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Fairies? Aliens? Who knows! It ain’t easy being green, especially when the strange villagers who find you find you next to a pit once used to trap animals. They look at your weird clothes (perhaps fashioned out of leaves and meadowgrass) and hear a foreign language completely different from their provincial English. Coupled with your green skin and general bewilderment, there's little chance that they would take you for a human creature.
In the 12th century, the legendary Green Children of Woolpit found themselves in that same predicament when they were discovered on the outskirts of Woolpit in Suffolk, England. The folklore surrounding the Green Children of Woolpit began either during the reign of King Stephen or Henry II. The town's modern name derives from a linguistic corruption of the original name (“Wolfpittes”), stemming from the ancient pits that people used to capture wolves when they still inhabited England. The two unusual children (one girl and one boy) were disoriented and crying from starvation and confusion. Fortunately, Sir Richard de Caine of Wilkes gave them a home. Despite being famished, the children refused to eat anything the adults tried to feed them. As options dwindled, Sir Richard's servants presented the children with freshly-reaped beanstalks. The children instantly brightened and lived off of beans from thereon. The girl eventually welcomed the foreign foods the adults introduced into her diet and lost her green skin. But her brother couldn’t diversify his diet and retained his green complexion. He grew more melancholic and depressed with each passing day until he died. Yet his sister lived on to learn English and assumed the name “Agnes Barre." She also married a royal ambassador and lived with him in Norfolk. Rumor has it that their neighbors thought that Agnes Barre’s behavior was "wanton." The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
What My Calendar Looks Like By Ghia Vitale QuailBellMagazine.com I first realized that I have severe synesthesia when I found out that most people couldn’t taste words. As I researched my condition more, I discovered that I am far more synesthetic than I thought. You see, I’d heard about musicians with synesthesia being able to “see” sound as colors, but I thought that the colors had to observable with their physical eyes as opposed to their mind’s eye. I'd think that words and sounds evoked feelings and images as well as color or textural associations.
I’ve always been far more into music than most people. Now I realize that one of the reasons is that, for me, music is an immersive experience, in no small part owed to the patterns and color arrangements that come up in my mind when I hear songs. Words make the colors really fly and form a more complete image as opposed to just fleeting colored patterns. This sound-to-color condition is known as chromesthesia. The strongest of my synesthesia powers is called lexical-gustatory synesthesia, which basically means that I can taste words. The same goes for my taste in poetry, for my preferences are based on an aesthetic that I could never really describe to people. Many times, my synesthetic experience of literary art determines how much I like it, although it’s obviously not a decision that I make consciously. The tastes and colors remain constant, although I often notice different dimensions to them at different times. Some words and sounds are more intense than others. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Lashing of Tongues Once upon a time, one human looked at another human and thought, “Wow. I’d love to shove my tongue in that person’s mouth.” Well, that’s how I’ve always imagined how the French kiss came to be. What that reason was, I’ll never know, although I have reason to believe there was sexual intent involved. Well, that’s what the world has me believe. The first time I ever witnessed a “real” kiss was at a carnival outside of what used to be Sports Plus in Lake Grove, New York. It was the typical bacchanalia with all kinds of food, lights, rides, and drunk people. We were waiting on line (that was much more like an elongated cluster) and surrounded by a group of loud teenagers. In front of us, I saw a blond girl lock eyes and a boy whose style could best be described as Juggalo ghetto. The boy and girl draped their arms over each other’s necks as they mashed their lips together, clumsily intertwined like mating slugs but with a much more fluid, synchronized anti-rhythm. It was the first time I had witnessed people give each other tongue beyond the borders of a television screen. It was a live public display of affection. I was transfixed. Real people lash tongues to express fondness? If not fondness, at the very least it’s a matter of chemistry, that profound, hypnotic lust that possesses us and devotes all of our faculties to pleasuring the erogenous zone of another person. How the act became known as French is unclear. Some say that the term is actually a francophobic term to insult their libertine sexuality, unbridled sensuality, and supposed “amorality” in the eyes of other European countries. Others think it’s on par with how the French got associated with our fries. (Deep-fried anything sound like French cuisine to me, but fries actually originated in Belgium.) And, actually, one of the terms the French have for the French kiss is the Florentine kiss. Kissing specialist Lauren Worthington says that the French kiss has been documented since the 1800’s and its popularity resurged in the 1920’s. Supposedly, when American and British soldiers returned to their homes after fighting in World War I, they brought with them a souvenir from France: a super-sensual kiss that stimulates the entire mouth. After all, the mouth is an erogenous zone. Even animals like to lick each other, too. Maybe it’s just our way of saying, “You’re so sweet. May I please have a sample?” #RetroSex #FrenchKiss #Sexuality #PDA #Tongues #Slugs #History #Francophobia #FlorentineKiss #Kissing Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Witch's Tit Isn't As Cold As You'd Think Nipples are related to genitals. Genitals are kind of important when it comes to sex. Over time, humankind has become gradually more enlightened about how our sex organs function. We no longer accuse wombs of wandering or believe that testicles are connected to the vocal chords, causing the voice to deepen when they descend.
