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eco friendly selloutsBy Sylvia Jones QuailBellMagazine.com guerrilla voice phrases. tiger lingo campaign slogan a brick to brain threshold. a nuanced illustration on how complex trauma can truly be. rosy, bullet shaped, the very first wine & bow tie that Spring double knotted. an ends to every first Friday in a kitchen house show we were sardines dining dollar dependencies diced enough to coin flip birthday wishes into a placebo fix something tangible to come home to some past lover’s embroidered rug maybe a bass guitar chick who can but won’t cook. we’d be completely broken calling ourselves happy. nappy headed clones speech demos cuneiform morse code wardrobe changes no lions no witches just vanilla glow paint. genesis shade we don’t move darkness until our sundials, soft limbed shelter, all this magic looking so damn familiar professions and/or nationalities. basanji erasure poises. Night talker speeds afropunk police kneecap hyphenation. Uncharted, a path making more trouble than my memory can regret A cynical flat tire search, our flawed revenue sharks. Step by step paid leave. 3rd party resemblance, opinion blimps teaching the sky how to learn to do better. coy non verbals maybe this is me counting cards at an ancient papyri auction, replicas only I am alternating footprints for open toed acceptance. silhouettes for selfies, imagine momentums ego, now imagine exceptionality framed dirt, another upheaval dew breaker shrine. no limit face plethora less audible more automatic pre conditional word burglars revenge veterans clear & concise past tense. urbanomics tongue ozone sins, round table consumption. anthem less people we treat our triggers poorly, harpoon anecdotes. we laugh at bad examples and claim our favorite hobbies include: panhandling our anxieties hula hop demands. a riddled coercion, pretend to be my plymouth rock premise my overdraft fee fiend ESL tangled jigsaw togetherness standstill traffic difference between right and wrong status quo periphery still gone. crime rate regime Trespass verdict. law abiding plea deals. oddly enough we demand our own bruises Chance phantom subculture puff piece quantum myths. Make each spectator feel ashamed. We arrive by taxi, camels bummed off randoms beneath a holy luna light pollution. No frontiers in mind. Sylvia Jones is a college student living in Richmond, Virginia. She still remembers first impressions way better than television but consider both real and visceral. She is obsessed with eccentricity and language. How each can exist as intrinsic elements of culture while also convey a wide array of traditions. Furthermore, media literacy being used as a catalyst for word of mouth is an area that as a communications major she is most particularly invested in. #Poem #Poetry #CreativeWriting #EcoFriendlySellouts
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GhortiPhotographer: Stefania Romano Model: Veronica Salinno Makeup: Simona Catenazzo Hair: Stefania Romano and Simona Catenazzo QuailBellMagazine.com #Photography #Ghorti #Turquoise #Rome #Italy #Fashion #Flowers
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LoreleiCathryn is a recent graduate from the Communication Arts department of VCU in Richmond, VA, after attending Savannah College of Art and Design for some time in 2008. She currently spends her time sketching and painting, and enjoys the beauty of natural forms and the catharsis of abstract design in her aesthetic. #Comics #SequentialImaging #CathrynVirginia #Illustration #BlackAndWhite #Lorelei
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From the DepthsBy Jennifer Cornet QuailBellMagazine.com The massive red doors oozed with blood, making Candy cringe. He always did have particular taste. She was careful only to grab the brass doorknob as she pushed it open. The last thing she wanted was to be covered in that awful mess. “I see you’re honing abilities are getting better,” he called before she even fully entered the room. His voice was silky, yet it had a rough purr-like growl to it. “You don’t even need a guide any more it seems. How marvelous.” “I think we both know why that is,” she said with a chill in her voice. The windows that lined the far end of the expansive room seemed to stretch up into the heavens but Candy knew that wasn’t possible, not from these depths. Just beyond the glass, the sky churned with scolding red and pitch-black streaks. It was as though the clouds themselves were on fire. Inside the space, however, looked like an office more likely to be found in a high-rise in Manhattan than Hell. Plush leather furniture was situated in a small seating area to one side. The opposite side featured an oversized desk made of speckled rock of some sort, brimstone most likely. She had half expected to see him at the desk, and for him to do the slow cliché turn in his overstuffed chair to greet her. But trite was never his style. Instead he was standing in front of one of the windows, looking out on his vast kingdom. He looked different than the last time she had seen him, thankfully. Now, he had resorted back to the form he was in when they originally met. He was tall, over six feet, with wide powerful shoulders and a trim waist. The slightly overgrown hair and scruffy stubble that lined his creeks gave an ease to his appearance, which was very misleading. His immaculately tailored white suit, fresh pressed shirt, and creamy white tie contrasted with his rich dark skin. It was the perfect embodiment of who he was: not too much of anything to scare someone away, but enough of everything to draw them in. Rough but polished, adventurous but safe, dangerous yet charming. “What brings my beloved to see me?” His playful eyes twinkled when he saw her. His mouth parted into a devilish grin. Candy rolled her eyes and made her way farther into the space. The doors