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The Charcoal TrainBy Mademoiselle Alouette QuailBellMagazine.com He wore a mousy brown mushroom cut and carried his ashy toy train in a Ziploc bag. Passing the Jelly Bean jar on the teacher's desk and smiling at the class pet, Hunny Bunny, as she munched on kibble, he sat down, still clutching his charred train. Cole, age seven, had lost his house to monstrous flames the night before. The few personal belongings he and his family could salvage from the embers were stored in plastic baggies as momentos. I never learned the cause of the fire. What I did learn was that little Cole was about to make first grade show-and-tell the most morbidly fascinating session I had ever experienced. I, too, was seven years old. I had never met a victim of a house fire before. House fires seemed to exist only on the news or in dramatic family films. They were huge bodies of oscillating orange and gold waves that teased houses with a few licks before swallowing them whole. The fact that house fires could happen to anyone—even a little boy in my class—terrified me. As far as I was concerned, my house could be next. My fear of burning had hit me three or four years prior to Cole's spectacle. In my effort to reach for something on the stovetop, I had placed my tiny palm on a hot burner. My mother, who was washing her hands at the kitchen sink, had temporarily turned her back on me. I cried in pain. My mother dropped what she was doing and soon soaked my hand in cool water. From that point onward, I sat farther from the campfire than everyone else while roasting hot dogs and marshmallows. Even as a teenager, I struck matches with trepidation. To this day, I would rather not be the one who lights the candles at Christmas. Soon after moving into my rental house, I had a nightmare that my new home would catch on fire. One of my roommates or I had made a careless mistake, though the dream never revealed what that mistake was. Maybe we had left a hair iron or the oven on. When we returned home hours later, we found nothing but soot. The fire had claimed everything, and our landlord literally murdered us. Cole finished that show-and-tell with passing around his train. Our teacher told us that we were not allowed to remove the train from the plastic bag. Each child stared at the bag in awe. Twenty-four hours ago, that toy train had been unscorched. It had resembled any of the toys in our own homes—probably a tad worn with love but not blackened by the reminder of a traumatizing event. It was then that I understood the power of fire and the power of nature just generally. At that time, people were chucking their electric typewriters and rushing to buy their PowerMacs as we entered the Computer Age. Yet humankind had not yet truly conquered the might of fire. Cole's story proved that. I took a good, hard look at Cole's train and passed the baggie to the next child. Technology still had its limits. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Virginian LullabyBy Starling Root QuailBellMagazine.com Some songs make your heart flutter and the hairs on your arm dance. One such song is Sparklehorse's “It's a Wonderful Life” (2001) from their album of the same title. It's a soft, whispery song, like a lullaby played on beaten vinyl, something so quintessentially Richmond, Virginia that it makes perfect sense that it was recorded on a farm just outside of the former capital of the Confederacy. “Wonderful Life” is perfectly nostalgic (“I'm the dog that ate/Your birthday cake”) and unabashedly Romantic with a capital R (“I am/The only one/Can ride that horse/Th'yonder.”) The language, too, sounds like that of rural Central Virginia, speaking of roosters and bogs and bees. It's simple but painterly in the sense that it conveys just enough of a place for you to recognize it. The next time you find yourself hating the world, listen to this song. You will find love and hope again. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Vanitas [Mexicana]By QB Camera Eye QuailBellMagazine.com A bag of discarded fruit on the side of the road in Guadalajara, Mexico. This bag mostly contains a cactus fruit locally known as 'tuna.' Tunas are famous for growing during the summertime, which is also Guadalajara's rainy season.
