The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Mirror, Mirror Stuck to the Wall By Lynn Kennison QuailBellMagazine.com Cinderella thought she had found her happily ever after, but what she had found was a perfume soaked red cape in the back Prince Charming’s carriage. And it wasn’t hers! The fragrance reeked of a generic brand. Jerking it away from her nose, she immediately suspected the dark haired do-gooder that lived just up the forest. Besides traipsing around barefoot and wearing homemade jewelry, she shacked up with seven stunted creepers and was constantly flirting with every man, bush, or woodland creature she came in contact with. Cinderella’s carriage drifted on two wheels as she stormed away from the castle. Cinderella knocked gracefully on her rival’s door. “Open up Snow Slut! I know you’re in there!” The door, squeaking against the warped boards below, creaked opened. “Cinderella, what a nice surprise,” Snow White answered in a delighted manner. “Really, is it? You weren’t expecting someone else perhaps?” “Besides my stepmother, I don’t receive many visitors.” “Well that’s bound to happen when you live in a shithole way out in the middle of nowhere. You don’t even get cell phone service out here for fairy’s sake!” she ranted. “And all those times I tried to call. Bastard!” She seethed through her gritted teeth. “Who are you talking about? What are you talking about?” Snow White asked innocently. “This!” she snapped and thrust the red cape front and center. Snow White peeped around the intrusive cape. “That isn’t mine,” she told her. “Isn’t it?” Snow shook her head, “My cape is hanging right here,” she told her and pulled it down from where it hung on a rusty nail just inside the door. “Seriously,” Cinderella sighed. “My bad…I guess I owe you an apology then.” “No worries,” Snow smiled. “Is there anything I can do?” “Not unless you know who left this in the back of my prince’s carriage.” “You’re welcome to ask my mirror if you like,” Snow offered and hung her cape back onto the nail. “Does it really work?” Cinderella asked, sounding skeptical. “Certainly,” she replied. Cinderella followed Snow White inside and into her bedroom to where a grand mirror hung on the wall. It was nothing fancy and, except for the size, appeared just as any other mirror she had laid eyes upon. “This is stupid. It’s just an ordinary mirror.” “Let me show you how it works,” Snow offered as she stood before the mirror and began to speak, “Mirror, mirror on the wall, Cinderella has come to call. She seeks the name of an unpleasant lady; One that has been stealing her prince as of lately.” Cinderella watched in awe as the mirror came to life and addressed her personally. “Well, hello there, Cinderella, you’re looking mighty fine. Give us a whirl, and take your time.” She blushed and giggled and decidedly gave it a whirl in front of the mirror. “Damn girl, I like what I see. A nice healthy ass is all I need,” the mirror announced. Snow White shook her head in disapproval, “Mirror, mirror on the wall, focus on her question, and that is all.” The mirror looked back to Cinderella, “Sorry, my lady. I meant no harm. I was distracted… by more than your charm,” he grinned. Cinderella found herself blushing again, but Snow White seemed none too pleased. “Cinderella, perhaps you should ask your question now.” “She doesn’t like it when I tease. So ask me what it is you would like me to tell. But come closer please. From afar, I’m afraid I won’t be able to hear you so well.” Cinderella walked closer to the mirror. “Mirror!” Snow White exclaimed. “What?” “You’re trying to peek down her dress!” “That’s absurd, woman!” “Precisely my thought,” Snow agreed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I had something in my eye maybe,” he said. “Yeah…boobs!” “Well, what do you expect?” the mirror asked. “You’ve been getting dressed in the closet for the past two months.” “There’s a draft in here!” “Wouldn’t hurt for you to leave the door open once in a while, would it?” “You’re right,” Snow White sighed, “I’m sorry.” “Um…is this a bad time?” Cinderella asked. “No, go ahead. Ask the mirror your question,” Snow replied. “I need to know who this belongs to please,” she said as she held the cape up for the mirror to see. The mirror appeared confused as he stared back in silence. “What’s wrong with him,” Cinderella asked. “He doesn’t understand your question dear,” Snow answered, “It needs to rhyme.” “Seriously,” Cinderella asked. “I just heard a whole bunch of strange shit that didn’t rhyme.” “The key to the magic is rhyme,” Snow shrugged. Cinderella rolled her eyes and thought for a short moment. She tried again. “Mirror, mirror stuck to the wall. I need to know who’s at fault. I found this red cape in my prince’s carriage. It isn’t mine…um…tell me the bitch’s name that has ruined my marriage.” Taking a look at the cape, the mirror spoke at once, “It isn’t a lady with whom you feud. That cape there belongs to a dude,” he told her. Taking in the mirror’s words, Cinderella’s eyes began to blink like rabid butterflies. Snow White’s mouth fell open, but fearing her mirror would soon find himself in tiny pieces, she offered Cinderella a refreshment. “I have some cider in the fridge.” Cinderella seemed to snap out of it. “Some of the good stuff?” she asked. “From my stepmother’s brew,” Snow answered. “Nah, I’ll pass,” she answered and headed for the exit. She stopped as something changed her mind, “Do you have a to-go goblet?” Cinderella asked. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Beginning of Muse By Steve Ullom QuailBellMagazine.com _