slammed behind her and then vanished, leaving a plain wall in their place. “It’s good to see you, too, honey bunny.” She smiled tightly, her words dripped with sweetness. “Oops, I smell a favor coming on with that tone.” He knew her well. She stood next to him at the window and looked out at the vast wasteland. It was hard for her not to gasp when she saw it, but she was getting better at controlling her reactions. The first time she was here the sight nearly ruined her. She cried for days upon days. Now, the devastation did little more than startle her. It could be that she had desensitized herself to it, but more likely it was Luke’s bonding to her that hardened her to other’s suffering. “I need to see Howie,” she told him. There was no use is pussyfooting around the topic. Luke knew there was a reason for her visit. She didn’t see him unless she absolutely had to. Even then, she usually found a way for him to come to the surface to avoid making the journey herself. “Too late, lover. Once in Hell, no one can have visitors. You know the rules better than anyone. I’m almost shocked you asked.” “He hasn’t been sold yet.” Luke crossed his arms and eyed her. “And how do you know that.” “You aren’t the only one with ties in the afterlife.” He laughed and the entire room shook. He nodded towards the window. “Love, I own this half of the afterlife.” “Yeah, well, a couple of your cronies owe me a favor or two.” “Tell me who,” he smiled like a girl ready to hear some good gossip. “Come on, it’ll be fun.” “Fat chance. Now, I need to see Howie. I know he hasn’t gone up for auction so that means there is still time for me to contact him.” “Do I not make you happy? Is that what this is about?” He pouted and batted his eyelashes. “Luke, this isn’t about you. Look, I just need to see my dead husband for a few minutes. That’s it. Then I’ll be out of your hair and back on Earth. I promise.” Luke casually paced around the room, contemplating her offer. “You know, I could just keep you here. Get a head start on our ‘Happily Ever Afterlife.’” She shook her head, “You can’t do that.” “I’d be careful what you tell the Devil he can and can’t do, dearie.” He waved his finger back and forth. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Headinabag"I made the film as an extended metaphor for the false personalities we create for ourselves to fit in with our environment. We're out in public, we act one way, with our friends, we act another way, on a date, another way, and so on. The film looks into how that affects one's life and problems that can arise from that." #Film #ShortFilm #Headinabag #Personalities
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Giants of West End ParkBy Jonathan Persinger QuailBellMagazine.com Rob and Kim walked side-by-side through the park, keeping just enough space between their bodies so Kim's cigarette smoke wouldn't offend Rob's lungs or sense of smell. The couple passed wordlessly by childhood attractions in the dark autumn night-time: a line of wobbly animals for toddlers to bobble around on the backs of, paint chipped and worn to give every animal disfigured, dripping eyes; a horizontal tire-swing hanging from great wooden poles upon which teenagers scratched messages of love or hate or both; a sandbox with a depleting supply of sand, where Rob stopped to excavate a lost Iron Giant action figure from the discolored grime. Kim stopped in front of a something unfamiliar: a garishly-bright playground structure comprised of slides, steps, and tiny tunnels. Rob stopped, too, and they stood and stared as if some important sense of meaning could be found. “Shit,” Rob said. He stuck his hands deep into jacket pockets, pulling warmth closer. “What are we doing here?” Kim crouched down low, looking into the pit of black rubber chips from which this modern-day jungle gym sprouted. “We're having fun.” “It's the middle of the night.” His voice grew higher. “We're 22 years old. This is weird.” Kim ignored him. With her empty hand she scooped up a palmful of black flakes, then let them fall through her fingers. What were they made of? She had always associated them with discarded tires. “They used to have wood chips instead,” she said. “And this whole thing used to be different. The old one wasn't so bright.” Rob sighed in his pronounced fashion. “I know. I grew up here, too. Wood chips. Great. Let's go.” “Why are you so freaked out?” Kim asked. She still crouched for no particular reason. “Did this park kill your parents or something?” “Shut up, okay?” Having gotten higher with each word, his voice now plateaued. “Maybe I got beat up here. Maybe some asshole fat kid held me down and made me eat out of the sandbox. Does it matter? I thought we were gonna watch a movie or something.” “Your Netflix expired.” Kim stood, wiped off her jeans though she hadn't gotten dirty, and kept her back to Rob. “Maybe I lost my virginity under the monkey bars that used to be here.” She knew his eyes would cartoon-bug out of their sockets, and they did. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Ocean in a BoxThe Pop Up Ocean in a Box is a continuation of my pop up landscape project, dealing with nostolgic inhabitable spaces. Upon opening, the "surface" of the ocean is articulated to reveal prose strung along lines of watery topography. #PopUpBook #OceanInABox #BookArts #JacyNordemeyer #Paper #Ocean
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Telling ItBy Holly Day QuailBellMagazine.com the real ticket to making it is to just live longer than everyone around me, find some group of starry- eyed youngsters that don’t know any better, easily wowed by nostalgic stories of once being lovers with, or at least getting to hang out with the true shining stars of the scene, perhaps even writing a book about it all someday Holly Day was born in Hereford, Texas, also known as “The Town Without a Toothache.” She and her family currently live in Minneapolis, Minnesota, where she teaches at the Loft Literary Center. Her published books include Music Theory for Dummies, Music Composition for Dummies, and Guitar All-in-One for Dummies. #Poem #Poetry #CreativeWriting #TellingIt #Nostalgia