What’s colder than a witch’s tit? Before today, I would say an Arctic blizzard or the bottle of whiskey waiting in the fridge. Now, I’d have to say that the blood of accused witches and people who thought it was kill someone because they had a third nipple. Witch-hunters in medieval Scotland and England believed that witches received a complimentary nipple at their first meeting with Satan. From then on, the little devil-dandy or imp (known as a “familiar” or assigned magical helper) can get icy blood on tap for nourishment. If the imp wanted something warmer, they’d just go suck some boring milk-bearing nipples. “Witch-prickers” specialized in examining these alleged witch tits. Their professional consultations included fool-proof testing methods. If the accused party felt pain or drew blood when witch-pricker jabbed the supernumerary nipple, then their chances of surviving the trial increased. In the witch-pricker's expert opinion, both bleeding and crying out were symptoms of innocence. I guess they figured that if the accused was actually using the nipple to suckle an impish attendant from hell, it would be probably be dried out and numb from incessant gnawing. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Biggest Little City By Naomi Yung QuailBellMagazine.com This city comes alive at night. During the day, though, it’s a barren wasteland of desolation and peeling paint.
It’s August, but it’s raining, and the rain strips away the layers of grandeur Reno, Nevada, “the Biggest Little City in the World,” seems to hold. Without the heavy cover of mysterious night, the neon lights are empty and demure, too shy to reveal their brazen glow. Without the lights, Reno is exposed for all to see, its seedy loneliness laid bare before judgmental eyes. Reno is veiled in a thin patina of grime and cigarette smoke, of pain and promise and loss and fortune. Desperation is a familiar friend, visible in the lines of the faces of all who walk the sidewalks. Gaudy, expansive casinos crowd the streets, their siren songs running aground tourists and locals alike. These gritty, romantic oases are Reno’s sole ticket to fame. For me, it’s hard to see the allure of casinos, of gambling, of addiction. But sometimes, if I look closely, I can see it. The glowing lights, the jingle of coins, and the smooth spread of cards upon green felt. The feeling of risk, of hope, of luck. People like living dangerously; in my mind, where gambling is involved, sometimes it’s better to have nothing to lose, because then you can just walk away. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Monsters At The Foot Of My Bed The reasons why I've been so successful in influencing people's beliefs about faeries include my knowledge, personal experiences, and evidence of other witness accounts, as well as coincidences too uncanny to be sheer coincidence. The encounter I'm about to address has to do with Kappas, a type of nature spirit that highly acknowledged by Shintoism. When I first started "intentionally" practicing witchcraft, I had many of the magical mishaps that most budding occultists experience, including the accidental summoning of malevolent beings or entities I hadn't intended to draw forth. I learned how to perform successful banishments this way and a lot about spirits in general, but since I had just began to work with faeries, I often attracted something more peculiar than a vagrant human spirit. At the time, my reading material was mostly confined to the realm of Celtic Paganism, folklore, and folk magic. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Cottage Full of Wicca By Sarah Schwister QuailBellMagazine.com Last May, I ran through the fog and storms of the Dartmoor of Britain, barefoot. I studying abroad through a two-week program my school offered, and this book geek took a trip that led through her through a world of fairy tales, literature, and wonder. Like any good story, the trip brought its own shock and astonishment in unlikely places, such as Bocastle, Cornwall’s very own Museum of Witchcraft, which boasts the world’s largest selection of witchcraft relics and artifacts in the world.
Rain flickered against our red floral umbrella as we walked through Bocastle, a beautiful town nestled between jarring mountains covered in garish grass. The creek muttered in the freezing rain, and my group was shivering from our wet trekking of Tintagel. Despite previewing every trip location in class the previous semester, the white cottage tucked outside of town made our jaws drop. It was, of course, the Museum of Witchcraft. A rather distant woman halfheartedly welcomed us in, as some of the other students cautiously wandered in. Discomfort floated around the group as some students were just plain not okay with this portion of our trip. The museum itself was stuffed as thick as the text in a dictionary. The first thin hallway that led us into the bowels of the house almost seemed self-mocking. It was full of kitschy Halloween decorations, medieval depictions of witches, and more than one nod to the witches of Macbeth. The museum's founder, Cecil Williamson, had met his fair share of witch skeptics, and tried to coax an open mind out of every visitor the moment they step into his museum. Starting off with the familiar helped accomplish that. Though the museum opened in 1959, the year the ban on the practice of witchcraft was lifted (before later moving to its current location in 1960), it wasn’t Williamson's first attempt at curating a collection and telling the story of witchcraft. Initially, he tried to open a museum in 1947 in Stratford-Upon-Avon (the birthplace of William Shakespeare) but was met with local opposition and was forced to abandon those plans. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Girls Gone Green! Remember that Victorian illness “hysteria” and how it could only be cured by the vibrator-wielding skills of a trained Victorian medical professional? I mean, I guess I can sort of see what they were getting at since the curative powers of orgasms have been well-documented by science. What I don’t understand about that extinct diagnosis is why they thought it was caused by a “wandering womb," implying that all it needed was an orgasm to be put in its place. Just think, an orgasm a day could keep the doctor and the blues away! (So long as she didn’t do it herself, that is.)