Echos of an empty Winter passing into gray day, neighbor sounds bouncing off hard surfaces - bare trees, frozen ground, shut windows - nothing but relays of gossip, whispers and slamming doors. The old death is leached out of us morning by morning, Aurora shedding her clothes one article further, bringing on the birth. These are not mere words held locked by the frozen tongue of rivers, ideas held before us like breath frozen in the morning air or tendrils of thought reaching from another mind to our own. Here, now, the spirit materializes in front of me, a muse mad with design ready to howl at the silence in our hearts, the lost dreams of a sleep just past. The naked form dances with glitters of frost and musically sings, glad in her driven love and obsession. I am but a vassal, holding her pen, become her tongue. Brimming with troubles and joys. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Café AllongéBy Kawa Studio QuailBellMagazine.com The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
TurtleBy Starling Root QuailBellMagazine.com Trace the engravings of my shell Each ring a year of wisdom more Wrinkled eye Wrinkled fin Wrinkled heart and soul Lord! How glorious is the ocean floor! Kelp sways in and out In and out of spinning salt Carried by the current A current green A current blue Green for fidelity Blue for despondency Blue and green Blue and green A current of blue and green Trace the engravings of my shell Each ring a year of wisdom more Wrinkled eye Wrinkled fin Wrinkled heart and soul Lord! How glorious is the ocean floor! The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Maculate By Melissa Bobe QuailBellMagazine.com _
The girl was asleep in the meadow, hidden by stalks of goldenrod under the slate sky. The tree made an atonal creaking song in the breeze, which was so gentle that it seemed the movement of the meadow was a result of its own respiration, breath rather than small shoves and pushes of the wind. There were no birds, no rabbits, nothing but girl and flowers, tree and sky. In her sleep she seemed peaceful, until, at a moment when one rogue strand of sunshine poured out from the teeniest crack in the metallic clouds and stole down towards the sleeping figure like it was Rapunzel’s braid reaching out for company, she seemed to shift in her sleep. The movement was subtle; her eyes under their lids slowly moved once, from the left side of her face which was resting on the ground, to the right, where that bit of sun had thought it a fun game to sneak up and lick her peaceful cheek. The cloud immediately noticed its infirmity, and in embarrassment quickly sealed the window through which the sunbeam had escaped; but it was too late, and the small sleeper’s fragile dream had shifted, as her eyes had done. Miriam felt the shoes gripping her toes like a vise. She looked down, and realized that her feet were bound and disfigured, and the shoes were small steel boxes where her toes, bent and shaped like the hooves of horses, had been artfully trapped. She tried to take a step, and almost fell over from the shock of pain she felt. When her vision cleared, she saw a deep red slowly spreading up the bandages, from the steel boxes, past her impossibly arched insteps, all the way to her heels. She blinked, and saw that the bandages were somewhat porous, and the blood was rising from the cotton wrappings in little round droplets, so that her feet looked like they were covered in scaly skin, and she felt reptilian in more than one way. She brought her gaze up from her feet, and found herself facing a red tree squirrel about the size of a horse. It was the perfect sample of its species, save for its gigantism. Had Miriam seen it from afar, she would have thought it lifted straight from the pages of the children’s encyclopedia that was in her room at home. She reached out a hand as though she were approaching a strange dog, palm facing skyward, her movement hesitant. The squirrel bit her, decidedly and without malice, but deeply. She felt her own blood squirt hotly out of her hand, felt it dripping down to the ground. She looked down to see it, and found ladybugs swarming on her bandaged feet, filling any spaces that her toes had left in the metal box-shoes, pouring outwards into an ever-expanding puddle around her. When she looked up for a second time, the tree squirrel had turned into a young man; he wasn’t handsome, and his features were as dull as the pale skin that covered them. Her blood dripped from his chin, and the wound had smeared red in a sickle across his formerly colorless mouth. She smiled at him, carefully, as one does when uncertain and trying to make friends. He smiled back; in place of teeth white porcelain pearls lined his jaws, just like the ones she played dress-up with. Her blood dripped into his mouth, but somehow seemed to miss the pearls. She reached out her bloodied hand, and gently moved it across his face, painting it into a live thing. He had tears in the bottoms of his eyes. A ladybug crawled from her outstretched bloody finger onto his cheek, and drank a falling tear away. The ladybugs had swarmed up her body, and were walking down her arm in a very orderly and courteous line to his face; she couldn’t move now if she’d wanted to, but she didn’t want to. She couldn’t even feel the steel box shoes anymore. He laughed, sweetly, innocently, so that she opened her mouth to join him. Her laugh was lost in the sea of goldenrod. The gray plain above her showed no sign that it was going to allow another beam of light to befriend her and cause her more mischief. She looked down around her, and wondered where the small puddle of blood in which she lay had come from, for the skin of her feet and hand was not broken. She coughed; something was caught in her throat. Gagging and retching just briefly, she managed to dislodge it and spat it into her hand. It was a single porcelain pearl, and before her waking eyes it became black and red, and the ladybug flew out into the meadow, searching for another thinking being aside from itself and the girl. It searched in vain. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Past Doesn't Always Stay There By Karlene Dillon QuailBellMagazine.com _
