The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Tower By Ivan Atanasov QuailBellMagazine.com A dark Tower looms over the forest. People fear it and don’t dare come near it. It is as if the Tower gives out uncanny warning signals chilling their blood. But that’s just the ones who are blind to its soul. They would tell you crazy stories about ghosts and demons, and all hell set loose inside that Tower. I wouldn’t believe them if I were you. You should listen to me, because I know best. I live in the Tower. It’s been my home for a long time. If you were to measure it with human generations, it would still be a big number. I am the rocks that form the Tower and I am the weather-worn wood that the stairs are built of. I am the stained glass that was the canvas of artists long since deceased, as I was once the sand on the shore of the river that flows nearby. I am the dust motes that float in air and are stirred by the slightest draft, as I am the foundation rock that became solid from molten magma ten thousand years ago and nothing, neither nature, nor man, has been able to reshape it, soften it or shatter it. I am the wizard who brews potions. Inside every vial there is more of me – in different shapes, forms and substances, I am sulfur and fire, I am lead and I am gold. I am the books in the wizard’s library. I’m the ink – I am on every page and I am every page, for I am the paper too. I am the words that were once thoughts and I am the thoughts that made it out into the material world. I am that world and I have created it. I have made myself into being. I am alive. I am the mouse that scuttles under the bed. I am hungry and I can smell the piece of moldy cheese, which is also me. I find myself, I eat myself and I become one with myself. I hear the sound of my little legs and I walk over on two other legs, which are also my own. I find myself and kill myself. I die but I feel no pain – only one part of me is in pain, a thousand others are not. As I die, I become less than what I was. I am the bones under the mossy gravestone, but I am also the maggots and beetles that feed on rotting flesh. While I lay in the embrace of the earth, I am also high above, at the top of the Tower. Under the cold stone sculpture of a gargoyle, there’s a nest of robins. I am that nest, I am the wooden sticks and hay straws, and the spit that holds them together is also me. I am the two birds and I have made love to myself. An egg hatches. I am more now. I grow. I learn to fly. I am the wind between my feathers and I am every feather. I am light. I lift myself into the skies, but I don’t stray from the Tower, for that’s where I am and I don’t want to stray from myself. I stay. I am here and if you ever want to meet me and talk, I could tell you about flying and growing, about spells and the ancient tongue of trees and stars, about living for millennia and also about death, in case you want to hear about that too. Come and we can converse. Just don’t listen to the people. They are going to tell you dark stories full of superstitions. They are going to say I am a demon and the Tower’s my haunt. But that’s not the case. You can tell now. You almost know me. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
When the Sandman Stole JaydenBy Christine Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com You never told me the Sandman had claws, Mommy. You never told me the Sandman had jaws, Mommy. You never mentioned his hollow eyes and blades for hands. But I remember his blood-stained face, the veins that throbbed like slow-motion lightning. He slithered and hissed with serpentine grace, and the might of the cheetah pulsing through his calves. You never warned me, Mommy. Jayden and I were mounting our tricycles because we didn't have motorcycles or noble steeds. A gray-green fog rolled through St. James Street that day. And I could barely see Jayden's chubby face just a foot away. I was a cowboy—No! An Indian or a copper. Jayden was a firefighter, maybe a soldier. Our fort or castle was that half-eaten row house where all ten of us lived: you, me, and Jayden, your boyfriend at the the time, the baby of the moment, the other siblings—half and step—that I never really knew, and more aunties and uncles than I could ever grow to love. Where were you—or they—when the Sandman rode through the fog on the spiked back of his demon ox? Where were you—or they—when the Sandman ripped Jayden from his tricycle and took him away? Where were you—or they—when I screamed and cried and shouted 'til I wept for little Jayden, the sequestered? You might've had your arm strapped, needles scattered across the living room floor, joint in one hand and beer in the other, as “Good Times” blared on TV. And the rest of them—all those adults, all those protectors who couldn't protect- sat right there with you, waiting for their hair to set and the meth to cool. Where you were—or they—I cannot say, that foggy day, when the Sandman tore my Jayden away. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Heaven's Guard By Storm DeVille QuailBellMagazine.com Oil glistened on his skin, showing trails where their love had rubbed him smooth; he was bronzed, buff and satin, the affect on the senses intoxicating to the one who lay amidst rumpled sheets. Wait a minute, baby... Long sweep of inked hair fell forward, obscuring his chiseled face from her gaze. His movements were sleek, leashed power beneath corded muscle, reminding her of both the passion and tenderness he had shown her during their long hours together. Stay with me awhile. The words, were not her own, and yet they were, sticking in throat and mind like overly warm honey, dripping down in to silence. He had warned her of the dangers of their coming together, had told her of the light, had hinted at more, but now as the fire of longing gnawed in her belly, reaching long, tenuous fingers ever lower, her head pounded with the realization that he had never intended for this to happen. Unable to give voice to the words that all but choked her, she reached out, slender fingers lightly brushing his arm. "Valen?" His dark eyes lifted to meet her stare, reflecting a myriad of things he would never discuss with her. He was not unmoved by the hours they had spent in each others' arms, for that matter his traitorous body was still showing signs of his arousal. Then, a shimmer of something passed over his eyes, a softening that warned of emotions he could ill afford. "Asha, close your eyes," he let out thickly. "Lie down and go to sleep. Try to forget all about this night. It never happened." Her breath caught sharply in her throat, the sting of the words hitting her like a slap in the face. His own breath expelled harshly. For a intense moment, he steeled himself against the pleas her eyes made, the soft inviting curves of her bare breasts as the low lighting played over them, making them far more tempting that they had a right to be. Asha held very still, seeing that he was torn. At last, she reluctantly lifted her hand from his arm, feeling a sudden chill at the lack of contact. She could hear her own heartbeats pounding in her head, she could almost hear his in the suffocating quiet. Valen groaned, dropping his clothes and turning. His hands drifted over her curves again, relearning the planes and rises of her body, seeking the secrets that she had bared to him throughout the night. "I need you," he whispered, choked on his own weakness and desire, never having expected such a reaction to her, not to anyone. It was so easy to welcome him, sinking back against the tumbled bedding, arms open and warm, her mouth eagerly meeting his in a ravenous kiss of dueling tongues and sweet, low groans. Her hips rose to tease him of their own volition, her instincts kicking in as thoughts fled, and passion rose. Oils rubbed between them, spreading and warming, making his entrance even more sleek than it had been before. Her gasp filled his mouth as he thrust deeply, remembering that hot, tight feel of wet silk clinging and clutching, his hips falling into a rhythm old as time as he reclaimed what a feral streak in him demanded was his to take. Long legs slid against him, hugging and teasing before wrapping around his back, eager to drag him deeper into her hungering body. Rise, fall, push, pull their bodies moved against the other in timeless battle for fulfillment. Asha savored the heat of him filling her, touching the depths of her with no hesitation, and yet there was still that odd tenderness that nearly broke her heart with its beauty. Valen tightened his hold on her, possessing and protecting as he pushed as deeply as he could, then withdrew to plunge again and again. He could smell her, taste her, could feel the tremors of her orgasm rising swiftly as his own teased him, determined to make him wait for release. Eyes flashing up at him, Asha nudged him onto his back, changing their positions as she rode him, tearing her mouth free and tossing her head back as she screamed her pleasure. Valen came on the heels of that, his mind blanking as a wash of sensation drowned out his every thought. Reeling from such intensity, he sank in to momentary unconsciousness. Tired, heavy lids slowly rose, his hazy eyes seeking the lovely vision that had fallen across him, her breathing ragged, her tumble of dark golden hair streaked with his sweat and hers, their mingled scents filling his nostrils as he breathed deeply, knowing what this moment of letting his guard down could cost him. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Encounters with the Empress By Brian Michael Barbeito QuailBellMagazine.com The help will go without miles counting.