According to the Victorians, orgasms not only kept the blues away, but they also kept the greens away. Women with green-tinged skin and a fiesty attitude were actually in dire need of relieving themselves of the excess “female sperm” building up inside of them. The Victorians thought that overwhelmed "blue" ovaries caused green skin in women. The blockage caused fatigue, a lack of menstruation, increased appetite, indigestion, headaches, and all of the other symptoms that are caused by hypochromic anemia. Oh, and let’s of course not forget insanity, the very same thing that the medical world said comorbidly occurred with regular menstruation as well. The Victorian definition of female “insanity” included being disagreeable, outspoken, rude, alcoholic, senile, highly emotional, or any other behavior that deviated from how they thought women “should” act. Even today, a lot of mental illness is culturally defined in this manner. When a woman “went green,” medical professionals claimed that it was caused by celibacy that would normally be relieved by a lawfully wedded husband. Thus, the treatment options were marriage, prescribed masturbation, pelvic massages, or clitoral surgery that the family kept under wraps to protect the young woman’s reputation and chances of getting married. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Invaders and Wild Neighbors
By RayRiggs
QuailBellMagazine.com
Illustration by Garrett Riggs.
I grew up in a bird sanctuary town on Florida’s Gulf Coast. All sorts of bird species lived there from the tiny hummingbirds and sandpipers to songbirds and the mighty birds of prey. Many other birds followed the pattern of the humans who simply wintered there. Human “Snowbirds” and Canada geese could be spotted arriving at about the same time each year.
My own family started out as Snowbirds before becoming transplants from the Midwest. My grandparents led the permanent migration in the mid-1960s. They bought a modest concrete block home that was a mid-century modern classic with terrazzo floors, a low-slung roof, and simple clean lines. They even had the avocado recliners and a deep gold couch that would make Don Draper weep. That utilitarian house could have been anywhere in America were it not for the sculpted seahorse on the front and the tall palm tree in the yard that practically screamed, “Hello! This is the subtropics!” Henry was my grandmother's first neighbor in sunny Florida. Henry visited with her every day—always in the mornings and sometimes again in the evening if his day's fishing had not gone well. Henry arrived at the back door every morning, and if he didn't find my grandmother on the porch, he would go from window to window, peeking in and looking for her. If she was in the kitchen or living room and looked up to see Henry gazing in, my grandmother would laugh. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Becoming a Ghost By Jon Bolduc QuailBellMagazine.com It is a summer morning. We are cooking breakfast. I get lost in my own kitchen on a regular basis. In my own domestic kingdom,I have trouble finding the right spatula, or the vinegar, or the baking soda. Helping you cook inevitably becomes “watching you cook.” “Hey Jon, can you get me the butter?” Yes, I believe that I can. But I am overconfident in my ability to navigate the interior of your fridge. I am lost. Milk in the front high shelf, soda on the sides, leftovers in the middle—but where is the butter? I ask you.
“Next to the milk.” I’m still not seeing it. You come over, reach around me, and grab it without even looking. For you, it's muscle memory. “Oh,” I say. “That’s where the eggs were.” I close the door of the fridge. I glance at the cold white front. The front of a fridge tells a story, in patchwork. A frayed picture of your sister on the tee-ball team. Your brother smiling for his seventh grade school picture. A bill for an oil change. A chemo appointment reminder. An invoice, bold, red, blaring. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Hot and Heavy in 19th-century England Victorian slang is, even by today's standards, versatile, colorful, and covert. Sexual slang was especially clandestine so that gentlemen could discuss taboo matters without drawing undue attention. Since sex in general was a touchy subject, Victorian people got quite creative when devising these terms. Some of those very words still linger in our vernacular today.
