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Your LoveBy Nikolaus Euwer QuailBellMagazine.com My friend, I found you after years of wanting. Waiting, I faintly sighed; rejected. Your warmth is sure, for seconds it blurs across my mind, like clouds of the sky. Heavenly friends I’ve found of late, the ones who, for us, through eons wait. Never flimsy, never cracked, always true and matter-of-fact. Your memory of me is astounding, friend. Your patience and your glee: resounding. I never thought I’d live so safe, far from hate, bickering and shame; but here I am, with you again. Cold beneath the Sun, I know I’m warm within your loving glow. #Poem #Poetry #CreativeWriting #YourLove #Friend
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Uprising: Issue 2Last week, we featured an excerpt from Uprising: Issue 1. Here is an exclusive preview of Issue 2, which will be sold at this year's Awesome Con D.C.
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The Ambulance Will ComeBy Bryan Crumpley QuailBellMagazine.com The car came, they sprayed bullets wildly, their targets were picked with blindfolds and coin flips. As the first bullet hit Eden she figured it could’ve happened to anyone. Living in Chicago, shootings happen, accidents happen. She just didn’t think it’d be her. The bullet punched a hole through the sides of her neck, clean. Another bullet hit her shoulder; loose flesh was all that was left. Eden stood up as the car squealed away. She rubbed her hand on her neck, she felt sore, like she’d been sleeping in a weird position. She stretched her extremities and cracked her neck sending a splash of blood into the air. The gushing blood from her neck was getting mixed into her long dark hair, weighing down her already strained neck. Eden figured that she should probably get to a hospital. She figured, with shot wounds like these she might die soon. This didn’t scare her. She was sure someone would call 911. She knew an ambulance would come. She approached a mother sitting on a park bench watching her children playing on the slide. The slides and swings had a few bullet holes but none of the kids seemed to mind. “Excuse me ma’am, can you call me an ambulance?” blood bubbled out of her neck as she talked, spraying the woman when the bubble popped. The mother turned to look at her, noticing the bullet holes through her neck and her blood soaked clothes. “That looks pretty painful.” “It’s not too bad, just sore. Feel like I should probably get an ambulance though, y’know the whole…” Eden gestured to her punctured body. The mother nodded, “Yeah, well, sorry about that,” the mother turned back to watch her kids, ignoring Eden. Eden got the hint and looked for someone else. She spotted a bald man in a long brown trench coat. “Excuse me sir, I kinda have a hole in my neck. Can you call me an ambulance?” The man turned to Eden surprised, “Wow,” he bent down to peer at the hole, “So you do.” He pulled down his glasses and stared through the gap in her neck, staring at the kids on the playground, “That’s fascinating, how’d it happen?” “I was caught in that drive by shooting that just passed by.” “Hmm, that’s unfortunate, well, good luck to you,” he said as he walked off to expose himself to the kids on the swings. Eden began to grow tired as she walked away. She found an empty bench and sat down. She took her shirt and dabbed at the blood gushing from her neck. A young man came and sat down next to her. “Sup,” he asked with a casual nod. “Eh, not much, I have a hole in my neck.” “Hmm, yeah, I noticed that.” “Do you think you could call me an ambulance?” Eden stared at him waiting for an answer. “Huh? Oh, yeah, no.” Eden nodded her head in response. “It’s fine, I’m sure an ambulance will come.” Eden relaxed into the bench, the blood curdled and filled puddles in the nooks of her shoulders. “For sure,” the man nodded. Eden sat turning the words over in her mind, “The ambulance will come. The ambulance will come.” When she closed her eyes she believed it. Bryan Crumpley is a part time beard grower and a full time writer guy. He has received a BA in Fiction Writing from Columbia College Chicago. He dreams to someday be referred to as that cool writer guy. He also dreams of one day being able to perfectly bake a sweet potato. Some dreams are more accessible. #ShortStory #Fiction #CreativeWriting
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The Princess and The KingBy Arturo Alanis and David Raygoza QuailBellMagazine.com #Film #ShortFilm #ThePrincessAndTheKing #Princess
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The Fairy ExitsI saw it for only a moment—a flashing orbit of light, translucent but brilliant. Awe halted my movement. My brain sizzled jubilantly but my stomach retched. For weeks I had been bewildered by the transformative shapes that would pass by my glaze as I blinked, that would stalk me from the corner of my eye. Before I could realize her shape, she was gone. I’m still uncertain as to what it was. At least now I know I’m not crazy. William Leith is a photographer, videographer and writer from Southern New Hampshire. His poetry has been published in Parnassus. He is the co-founder of The Poet Time. #Fairy #Fiction #Photography The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Endangered AnniemalInspired by the playful and melancholic music of Norwegian musician, Annie. #Annie #Illustration #EndangeredAnniemals #KevinVQDam #NorwegianPop #Musician #DigitalIllustration
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The Dream Crypt“There is nothing like a dream to create the future.” —Victor Hugo, Les Misérables #Dreams #Death #Collage
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The Three FairiesBy Sandra Scholes QuailBellMagazine.com In times long gone there were three fairies—one good, one bad and one truly awful—and they all lived in a knot within an old oak tree. For at least a hundred years boredom had befallen two of them and the only way to quell it would be to play pranks on the local people. The oak they lived in was situated near a tall castle so sometimes they dreamed of leaving the cramped tree as the castle would, they thought, be much warmer and more luxurious than their oak.
They often pulled the same prank on the woodcutter's son. The bad fairy would tell him of a gold-filled treasure chest: "Within the forest a treasure chest you will find and inside more gold than you will ever be able to spend. In the forest vast, the toadstool it is under will wilt over it after a day, so be fast." What the woodcutter's son did not know was the bad fairy had fashioned a crude treasure chest from paper, filling it with chips of wood painted gold to resemble coins. Both her and the awful fairy laughed and joked at how he would be searching and searching only to find a sodden mess of paper and wood. Hungry, thirsty, and tired, after three days the woodcutter's son realized he had been the victim of their cruel prank. So he went to the knot in the oak to confront them both. But he saw the good fairy instead. "Fairy, where are your sisters? They have done me an injustice and I will make them pay. And as I know your history, my vengeance I will have and, yes, I will have my way." The good fairy shook her head, bidding him entry into the tree. "For years I have seen these two play horrid pranks on you, poor woodcutter's son." She passed him a small cup of elderberry wine. "But you will get no revenge on my sisters—they are too powerful and more likely to render you into a toad with their might than let you get an upper hand on them." The woodcutter's son nearly left before she continued, "However, I do believe you deserve some happiness." He turned around, and then stopped. "What do you mean?" The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
NatureHer breath tickles my ear, Laughter bubbles over my feet. Her gaze burns hot into me, And suddenly she goes cold. She feels soft on my skin, But then she is rough. Kisses cover my face softly, As my hair whips around violently. She is always a fickle lover, For one day she is hot, and The next day she is cold. I can’t catch her, I can’t keep her. But the girl always keeps me on my toes. #Poem #Poetry #CreativeWriting #Nature #Photography
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Mud Show, Part IIBy Sarah V. Smith QuailBellMagazine.com #MudShow #Word&Image #Diorama #Kitchen #Iowa
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