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Crunchy Leaves and WineBy QB Provocateur QuailBellMagazine.com The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Squid FriendsBy The Picture Pharmacist QuailBellMagazine.com Dear fledglings, Everyone needs a friend. But if you're socially awkward and unlikely to garner the mere acknowledgements of fellow homo sapiens, you might have to look outside of your species for platonic love. Have you thought of befriending a squid? A "cuddlefish" rejects no one. To quickly give the appearance that you have friends, download this picture and Photoshop a few squids into pictures of yourself. Promptly print the pictures and set them up all over your house/parent's basement. Soon you'll look like the most popular person in town. Your mother might even stop asking if you're okay. I may not be willing to extend a warm, friendly hand to you, but these squids will give you a tentacle of trust any day. Good luck with your new social life! Yours truly, The Picture Pharmacist
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Warehouse EnvyImage courtesy of WarehouseRentalsOfGeorgia.com I waited outside of the warehouse with a scowl. I had been cooking inside of a sand-colored Suburban for the past hour. The day was so hot that you could've fried green tomatoes on the sidewalk and served them up with grits. In fact, that's how I should've been passing my time. It was too hot even to make out the newspaper story in front of me. Instead, I was panting as hard as the dog chained to the bench across the street. I could not enter the building until someone showed up with a key. That someone finally arrived with another person in tow. We were there to dress a film set, and I was anxious to get started. Though it was only 10:30 in the morning, the temperature had already hit 98º. Welcome to the heinous summer climate of the American Southeast. Surely the warehouse, with its dank, moldy ways, would be cooler than our cars. I would've bolted out of my car to meet my savior if it weren't for my sluggishness. I sort of seeped onto the sidewalk like century-old sludge released from a dam. After some chit-chat, my Art department colleagues and I slunk around the side of the building, found an open door, and walked into a maze of industrial nooks and crannies. But the journey is the not reason for this essay. Rather, it was the destination. As soon as we entered the Room of Things, serious warehouse envy hit me. This was a kingdom of junk, of garbage—a hoarder's paradise, a shrine to retro memorabilia, from restaurant booths to a Pac Man machine. I stumbled into a mouse pad bearing the image of a 1980s Calvin Kleinesque hunk. Another girl found love letters exchanged between a long-distance couple (one partner in Richmond, the other in Washington, D.C.) from the early '90s. A whole counter in the back of the warehouse contained nothing but piles and piles of canvas. One room had become a burial ground for filthy mattresses. Each and every item there held its own history, beckoning your curiosity. One day, I will own such a warehouse. Interesting people, educated in the various ways of life, will come to store their odds and ends there. Not just anyone may rent space in my warehouse; I must personally invite each individual, first conducting a quick test to determine if such a person would own the right kind of junk. How had this person made his living? How does he make a living now? Where has he traveled? What are his hobbies? What is his passion? Does he live alone or with a spouse or lover? Does he have children? People may not solicit applications to take this test, either. I must invite them to take the test and if they pass, only then shall I invite them to rent at my warehouse. It shall be a very elitist warehouse indeed. And although elitism normally disgusts me, I would deem it appropriate in this situation given my quest for the perfect junk. What exactly qualifies as perfect junk is hard to say. But age counts. Having a strange or touching story counts. Rarity counts. Character, however that may be defined, is what counts above all. My warehouse will have character and so will everything in it. The long wait in the car that one summer day proved worth it for developing this odd life goal. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Gearheart the Gentleman: Why, you don't snuff?By Sir Gearheart QuailBellMagazine.com Dear Gearheart!! Perhaps you can help me. See I’m trying to be more healthy and stuff like that, so I really wanna stop smoking cigarettes. I probably smoke a pack a day and I’ve tried to quit a few times before, but it’s kinda tough, ya know? So I really wanna stop for good this time. Any words of advice? Signed ~Shocka Khan~ Dear ~Shocka Khan~,
My dear boy!! I must insist that you do all that you can to discontinue the use of these dreadful cigarettes posthaste! This message that I write to you now is one of urgency and I pray you take my words seriously and with immediacy. Now, I assume I am speaking to a Mr. Shocka Khan as I have never known of any women that could or would tolerate even the passing scent of a pipe’s smoke, let alone the atrocious odor these cigarettes most undoubtedly give off. I would further assume that you are enough of a gentleman as to never, EVER smoke in the presence of a lady and that you own some form of smoking suit as to be courteous to others after partaking in a smoke. Even if the previous statements are true of your habits, good sir, I can think of nothing more damaging than smoking cigarettes. From what I’ve come to understand through my, admittedly limited, research on the subject is that smoking tobacco in the form of cigarettes can lead to dire breathing problems, diseases of the heart and lungs, a great many varieties of cancers and death. DEATH my boy! To think that you inhale twenty four of these cancer rods a day... I’m sorry...I have to steady myself...I fear I may have come close to fainting just now...I apologize