So just how much did Victorians beat around the bush? Keep in mind that these were the people who arranged a nuanced form of communication based on flowers. They used “floriography” in order to express feelings that they would have otherwise hidden from society. These are the people who referred to lady parts as the “fruitful vine” because supposedly, they both fruited every nine months and “flowered” on a monthly basis. The only “flowers” I think of in reference to a vagina are orchids (for obvious reasons). I got a whole bouquet of them from my relatives when I got my first period. The world of Victorian prostitutes was a generous segment of the population and therefore ripe with slang. An estimated one out of every twelve women was directly involved in prostitution, a statistic that only applies to unmarried, pubescent women. Much like today, prostitution was multi-leveled. There were the common punks who walked the streets and rich courtesans alike. If a rich man wanted to have sex with a woman who wasn’t his “lawful blanket”(legal wife), he would pursue sexual asylum in a “wife in water colors” or mistress, a “prostitute” whom only serviced one man. If the man was rich enough, he could provide her with housing, mostly for his own convenience. Why was a mistress painted in water colors? Because their “engagements easily dissolved” like water paint. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Cursed AttractionBy Kontra QuailBellMagazine.com I arrived at the ghost town of Two Guns just a few minutes before sundown. This, for some reason, seemed appropriate. At first, the forgotton city appears to be just another abandoned gas station area; there is a disused silo, a ruined convenience store, another small, gutted building of indeterminate purpose. But nearby are the almost century-old brick ruins that rest along the rim of Diablo Canyon, marking what might be the most cursed area in all of Arizona.
In 1969 a book called The View Over Atlantis popularized the New Age idea of “ley lines," invisible strands of energy that criss-cross the globe. The intersection points of these lines are supposedly points of great magical importance—places where strange things happen. Neil Gaiman, in his Hugo and Nebula Award-winning novel American Gods, proposed that the unusual energy at these ley lines convergences often influences people to build strange roadside attractions. If such places exist, one of them almost certainly lies about 30 miles east of Flagstaff in the area of Diablo Canyon. It is here that the roadside attraction of Two Guns was erected in the 1920s, literally atop a massacre. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
That time I stalked someone for a tabloidI was sitting on my bed, staring off into space, my hair dripping dry over my ratty T-shirt. It was 1 p.m. on a Sunday and, as far as I was concerned, a day of rest. After a movie, I'd read, go for a walk, maybe meet a friend, watch another movie, and head back to bed. Nope. I made the mistake of checking my phone and spotting the opportunity of a lifetime sitting in my inbox. A reporter from a nationally-known publication had contacted me directly and asked if I was available for an assignment that day. As a freelance writer, what the hell do you think I said? My job was to drive about an hour and half from where I lived ASAP and snap pics of a “bad guy.” Now “bad guy” is an ambiguous term in any context. This case was no different. Without giving too much away, here's the gist of the story: This “bad guy” was accidentally responsible for the death of several people while on the job, but his union fought for him and got him another position in another state a year of paid leave. When the victims' families found out a couple of months ago that Mr. Bad Guy was living peacefully, they were furious. But other people felt this guy had made an honest mistake. He killed not out of malice but distraction. However, it's not the place of a tabloid to present both sides of a story. A tabloid specializes in blood, boobs, and blasphemy. So my job was to take a few shots of Mr. Bad Guy enjoying his new suburban digs in a neighborhood where nobody remembered his mistake. Day One consisted of me hanging outside the guy's house all day. In my car. Reading The Atlantic on my phone. I took more photos of the grills and bird feeders on the block than I did the man in question because he was, as luck would have it, on vacation. The most thrilling part? Running into his brother, who was a cop intent on telling me nothing. Bro was doing mundane stuff like collecting the mail. He seemed mostly surprised that I was following up on a story whose real action took place four years ago. Yet tabloids love making stories out of non-stories and I love getting clips from new publications. Day Two wasn't any more riveting. Godzilla never came. No cars exploded. I hung out at Mr. Bad Guy's place of work, interviewed a couple of co-workers (without them realizing I was interviewing them because I'm shady), and drank a lot of sweet tea. At some point, I even walked to the post office to mail a couple of packages because nothing was going on. Mr. Bad Guy was still on vacation. Talk about perfect timing on his part. Not so much on my editor's part. Working for a tabloid is not that different than working in film and TV. The expression “Hurry up and wait” still applies. One moment you're sitting around and plucking your pesky toe hairs; the next moment you're gunning it to Olive Garden in pursuit of your prey's teenage niece. It's the chase that's exhilarating, but it's also the chase that is rare. My car chases (Day One) were both short-lived and fruitless. When readers pick up a tabloid, their eyes jump to the salacious headlines and shocking photographs. If a story catches their interest, they may skim it. It is the rare reader who reads a tabloid story with rapt attention. It is the even rarer reader that notices the bylines. But it is those bylines—or, more precisely, the people to whom those bylines belong—that make the stories. These reporters stalk, pounce, and deliver the corpse to the masses. Then the masses poke and prod and share Facebook musings. The reporter remains nearly anonymous. And often that reporter didn't do much more than make a mountain out of a mole hill. #StrangeNostalgia #IWouldDoItAgain #Tabloids #TabloidWriter #TabloidPhotographer #Paparazzi #LifeChoices #RealLife Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.
