous Scottish artist, Margaret MacDonald.
That flamboyant hussy—she with her rustic sense of geometry and her obsession for gaudy Celtic figures. I loathe her rectangles and I loathe her roses. I loathe her pretentious banter and her self-conscious bohemian ensembles. I loathe the way she sips tea, the way she sucks the air through her teeth before she smiles, and even the way she threads needles. Above all, I loathe her. From the hairs on the crown of her head to the curl of her fake genie slippers, I loathe every element of her being—physical and spiritual.
No matter how many accolades I won in school, all our social circles agreed Margaret's talent surpassed mine. Even as Glasgow breathes and grows with the might of an ever-changing beast, their opinion remains the same. They all take her for my superior. What a misfortune that she and I are related by blood! Now I must suffer the fact that she and I are also related by art, a more sacred union.
As creative sisters, Margaret and I have always collaborated, but I had the choice to refuse involvement in her projects before. Today marks a turn in my autonomy. For today, we begin our lives as official business partners and studio co-owners. Following her lead is a matter of my survival. I must accept that Herbert may never propose, and prepare myself accordingly.
If I am lucky, sharing a studio with Margaret will be barely tolerable. She claims everything for her own and seeks competition in every moment. I cannot even initial a pencil without her challenging me to a drawing duel. No wonder that Charlie Mackintosh has not yet proposed. Who would marry such a domineering shrew? It is one thing to stifle another woman, but Margaret dares to stifle a man. It shocks me that she has not yet ripped out his gaying instrument and added it to her precious collection of paintbrushes. She is probably waiting until they are betrothed. Then, even if she renders him useless, at least she can say a man loved her enough to ask for her hand in marriage. That is the one thing she in all her vanity has yet to claim.
Realistically, I cannot wait for luck to whisper in my ear. I must conquer Margaret before she conquers me. I poured some arsenic into her drinking cup today. Perhaps I will finally be rid of that simpering swine! The studio and all her clients will be mine. I might even have a chance at Mr. Mackintosh's heart. Of course, she, like a tick, can go without nourishment or even mere hydration for days. By the time she picks up her cup, one of our maids might have already emptied and refilled it. I shall have to wait upon my web in the corner, all eight eyes focused for the downfall of the tick.
Christine Stoddard is the founder and editor of Quail Bell Magazine. She currently lives in her native Virginia, but will be moving to Guadalajara, Mexico in February 2012.
Contracting By Sorcha Patricks
QuailBellMagazine.com
Government and Private Industry
on the banks of the Potomac,
arm in arm as impassioned lovers,
necking peach-white skin-
the soft licking of lips
turned to slobber of tongues,
snarling, nipping on ears,
rolling through the cherry blossoms
with erect members as red and narrow
as slim lipstick cases,
and finally the whine of penetration
underneath the shadowed banks of the Capitol.
Sorcha Patricks is a Washington, D.C. writer and poet. She is of Irish and Jewish heritage, meaning she can down a bottle of Manischewitz in no time flat. In her free time, she works as a puppy motivation coach and professional tater tot chef. You can reach her at desertponyprincess@gmail.com.
Spider Monkeys By Jamez Chang
QuailBellMagazine.com
My father’s day off from work, he waded through emails at a kitchen table: a laptop playing Daddy for eight years—my appah.
“Is there a spider monkey?” I asked from behind his screen.
So early in the AM he hadn’t brushed a thing, hair like Al Einstein or Christopher Lloyd, but we’re family. No need to cup his breath for Crystal. I was eight years old.
“No such thing as spider monkeys, babe.”
“But your hair, Daddy, you look like a spider monkey.”
Late for email, Daddy told me point blank:
“Less talking, more eating.”
And I stayed Crystal-quiet the rest of the day.
***
Soggy emails. Frosted Flakes. I was ready for school, wounded by words in new ways. So bothered by his looks—disheveled, wild-eyed—he was breakfast beard ON, computer turned ON, had “prospective clients to type to, don’t you understand?” But I didn’t. We had NO interest in public space together. So I told Daddy to “visit a bathroom mirror and repair.”
I was too embarrassed to walk next to him, the three blocks to the bus stop, on Daddy’s day off. But who cared? Funny that way.
A father half-awake, half-combed, and it really wasn’t for an 8-year-old girl to wonder why Daddy needed a job “sooner than later,” and why he spent his nights on living room couches more and more these days. I heard things from Mom, too: “What will she think of you older, 15 and 40, if you’re not a man—in this girl’s eyes?”
His tumbleweed hair. We had NO interest in public space together.
“Bathroom mirror and repair!” I yelled again.“It’s Picture Day!”
The other girls would be looking pretty, boys in dark ties, everyone’s hair would be combed. Everyone’s.
Editor's Pick: The Art of Maria Camia Editor's Note: We're very thankful that so many talented artists, including the likes of Maria Camia, submit their beautiful creations to Quail Bell. Happy Thanksgiving, fledglings! P.S. Check out our submission guidelines. Maybe you'll be our next Editor's Pick! Maria Camia is currently a senior majoring in Sculpture and Extended Media at Virginia Commonwealth University in Richmond, Virginia. She was raised in Virginia Beach, Virginia. Her work consists of video, painting, music, and accessories. Maria sends the viewer into an alternate universe where the kooky characters laugh, chant, eat, and dance together. Through this means, she hopes to entertain but enrich the audience with new uplifting perspectives. She will be graduating this coming May.
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