I thought I got rid of her the night we broke up, but apparently I wasn’t that lucky; here I am, 15 years later, staring at her in my son’s bed. Boy, do I know how to pick the crazy ones. I never told my wife about her. Thought it would be best to keep the past in the past. She was gorgeous, tall blonde legs that went on for miles, and a smile that could knock you to your feet in a second. My dad always told me “Watch out for those extra beautiful girls, son. They always have a hidden agenda.” I didn’t think he was right at first, but then the phone calls, the accusations, and the creepiness started. She stole my shampoo and made a shrine of things she found in my trash. Who does that? I mean, come on, a bear needs his shampoo. I remember the day I walked into her “special room” that was locked at the end of the hallway. I had never been so scared in my life. The shrine was sitting in the middle, and a picture of us hung on the wall with the word “forever” scribbled across it in what looked like red lipstick. I ran out of there as fast as I could, packed up my stuff, and moved to a new state. I never thought I would see her again. Unfortunately, I was very wrong. It was a perfect day. The sun was shining, and my son was building a new contraption. He liked to build things out of the wood we would find in the forest. It looked like he was making a little crib for his baby sister who was going to come in a few months. My wife was in the kitchen making my favorite: porridge. The smell filled the house. Junior was almost done with his new project when he discovered there wasn’t any more wood left, so I told him we would head out and find us some, since the porridge needed time to cool anyway. My wife decided to come along - the doctors told us fresh air was very good for the baby. As we walked out of the house, I could have swore I saw someone run behind the tree next to the house, but figuring it was just my imagination getting the better of me, I went on walking. Junior said he needed a small piece of wood, so we all went searching. After about 20 minutes, he was finally satisfied with his selection and we headed back towards the house. I helped my wife the last ten yards or so ‘cause she was feeling tired. That’s when I saw it: the front door had been forced open with what I can only assume was a crowbar. I sat her down and told Junior to stay out here with her so I could see what happened. I crept slowly into the house. Everything seemed in place. I went into the dining room and didn’t notice anything, until I inspected the porridge. Someone had tried mine, and my wife’s, and eaten all of my poor son’s porridge. This is where I began to get pissed. Like really, it’s one thing to break into my house, but to eat my favorite meal! Someone was going to pay. I saw one of Junior’s baseball bats on the floor, picked it up ready to beat someone senseless. Okay, I guess that is a little over dramatic for a pot of porridge, but hey, I was hungry and a bear. If you have watched animal planet, you know that isn’t going to end well. As I make my way throughout the house, I notice that whoever was in my house broke Junior’s chair. They really didn’t like him, first the porridge then the chair - can’t cut the boy some slack. I was just about ready to give up my search for the bandit when I thought I heard a noise coming from the bedrooms upstairs. Bat in hand, I moved slowly up the stairs, doing a sort of James Bond thing, trying to stay as close to the wall as I could. The giant belly and brown fur kind of made it hard, but I worked with it. First, I looked in my room; other than the sheets being messed up a little, it didn’t look like anything major happened here. That’s when I heard the noise again. It sounded like a giggle. A vaguely familiar giggle. It was coming from Junior’s room. I kicked open the door, mostly for dramatic effect, and realized the room was pitch black. Someone had boarded up the windows and broken the lamp in the corner of the room. That’s when I went from super cool spy to scared little girl in a horror movie. She lunged toward me but somehow I was able to dodge the attack. Standing by the window now, I started to claw at the boards hoping for an escape. As soon as I got the last board loose, I felt hands pulling the fur on my back. Wailing out in pain, I reached behind me and threw her as hard as I could out the window. Oh god, what have I done? I didn’t want to hurt her, just wanted her out of my house. Well, I mean, I guess she technically is out of my house, but I fear the worst. I might have killed her. I slowly inched toward the window and looked down. There was nothing. The grass was bent down where she must have landed, but other than that, everything seemed normal. I looked up towards the woods and saw the faintest glow of golden hair and what seemed like a menacing grin. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Child SweetBy Paisley Hibou QuailBellMagazine.com The meadow was once lush with whispers of wheat But the rain has retired to dungeons deep O how I had cradled dear life, a child sweet All the valley has been sequestered by sleep Now the sun hath mercilessly abandoned me And I can savor his warmth only through dreams The meek moon murmurs that we can never be For snaking ivy has slain his dancing beams My mirthless soul withers without his touch How cold is this plague of mourning mist! Yet I never realized I’d pine for him this much ‘tis not ‘til this moment that I crave a sliver of summer’s gist As the spell of ebony sweeps ‘cross the sky I regret that I didn’t utter a mere “Good Bye...” |