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The Uncanniest ValleyI recently wrote about how children's "imaginary friends" often turn out to be spirits. Inanimate objects also make great company. More often than not, they’re very agreeable and you hardly ever have to pay for their admission into any venue where they aren’t being showcased. More often than not, they don’t require the same level of care that a living, breathing organism necessitates. When is the last time that you had to water a doll that wasn’t part-Chia Pet? Dolls tend to do whatever their maker programmed them to say and do. Most of the time, but not all of the time. Some dolls have lives of their own that extend far beyond the simple, boring existences that their creators envisioned for them. One of the most notorious dolls in pop culture is “Robert the Doll.” Robert Eugene Otto received this doll in 1906. Rumor has it that Mrs. Otto and Mr. Otto habitually mistreated their servants, so they definitely had some kind of bad karma headed their way. But once they crossed the wrong servant and they wouldn’t get away with it. Their victim happened to be a skilled Voudou practitioner. Instead of lacing their drinks with arsenic or laxatives, she took the high road (read: the most legal option) and left the household with a momento, one that would be immortalized as the inspiration for the Child’s Play franchise.
The woman secretly “blessed” the doll clad in a Naval Officer uniform that she gave to their son. The six-year-old boy immediately fell in love with it. Robert was so smitten with the doll, he bestowed his first name to his new friend. Soon enough, he began to insist upon being called “Gene” because his original first name now belonged to his straw-stuffed playmate. Robert the doll revealed his “lively” personality soon after he moved in. Mr. and Mrs. Otto were routinely awakened by things going bump in the night along with Gene’s screams for help. Whenever they investigated the commotion, they’d find that the ruckus was Gene’s furniture being strewn about his bedroom. Visibly terrified, Gene would claim each time, “Robert did it!” Initially, his parents blamed their son’s overactive imagination and punished him. What else could rationally explain the baritone voice that responded to Gene whenever he addressed Robert? Perhaps their son had a impressive vocal range that they hadn’t been previously aware of? His parents assumed that it was all a game, that Gene was using Robert as a convenient scapegoat to blame for his own shenanigans. Gene’s parents were correct about their son having a brilliant imagination. He would eventually grow up and become a successful artist. Still, Robert’s havoc was more than the product of Robert’s creativity. It wasn’t until the neighbors started complaining about the doll moving around their home by itself that the Ottos finally believed their son. Friends of the family often saw the doll’s expressions change, heard him speak, or unleash a ghastly giggle that frightened people of all ages. The Otto family’s friends remained adamant that the hardships that befell the Ottos definitely had something to do with that dastardly doll. Apparently, everything was absolutely peachy before Robert came into the picture. That’s when they realized that there was much more to Robert than straw and cloth. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Most Magical of HorsesBy Starling Root QuailBellMagazine.com Some children grow up and become teachers. Some become lawyers or plumbers or bankers. But you? You will become a unicorn. Here's what clued me in: 1. Grass that glitters in the sunshine and talks to you about your dreams your ultimate food—and really the only thing you'll eat. Other than cotton candy and ice cream, of course. 2. You have a bump on your forehead that never goes away, but you don't mind. You know it will grow into something beautiful one day. 3. You don't just have two left feet when you dance. You have three. And, actually, they're hooves. 4. Everyone keeps saying you're a symbol for Jesus Christ, but you just don't get it. 5. Your most ardent admirers are five-year-old girls. 6. Even though you live in a castle, you wish you lived on a rainbow. 7. You've had a serious crush on a leprechaun at some point. 8. When you sneeze, fairies shoot out of your nose. 9. Your big body hangup? You tell yourself that if you had wings like Pegasus, you'd be perfect. 10. You honestly have no idea what poop is. Wait, that's what those pink marshmallows that pop out of your butt are called? #Unicorn #Pegasus #WhenYouGrowUp #MagicalCreatures #Satire #MysticalBeasts #Horsies #PrettyPonies #Humor #SillyTalk Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.
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A Door for the AgesBy Quail Bell Camera Eye QuailBellMagazine.com “The first door in the hall leads to youth, the second door leads to middle age, and the third door leads to the bathroom. But knock first, because I think grandpa’s in there.” —Jarod Kintz, This Book Has No Title #Door #Portal #Passageway #AnotherDimension #PeelingPaint #InNeedOfRepair #JustALittleTLC #WhereTheHellIsThis? Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.
