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Dragon Love's "Alleyway"By Christine Stoddard & Josh Lindgren QuailBellMagazine.com The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Billy Goat's GruffBy David Dutton QuailBellMagazine.com The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
When Fruit RotsBy Jesus Perez QuailBellMagazine.com As old Teresa King awoke one morning from an uneasy night, she found herself transformed into a small guava. She tried pushing her covers so she could see her surroundings. The fruit rolled out of the covers and looked around. The blinds covered the window so a little sun entered her room. It was the average old person room. There were old photographs of the 1950’s on the dresser and the “tele” covered in dust. There was a chair with a hamper of dirty clothes and a coat hanger with one coat on it. A small child ran into the room and opened the blinds. The light shone in bright and the guava shone like the jewelry on the dresser. The child was dressed in khaki shorts with a white polo shirt tucked in. “GRANDMA! HEY GRANDMA! WAKE UP OLD LADY!” the boy yelled, thinking she was still under the covers. The guava turned and observed the chubby kid yelling at the top of his lungs for her. She tried rolling off the bed to roll out the room. But a faint yell was heard from downstairs. “Timmy the bus is here. Get your lunch.” As the guava began to roll towards the door, the kid ran out, closing the door behind him. So close. The guava thought. I never enjoyed having him around the house. Things were perfectly fine ten years ago, but my stupid daughter had to get pregnant. Now how am I going to do the laundry now? The guava shook as if it wanted to shake his head. The mom downstairs was wiping jelly on a piece of toast. “Hey honey, your lunch is on the table.” “Thanks mom,” he sprinted out to catch the bus. But he stopped midway and said, “Something is wrong with Grandma. She didn’t wake up when I yelled at her to wake up.” “I’ll check on her. Go to school. Bye.” Timmy left. The mom went back to her toast and grabbed another piece to wipe peanut butter onto. Back upstairs, the guava continued to find a way out of her room. Hours passed and there was still no way out. She leaned against the door and fell asleep from all the thinking she had done. Heavy steps echoed from someone coming up. Timmy swung the door opened and flung the guava to the wall. It crashed hard and a pink juice began to roll down. The guava fell onto the hamper and Timmy looked around. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Digital Download of QB Express Now AvailableDear friends, family and fans of the late QB Managing Editor, Josephine Stone, The QB Crew is pleased to announce that the digital download of QB Express: Josephine Stone Edition is now available. This special edition contains two pieces of Josie's writing not originally included in issue one of the 'zine, as well as additional Josie-related design content. Order the 'zine now and your .PDF will be emailed to you via Dropbox.com. Thank you for honoring Josephine Stone and supporting Quail Bell Magazine. Sincerely, The QB Crew The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Poor DickBy David Kuhio Ahia II QuailBellMagazine.com When Congress ordered the opening of the circa 1798 federal time capsule, the House of Representatives spent the rest of the afternoon digging through Philadelphia, looking for the antiquated wooden case that their founding forefathers had buried for them. This hunt and subsequent ceremony, which involved smashing the soil corrugated lock and wiping away the oak munching mold that permeated the box, aired on NPR and I listened to the various bids that museum curators placed upon Abigail Adams’ petticoat and a mint copy of the Federalist #10. One of the items pulled from 1798 intrigued me. Sandwiched between Washington’s farewell adress and the Articles of Confederation, Poor Richard himself had been retrieved from this vessel of history. But no one showed any interest in the wizened founding father, instead focusing upon the Articles, whose paper still crinkled and crunched in a healthy manner. With no bid on the originator of the American Philosophical Society and twenty-seven million placed upon the dead Confederacy, the radio program began to cover a recent short essay published in the New Yorker, promising to return to this exciting story sometime after 9:00. I turned off my car’s radio and decided to disregard my stock speculator duties, if only for an evening, and instead take the long drive south to Pennsylvania. I had half expected that he would have left the premises, wandering off to explore his bastard nation, finding some 21st century intrigue to capture his ever-rational spirit but there I found him. He stood beside the cavernous hole that the time capsule had been dragged up from. Still unclaimed, his gout festered body lay on the dry grass. The curators warred over a jewel speculated to have once belonged to Supreme Court Justice Marshall’s wife’s cousin and I approached Poor Richard. Had I lived in my ideal universe, not even all the fortunes I had accrued over the course of thirty years of investment would have allowed me to purchase a single day with this epitome of American genius. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
She Kidnaps ChildrenBy Charley Hoang QuailBellMagazine.com Fun, but it’s complicated. Skinning, carving, sawing —that’s the easy part. But the skulls. It takes a while to get them seasoned. You leave them out, you let them simmer. Some skulls light up in flames. But that’s good. The flames and the smoky intoxications are healthy for the bone of the skull. Keeps them strong, gets them talking. “Ja,” she says. “Ja,” it says. “Ja.” It doesn’t respond. Some are just stronger than others —younger skulls are harder, solid. Purity, fresh, innocence —the older, Adulterated, contaminated, poison —see, they don’t taste good. Unspoiled skulls are delicious after they’ve been cleaned, tastes like mint. It’s her job take their virginity. smoke. intoxication. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Birdboy By Khris Cembe QuailBellMagazine.com The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Caged By Allison Martin QuailBellMagazine.com _
My mom bought me a bird. And no, I had no intention of letting it live. I was planning on drowning it, or maybe giving it to the cat to eat, but something stopped me. It was in her eyes. Yes, that must be it. If those eyes were gone, plucked out by something, I wouldn’t have hesitated. But the slight pause in my actions gave me time to think over what I was doing. I looked at the bird. She looked at me. She was small and yellow-green, like a lemon that wasn’t quite ripe. Her eyes were black. They sparkled. I stopped trying to force her into the bucket long enough to really take in her eyes. I put her, gently, onto the floor, and then I sat and hugged my knees while I watched her sit and stare at me. I blinked. She blinked back. It was odd how small I felt compared to her. I somehow felt that she was so much greater than me, so much…what’s the word…purer? I held out my hand. She hopped into the palm that had been, a moment ago, trying to submerge her. She blinked and nuzzled my fingers, eyes half closed, forgiving them, accepting their apology. She looked at me brightly and chirped. It was a high sound, like the staccato notes of a flute. I looked in disdain at my own violin, and wondered why it would never sound so kind, so pure, or so innocent. |