for my weariness, but the thought of a young person exposing himself to such a dangerous substance troubles me deeply. I would never condone the recreational use of any drug as I have seen men driven mad by the addictive nature of such a vice. Still, the quandary of life can be ever trying, and now and then one must seek something to soothe the mind of its stresses. But one must be careful in his choices in this regard. There are many better, healthier ways to relieve anxiety than smoking cigarettes. Pray thee, have you heard of snuffing? The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Conversations with Lobster TanksBy Christine Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com Your prison is a 60” x 26” x 50” cavity of marine plastic infamous for the shock it produces in any shellfish who gazes upon its cruel and hideous glory. You are one such shellfish, a once innocent lobster turned nihilist. Since coming to this tank of death, you have seen the platters of red corpses whiz by you on shaky waiters' hands. You've watched the movie “Splash.” Someone will crunch into your shell with utter disregard for table manners and, more importantly, your soul. Children tap their greasy fingertips on the wall that separates you from the pale, hairless primates who feast upon the claws of your brothers and sisters. Damn their alveolar bones. Damn their braces. Their lips, too. Lobsters don't have lips—why do they? And they call your kind the funny looking ones. This might be the beginning of the conversation you would have with a lobster if a lobster could process and analyze the world just as you do. But if Google is at all representative of truth, the words “lobster thoughts” have far more to do with how and where to eat lobster than what lobsters think about anything. Yet if Hans Christian Andersen (or any fairy tale author for that matter) were God of all creation, you could communicate with a lobster the same way you do your neighbor. You could greet a lobster and expect a cordial response. You could proceed to ask the lobster about his day and he would delight you with tales of mermaids and deep-sea exploration. He might occasionally bore you with updates on the wife and kids, but you'd politely oblige him. You have wallet photos of your own. Once you were better acquainted, you might ask him about his unique opinions and experiences as a lobster. Is it true that lobsters become stronger and more fertile with age? What is really the kindest way to kill a lobster? Your conversations might evolve into a discreet cultural study turned exposé, akin to John Howard Griffin's Black Like Me. At some point, you might even slip into a lobster suit and hide in a pile of underwater rocks for a few days. You'd be happy as a clam until you actually met a mirthful mollusk and realized you hadn't an inkling of what happiness ever meant. In the ever arable land of a fairy tale author's mind, you might become best friends with the lobster. You might even become lovers. You might marry a lobster, if it were legal. Maybe your very purpose in life would be to champion lobster rights (and bestiality, as far as human-crustacean relationships are concerned.) You could be the Che or Martin Luther King or Joan of Arc of lobsters. The lobster whisperer. But fairy tale authors do not rule the universe, and lobsters are smelly scavengers at best and inelegant cannibals at worst. Put down your revolutionary cap; your destiny is probably far more mundane than mentioned a paragraph ago. You may not marry a lobster. You may only tap on the glass of a lobster tank like an irritable but curious child and mouth your message before the hostess comes to seat you. Just don't blame Hans. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Caras vemos, corazones no sabemos. By Hannah Grubbs QuailBellMagazine.com The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
When's long-form content coming back to The Real, you darn fledgling folk?Soon, Quail Bell(e)s. Soon. Feathery hugs, The QB Crew P.S. You can always submit some of your own, too! The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Teen Torment. LDRs. Soul Mates.Got an old love letter that the world needs to read? Send it to us! Scan it and email it to editor@quailbellmagazine.com or mail it to P.O. Box 4844, Richmond, VA 23220. This love letter can be your own or it can belong to a friend, relative, mere acquaintance, or even a complete stranger! Show us what you've got--you know The QB Crew is full of romantics. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
In a funk?By Starling Root QuailBellMagazine.com You're not an infant. But sometimes you wish you were. Can't somebody just scoop you up and swaddle you? You're fragile. Your bones haven't even fused together yet. Your skeleton might as well be Jell-O, and it just needs to be nap time already. You're nostalgic for diapers. Seriously, that Gerber baby food was good. Grow up. Smile. Get out of that funk. That's what they tell you, but you're wondering where your bib is. If it were 100 years ago, you'd still be living with your parents and society wouldn't be judging you for it. Now they call you a failure because you're not wearing the pants and slaying the dragons and shattering the glass ceiling. Nobody's here to rock you to bed. You even have to sing the damn lullaby to yourself. It's like Dylan said: TIIIIIIIIIIIIIMES! THEY ARE A-CHAAAAAAAAAAAANGIN'! The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Chicks with degrees, careers, hubbies & babiesBy QB Provocateur QuailBellMagazine.com The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