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The Truth About Imaginary FriendsBy Ghia Vitale QuailBellMagazine.com Every cool kid had at least one imaginary friend when they were growing up. Some children invent imaginary friends to fulfill a purpose and then promptly get rid of them. Others have more consistent identities and remain with the minds that imagined them to life. Mental health experts and adults conclude that children invent imaginary friends as a psychological defense mechanism, a way to satisfy the needs that real people were failing to meet. I’ve heard about children befriending imaginary people in times of abandonment, such as an when older sibling whom they once spent a lot of time with starts attending school full-time. However, my experiences have taught me that there is far more depth to imaginary friends.
Paranormal experts (and people in general) accept that children are generally more capable of perceiving spirits than adults are. The purity of young minds allows them to trust their supersensory abilities without question. After so many cups of coffee and clock-punching, adult brains get tired and we settle into a routine. Plainly put, the humdrum of adulthood closes our minds to preserve whatever remains of our sanity. In many instances, imaginary friends are actually spirits who pursue a child's friendship for a host of different reasons. Some are the spirits of dead people who enjoy children's company, like the friend of my aunt whose daughter started talking about how she played with a woman named "Olivia." They later found out that a woman named Olivia died in their house. I could imagine how the novelty of being dead would get old pretty quickly. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Sunny Southern GothicBy Quail Bell Camera Eye QuailBellMagazine.com Small towns can be charming and creepy and both at once. Here's a charming and creepy view from the charming and creepy Clifton Forge, a town nestled in Virginia's Roanoke region (which is also charming and creepy). The hill is Crown Hill, which is the same name as the cemetery pictured here. And if you're bored of all this repetition yet, you'll be pleased to know that Crown Hill Cemetery is indeed on the crown of Crown Hill. #CliftonForge #Roanoke #VirginiaHistory #AlleghenyCounty #SouthernCemeteries #SouthernGothic Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.
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Bizarre Books From My Uni DaysBy Fay Funk In college I had a work-study job in the ILL department of the library. I worked in a small, quiet office surrounded by stacks and stacks of books. My job wasn’t to read any of them, just check them in, pack them up, and ship them out. But of course I read a few of them. And I read some weird stuff. On multiple occasions I opened a book and was greeted by an erect penis. Some were science books, but most were just hardcore porn. The covers on these books were always blank, just plain black boards with no text about what was inside. The one I remember best was a book of 1950s style comic strips with graphic images of orgies and sodomy. The paperwork I needed was buried in a full page spread of a classic 1950s housewife on her knees between a two sailors. Most of the books that went through our department were for research, and I assume this book was for someone’s dissertation. I was curious about what they were researching, what so many people were researching that required such numerous and varied images of penises, but there was no way to find out. So I scanned the book and sent it on its way. Sometimes I would come across books loaned out to one of my professors. None of them were looking at penises, but I still felt dirty looking at their research materials. It felt like I was invading their minds, and none of them would ever know. I knew what about a reading my history teacher was going to assign a week before it happened. My Spanish teacher checked out books all the time. They were all in Spanish, which despite his best efforts I still couldn’t understand, so I felt a little less bad about flipping through them, though I lived in fear that someday he would come into the office and catch me furiously trying to decipher his Colombian history book. The most absorbing thing I ever read was a dissertation on child abuse within Orthodox Judaism. I read the whole thing, checking over my shoulder to make sure my supervisor didn’t catch me. The PhD candidate interviewed about fifteen former Orthodox Jewish people. She detailed the ways in which the abuse was expertly kept secret, and the emotional and spiritual effect it had on those who finally left the community. It was a fascinating read, and I had a hard time adding it to the massive stack of books I needed to shelve. There was so much weird and interesting stuff going through the library, and I could only read bits and pieces before sending the books on to the patron. One such book was A Confederacy of Dunces. I cracked up at just the title, so I had to read the foreword, about the bizarre publishing history of this ridiculous-sounding book. I wanted more, but it was the end of the day and the A Confederacy of Dunces is 500 pages long, so I had to wait. When summer break began, I checked out the book myself. Buried amidst the erect dicks and private PhD thoughts, I found a treasure. A book so wild and silly, it got me reading again. #Library #Books #ReadingHabits #StrangeReads #Sodomy #ChildAbuse #Dicks #Cocks #OrthodoxJews Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.
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Beyond Repair, Beyond ResurrectionBy Quail Bell Camera Eye QuailBellMagazine.com A big ogre came through and stomped on every dandy on the lawn. His name was Pesty Cide. #Weeds #Dandelions #Flowers #Springtime #Death Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.