- Mother Meera, in ‘Answers’ It happened in that time of significant trouble. The outward dilemmas had finally ceased. These included but were by no means limited to the two women that had appeared, and through a particular sort of magnetism, caused certain misfortunes to Jacob and themselves. They had been like sirens or like some kind of bright purple or orange fighter fish adorned with painted bodies. It took a long time to put them in abeyance, along with other more amicable contacts that had turned conspiratorial. And what was more; there was no twelve step program for matters of the soul, or even for more nuanced problems of the secular type. But it had been done, and to give up the past proved akin to letting go of a chemical dependence or at the least something sorely required. The problem was that there was an inner life also. Its ache and voice would not be dulled or stilled. Universal processes and all of that. Jacob just went along, having faith in things unseen, which as they say, is a definition of faith in itself. Soon days and weeks turned to months and even years. He was in some kind of transition period, difficult to be sure, but necessary. It resembled the abyss, of which he was familiar, but was not an abyss as such. Turquoise can be mistaken for shattuckite, as both have various blue hues and are beautiful, but both hold different characteristics and properties, come from different mines, and most importantly of all, assist in different purposes. The uninitiated might scoff, and say a stone is just a stone, and both are stones, not flowers of Southern France, Chinese lanterns, industrial machinery, crochet needles, or metropolises, and those times of dark are just that,- times of dark and nothing more or less. But though both prove difficult to maneuver within, and appear similar, the abyss and the time of transition are not the same animal. In the middle of it all an archetypal and esoteric figure made an appearance. She came to see Jacob and Kara in a part of the night that was deepest and most silent. A part of the night before and yet beyond- in depth- the proverbial witching hours. A labyrinthine part that inhabited a secret envelope contained in an under layer of an under layer. There are things there, and they are difficult to remember. Jacob had lived there at times, and Kara was a visitor to such places, and often came back from those places to speak about future events in the lives of those she knew. The figure appeared with a door behind her, and holding an object in her left hand, though the exact identification of the object was not known about right away. Kara, normally a woman of strong spiritual stature, was starting to go into shock, and soon was paralysed with fear. The figure was tall and looking out from black eyes that stood under white hair. She wore a long green dress that had small symbols emblazoned on it. Jacob walked over to her and hugged her. At his point, as stunned to her core as Kara was, she went into an even deeper shock. Trembling. Awe. Angst. Trembling. Laboured breath. Mind off. Something else on. Trembling. Trembling. Trembling. The woman was staring at and straight through Kara. The figure looked and looked some more and then with unwavering intent, in a raised voice, spoke one word. It was the only word that was spoken at all during the visit. “Kneel!” And so Kara knelt. With a sure-fire immediacy the figure raised what she was holding in the hand. She then struck Kara with the cylindrical object. Shock. Crashing. Body. Second body into first. Shock. In a moment, they were out of that instance. Kara explained to Jacob that the woman was simply too powerful. Sitting up in the bed and staring into space she said, “I was overwhelmed...” “She came to tell you to take it easy on me,” replied Jacob. “Why does it always have to be about you?” “It doesn’t,” said Jacob, “Maybe she just came to kick your ass.” In the light, by the new hours of days, Jacob contemplated the Empress. He thought about other things, such as Mother Meera, a divine incarnation of the feminine that worked mostly in silence. He had written to Mother Meera once upon a time. Her words, if there were any sent back from Germany, did not reach his hands those years and years ago. But she had spoken to answer questions at some point and Jacob remembered reading the words of the divine mother. She had said that ‘The help will go without miles counting’. Maybe, Jacob thought, for now, somehow, with the aid of the divine feminine figures, he had managed to end up on the right sight of the difficult transitory hours. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A New Family for Charles By Jennifer Hor QuailBellMagazine.com Charles wondered what his new parents and grandmother were going to be like. He had spent many years in the orphanage since his parents died and he often wished he had a family again. Now the carers and the orphanage director had told him his new parents would be picking up tomorrow and taking him "home." He had met the couple a few times with the director at the orphanage and after every meeting he had with them, the director would always say what lovely people they were. "And your new grandmother is such a delightful lady and an excellent cook!" she would add. Charles wondered how she knew if she was such a busy lady she hardly had time to leave the orphanage as she was always saying to see the grandmother but he supposed grown-ups had their own way of finding out things.
He spent much of the following morning looking outside the window of his room which he shared with three other children, watching the cars entering and exiting the orphanage grounds through the front gate. What sort of house did the new parents live in? He had already seen their car and knew what a swanky black sports sedan it was. What was the new grandmother like? Was she really a good cook? He saw the shiny black car glide through the front gates and sail as if on air into a spot in the visitors' car park. Charles saw the two front doors open. The couple in black got out of the car, the woman straightening her hat and brushing her clothes. He saw the two walk out of the car park quickly and onto the path leading to the director's office. Not long after, one of the carers entered his room. "Charles, your new parents have just arrived," the young woman said, "are you ready to go? Got all your things packed?" Charles grabbed his carry-bag holding his clothes and his backpack crammed with his teddy and toy dinosaur and followed the carer down the corridor, down the stairs, through the dining-room and a maze of hallways and into the director's office. Already the couple in black were sitting there talking to the director. When Charles was ushered in, they stopped talking and turned to look at him. "Don't be shy, Charles," the director said, "you've met your new parents before. Come and say hello." |