You voted. We listened.Dear fledglings, We recently ran a poll asking whether you believe our satire should run in The Real or The Unreal. You chose The Real! That's where it shall stay. And, on that note, stay tuned! Feathery hugs, The QB Crew The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Southern Art By QB Social Butterfly QuailBellMagazine.com Memphis, Tennessee is known for many things (most notably, perhaps, its music and notoriety as the home of Elvis), but fine art is not usually one of them. However, the Memphis Brooks Museum of Art showcases a truly American art collection with exhibits like “The Soul of a City: Memphis Collects African American Art” and “Early Quilts from Southern Collections.” Their social calendar is impressively full and features events practically every day. Here are some of the don't-miss ones as summer ends and fall approaches: Saturday, August 11, 11:00am to 1:00pm Creation Station: Museum Masters An opportunity for children to create their own masterpieces, modeled after famous museum paintings. $3 for students and young adults, free for children under age 7. 2:00 to 3:55pm Global Lens Film Series: The Prize (El Premio) Once the kids have had their fun, a film showing for the parents! $8 general admission, $6 for museum members. Thursday, August 16, 7:00 to 8:10pm Tupelore: Tupelove and Native Son A commemoration of the life and death of Elvis Presley, Tennessee native. $8 general admission, $6 for museum members. Thursday, August 30, 7:00 to 8:00pm Artist Talks – Sonya Clark: From Hair to There Sonya Clark will discuss the artistic nature of hair and the objects associated with it. Museum general admission. Friday, August 31, 2:00 to 3:40pm Toll Booth (Gise Memuru) Enjoy this indie film following the life of an aging tollbooth attendant. $8 general admission, $6 for museum members. Sunday, August 9, 2:00 to 4:00pm La Cenerentola A film variation on the classic Cinderalla tale. $15 general admission, $12 for museum members. Thursday, August 20, 7:00 to 8:00pm Artist Talks – Aaron Draplin: Tall Tales from a Large Man Graphic designer Aaron Draplin, who has worked for such companies as Nike and Ford, will discuss the importance of design. $15 general admission, $12 for museum members. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
We're counting on this nest egg.Illustration by Kristen Rebelo. Hens may be our fledgling friends, but Chick-fil-A is not. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Club RougeBy QB Provocateur QuailBellMagazine.com Did you know that the office of The Southern Literary Messenger--the magazine that brought Edgar Allan Poe literary stardom--is now the site of a strip club? Yup. Way to go, Richmond, Virginia. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Weird WashingtonBy Luna Lark QuailBellMagazine.com When you think of Washington, D.C., you inevitably think of politics. But this city is not only coated in the slime naturally secreted by monstrous politicians. D.C. also boasts the thinnest layer of grit. There is a weird Washington. You will not find weird Washington on the National Mall. It is not hiding under the foot of a monument or behind a museum wall. Weird Washington thrives where the tourists never go. Well, except the ones with inside information. Here are the code words for starting your weird adventure: Chinatown (the outskirts), U Street, the Waterfront (past the new condos), Eastern Market, and (late night) Dupont Circle. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Latin American Art Truck in RichmondNot that we want to detract attention from our current IndieGoGo campaign, but you should definitely see what the Virginia Center for Latin American Art's trying to accomplish with their Kickstarter campaign. In short, they want a touring art bus that would benefit disenfranchised Latino communities. Download their press release:
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Culture in a CaseBy QB Camera Eye QuailBellMagazine.com A display case in the Mexico City International Airport. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Yes, we still have an IndieGoGo campaign...And we'd really appreciate it if you donated. It's for a good cause--we promise! The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Folkloric Proverbs: عنزة ولو طارت By: Laura Bramble QuailBellMagazine.com Origin: Arabic Meaning: It is what it is. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Poetry about the Anatomy of the SelfBy QB Book Worm QuailBellMagazine.com Occasional QB contributor Ben Nardolilli has a poetry collection out--and it'll appeal to lit and med students alike. It's called Common Symptoms of an Enduring Chill Explained and has been described as a "literary dissection of body and soul" which uncovers the "literal and metaphorical anatomy of the self." What?! Just read it. Find the book on Amazon and directly on the publisher's website. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Fairy Food: Snow White's Poisoned Apple Cider By QB Chef QuailBellMagazine.com Here at QB, we understand that every once in a while our fellow fairies need a little rest and relaxation. So if you’re looking for a hot toddy to soothe away all of your daytime stress, we are here to help! This cocktail, inspired by none other than Snow White, can prove to be poisonous for some—but no need to fret, unlike Snow White you will wake up from your apple-induced slumber without the help of any princes. But be careful, after a few of these lethal drinks you might find yourself talking to animals or even singing with little men. To make this cocktail you will need: One apple One knife One spoon Apple cider Rum (but feel free to pick your poison—any liquor will do) One cinnamon stick First you will need to prepare your cup… 1. Cut off the top of the apple using a sharp knife 2. Using the spoon, dig out the insides of the apple. Be sure to leave about a half-inch of apple on the bottom and sides so that no liquid leaks out Then add the cider… 3. Fill about two-thirds of the apple with the apple cider Can’t forget the poison… 4. Add a splash of liquor to your apple (or more, depending on how poisoned you want to be) Garnish with a cinnamon stick and voila! You have successfully made your own Poisoned Apple. Now go find your own happily ever after! |
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