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Male Spoon, Female Spoon"Male Spoon" and "Female Spoon" are both completely fabricated and Female Spoon’s handle is hollow-formed. Both handles are then patinated to turn the copper a satin black. The bowls of both spoons are formed and planished and white enamel is sifted over the inside of the bowl and kiln fired. After the first firing, the inside of the bowl is painted with wet black enamel in multiple layers of varying opacity, with a kiln firing between each later. The handles and spoons are riveted together after firing is complete. Dance, figurative imagery, and nature serve as the foundation of my work. I use the figure to represent the movement of the body, position of the head, or expression of the face. I’ve found that the organic, fluid movements of metal serve as an abstract metaphor for the movement of dancers. I am also inspired by select natural environments and landscapes, which have had lasting impact on me. My time spent in Italy has influenced my recent work greatly, most specifically the shapes and colors from olive trees. I have chosen to work in traditional metals and techniques such as enamel on silver and copper. I’m also interested in continuing to learn traditional enameling techniques that are no longer used often in contemporary jewelry. #MaleSpoonFemaleSpoon #SpoonArt #Metalworking #Spoons #Art
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To LiliaBy Elizabeth Ballou QuailBellMagazine.com I. who sits four desks away from me in Italian and has a swan’s neck with collarbones like knives. I am falling in love with her, secretly, the way you might fall in love with Botticelli’s Primavera across centuries. She has sleek skin, bronzed, full of shadows. The most beautiful skin I’ve ever seen. She is the only one in the class who speaks Italian better than me. I close my eyes to listen to her conjugate verbs in the present conditional, porterei, porteresti, porterebbe, porteremmo, portereste, porterebbero. She talks with a real accent and rolls the words around in her mouth like things to be savored. I would like to carry forever the images of her Roman cheekbones, the arches of her feet peeking from blue flats, the stems of her glasses as they disappear into clouds of hair. I would like to kiss her, chastely, so I could write a poem about it later. II. I sit next to her today and make her laugh three times in fifty minutes. The smoky sound of it is like hearing old church bells in a country I have never seen. Sometimes I wonder if she has ever wanted to touch another girl between the tidal swoops of the collarbones, right at the base of the neck, the way I would like to touch her (the way I would like her to touch me). Listening to those rasps of laughter make me think she might understand someone like me, someone whose first instinct is to lie rather than to tell the truth. III. The teacher pairs us together to practice for the oral exam. She tells us to talk about i nostri progenitori, our ancestors, and le nostre hereditá, our heritage. Lilia says in her word-perfect Italian that she is from the soft, wet plains of the Veneto, where she still visits her grandmother sometimes; that she is half Italian (she touches her dark hair) and half Swedish (her hands tease at the skin around her blue eyes); that she grew up in England and in America. She wants to know if I, too, am Italian. I say, yes, yes of course, I am from Lombardy. On my mother’s side. A great-grandmother came through Ellis Island, I tell her. (This is an invention. Most of my family has rooted itself in the Delaware riverland for ten generations, and before that they sweated and drank in tiny French towns whose names became their surnames and eventually mine, too.) I imagine us living five hundred years ago, in Venice, where her ancestors came from: that dreamed-up, melting city. We are ladies who spend our days in houses across the canal from one another, sitting by the windows and watching each other’s reflections in the dirty water, until we realize that we have fallen in and drowned in each other like Narcissus in the pool. IV. It rains, the first sudden spring thunderstorm, during the final exam. The flickering of fluorescent lights and the rivers of water down windowpanes make the lecture room into a Mediterranean grotto: slick, indistinct, full of long-haired naiads conjugating verbs in the subjunctive. I keep one eye on the soggy pages of my exam (Mi piace che tu vada in Francia, I write, spero che ti diverta) and another on Lilia. She has worn a long dress and brought no umbrella. Rain dampens the hem of that dress, coats her bare shoulders, runs together in the beds of her nails. Buona fortuna, I told her before we began, and she flicked a droplet of water at me. She finishes in half an hour exactly: the first to lay down her pen. I will be the second, so I have time. I watch her leave. She slides the papers into the teacher’s hands as if they were a gift. When she opens the door, her dress drags against the floor, following her like a school of fish. This is the last image I have of her. Elizabeth Ballou studies English and Spanish at the University of Virginia but hails from Richmond. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming inPrick of the Spindle, Crack the Spine, {tap}, Spry, the Adroit Journal and Best of Adroit, and the Virginia Literary Review, among others. She hopes to one day learn to parallel-park without panicking. #CreativeWriting #ToLilia #LoveLetter #Classroom #School #Italian #Family
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