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The Unknown Twinkled into RealityBy Ghia Vitale QuailBellMagazine.com Although much of supernatural and paranormal phenomena remains inexplicable to science, it is still perfectly normal and natural. Western civilization is awkward in its refusal to acknowledge the possibility of unseen worlds, parallel dimensions, and accept sapient life on Earth that isn’t relegated to solely humankind or even the general material realm. Encounters with interdimensional beings such as ghosts, fairies, devas, demons, and angels have been documented throughout history and around the world. One of the most widely known and speculated manifestations of the unknown are orbs. The interdimensional entities that embody the orbs are rendered partially viewable to the naked eye when they take on this form.
Orbs seem to be intertwined with all kinds of paranormal phenomenon. Paranormal investigators look for the appearance of orbs in pictures of haunted places and they even tend to manifest in pictures of haunted locations that weren’t taken for investigative purposes. Instead, they surface during innocuous snapshots with no preluding intentions of a supernatural inclination. They’re often depicted as looming around our realm for the purpose of performing the bidding of aliens and fairies, beings that are especially reputed to reveal themselves to mortals as orbs. Since animated spheres of glowing light aren’t commonplace outside of cemeteries, it is definitely extraordinary to behold them. To preface the telling of my experience, I should make it known that I’ve been practicing witchcraft for almost thirteen years. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been able to sense and communicate with the spirits of nature and the deceased. Likewise, I quickly realized that although these entities straddle our plane, they mostly inhabited other dimensions, rendering them imperceptible to an underdeveloped third eye. I’ve seen non-human spirits manifest around myself and others as fleeting lights. These little orbs that flicker about tend to be purple more than any other color. I do a “test” (for my own sanity) to see if the orbs follow the direction of my gaze in order to verify whether or not it’s just my eyes playing tricks on me. Legitimate stay put and shortly disappear afterwards, not following my gaze with a squiggly line in my periphery. In fact, just as I sat down to pen “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” (a poem featured in Quail Bell!), I saw a little purple orb with my physical eyes momentarily twinkle on the lined page of the composition notebook that I had just opened. However, orbs like these tend to disappear quickly after catching my notice, not that they’re hard to catch since it’s been happening all throughout my journey of attunement to their energy, even from the very beginning. I take solace in the fact that other people see them around me too, especially if we’re doing some kind of spell work or meditation. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Ever wondered who's waving her wand on these posts?By M. Alouette QuailBellMagazine.com It's one thing to start a Facebook page. It's another thing to garner more than 80,000 likes on said page—especially if it's just you, not a business or organization, running and representing that page, and you're not posting about celebrity gossip. But Nikki, a mother of three living in the Pittsburgh Metro area, practically wrote the words to that incantation. Her Facebook page, Fairies, Myths, and Magic, "explores art, crafts, stories and more for those who yearn for a fantasy world." So she scours the Internet for the best in fantasy news, creations, and thought and shares her findings with the community she's built. Enchanting, no? We asked Nikki to tell us a little bit more about her wizardly Facebook ways. Here's what she told us over Facebook chat (of course): "I have loved fantasy all of my life. My father was a huge influence, and was constantly showing me a new sci-fi movie or talking about a book he just read. I started this page as an outlet and a place to escape from my every day life. I have struggled most of my life with chronic depression, anxiety, and bipolar disorder, and fantasy helps me forget my troubles for a short while. I try very hard to keep the page positive and uplifting, and I think that is part of the reason that the page has grown in popularity. A lot of people tell me that they enjoy looking through the pictures I post with their children, so it's a safe page to enjoy with your family. I even share it with my own kiddos. As for advice [in running your own Facebook fan page], I would say to create a page about something you have a passion for—not just a liking. Pages can take a long time to grow, so be patient and share often with other pages that you love and are relevant to your page. My favorite fairy tale is not really a fairy tale but a poem written by Tennyson titled 'The Lady of Shalott.' I have always felt a deep connection to her, and to the paintings done of her. John William Waterhouse has an amazing painting of her; I actually have [a reproduction] hanging in my living room." Facebook.com/FairiesMythsAndMagic #FacebookPage #Fairies #Mermaids #Fantasy #FairyTales #Mythology Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.
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Happy Cinco de Mayo! (We guess.)Today America celebrates a Mexican holiday that ain't that big in Mexico. It's weird and hypocritical. Our top Cinco de Mayo reality check thus far? Anthony Bourdain's. That being said...have fun anyway? #CincoDeMayo #Mexico #MexicanHolidays #WeirdRelationships #WeirdHistory #WTFUSA
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Your Weird, Semi-incestuous Big DayBy Quail Bell Provocateur QuailBellMagazine.com Hello, budding young woman! Have you started your period? Are you thinking about boys? Forget puberty and focus on purity. You're about to get a big, sketchy ball in honor of your stolen sexuality. But don't worry—you get to wear a fluffy white dress that will make you feel like a princess. You know, those women in medieval times who were stuck up in towers and forbidden from doing anything until Prince Charming rescued them. Then they were allowed to get married. You're not allowed to do anything until you get married, either. So stop thinking for yourself. That's part of the pledge you're signing. Wait, wait. You can't help but think? Then think about this: how to make your purity ball extra creepy. Because it's really not weird enough, you know? Not with you and your dad exchanging vows like a married couple. Not with you saying your dad is your boyfriend. Not with you getting a heart-shaped necklace and your dad getting the key. No, your purity ball could and should be much stranger. Here's how: Photo by David Magnusson. • Dance with a cadaver and Daddy. It will be your Christian threesome. And while you're at it, pledge your purity to the cadaver, too. He'll protect you from the zombies of the Underworld vying for your virginity. • Serve eyeballs instead of cheese puffs. They represent all of the people watching you to make sure you don't break your promise to your dad (and the cadaver.) • Invite every boy you've ever had a crush on. Put all these boys in a corral. Don't feed them and don't let them out when the party's over. Let them perish there. Daddy will be so proud! • Unleash a legion of toads onto the dance floor and kiss every single one of them. These are the only toads you'll be kissing 'til you meet your frog prince. • Before the end of the night, gaze into a mirror. Now that you've signed the pledge, every mirror will become a magical looking glass that reveals the face of your future husband. Don't cry if the mirror shatters. • Keep your gown so your daughter can wear it when it's time for her pseudo-wedding, er, purity ball. Store it in a massive jar of formaldehyde. #PurityBalls #Feminism #Virginity #ChristianFundamentalists #WomensChoice The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Truth About Love SpellsBy Ghia Vitale QuailBellMagazine.com From what I’ve learned, this force is by no means a “little thing,” although it is certainly crazy and chaotic in nature. As far as human neurology is concerned, love is one of the most formidably-influential drugs in the entirety of Earth's existence. Love has to be powerful in order to perpetuate life. Love spells, perhaps more than any other variety of spell, attract many people to the art of spellcraft. But love magic itself also remains a source of contention in the occult community. It’s not as though this prejudice is entirely unfounded because love spells often involve infringing upon the will of another person…or at least they do when operating upon a basal intention of that nature. Many magicians adhere to the belief that aiming love spells at unspecified love interests is the only ethical form of love magic. Yet there are also magical traditions that find love spells no more Machiavellian than wearing fishnets or splashing a dash of seductive pheromone-fortified cologne. I am referencing a wealth of personal experiences and research to justify my beliefs in pertinence to love and sex spells. After much trial and error, I’ve come to learn that love, like most magic, cannot be accurately compartmentalized into polarized, figuratively “black-and-white” categories. I should also note that I am using the term “love” in the broadest sense of the term, which includes the multitudinous shades of simple infatuation, limerence and “true” love, whatever that is. I shall preface this confession with this: love is arguably one of the most potent intoxicants known to humankind. When you or someone else feels under the influence of love, understand that love is a drug, an inebriant administered by one’s brains that can distort even the most pragmatic minds. The mind alone cannot always temper the bewitched heart. Emotions compel the lovestruck to think or act in ways that can also influence a spell’s cumulative manifestation(s). Love pervades all senses to the point where anything (or anyone) that specific force yearns is what “makes sense” to the body, heart and mind, despite the protests of the rational mind or the onlooking good samaritans. Often, emotions like inadequacy or underlying psychological issues masquerade as “love.”
Love spells are quite difficult to effectively execute for a well-practiced magician, let alone people who aren’t experienced with the art and science of manifestation. Budding magicians who takes spellcraft semi-seriously have a fairly significant advantage in comparison but that’s only a few inches of a few miles. Hell, even Apollo couldn’t get it right and he is a god! There are reasons why Aphrodite (a Goddess of love and beauty) and Dionysus (a God of intoxication, viniculture and chaos) are notoriously compatible, but I’ll leave that for you to research. Love spells require meticulous efforts and energetic awareness. Yes, there are vague love spells that are conducted to attract the most suitable mates to the caster. These are often employed successfully and I have heard of many couplings, short-term and long-term alike, occur due to these types of spells. One of the first times I performed a love spell, I purchased a pre-packaged spell kit with an instructional outline from a local metaphysical store. Soon after casting the spell, I wound up making out with a friend in another friend’s pool one night. This friend had not previously expressed interest. I think we “went out” a little bit but broke up a few days afterwards. This boy later came out of the closet but the spell succeeded in uniting us for those few days. The friend who kindly let us use her pool even noted that she thought our momentary coupling was the product of a love spell. |
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