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Dolla Dolla BillBy Patrick Buhse QuailBellMagazine.com Freddie works for a prestigious company known as Liquid Form, a supplier of ink used by government contractors to coat the outside of dollar bills. This ingenious ink then preys on people with weaker or stronger immune systems (depending on the dosage of the week) causing them to show symptoms of a common cold, then die some days, weeks, or months later. These switches in dosage allow for a randomness that keeps protest and crazy speculation away from Liquid Form’s front door. Freddie’s told that this liquid is a necessity for population control, and Freddie believes it with all of his heart.
Not only does Freddie work for such a company, but he is also one of the population that exhibits a very weak and fragile immune system; he was the child of a mother that abused a substance or two during her pregnancy. So for that reason, Freddie does not work on the weeks that the weak-targeting formula is being produced. But, due to unforeseen circumstances that had been piling up in the form of bills, Freddie had to take a couple of shifts during the wrong week. And even though during these shifts Freddie tried to be careful, Freddie still found himself distracted at one point with the sound his desk fan makes. It was during such a bout of distraction that he dipped his left pinky finger in the clear mixture that sat in a small cup on his desk waiting for his approval. He sat astonished. How could he be so dumb? Who could help him? How long did he have? Was there a protocol for this in the training module? If only he’d paid attention to those boring training modules. Rushing out of the room, he looked to the left, then to the right. There were all the familiar doors that he passed regularly on his way into his office, but to whom these offices belonged, he couldn’t say. To be perfectly honest, he couldn’t remember ever even seeing anybody in his actual department. Random employees all just sort of communed from wherever to fill up the break room for lunches and snacks around noon. They didn’t ever have reason to communicate with anybody outside of their higher ups (who usually called them). Coming up to the closest one to his left, he knocked in a calm manner that didn’t really jive with his current situation. “Hello?” he said. “I have a question about the product and I was hoping that you could help. Hello?” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Lowly ServantBy Sandra Scholes QuailBellMagazine.com Once in a castle far away, a woman had a wish for good fortune to come to her. As she was just a lowly servant, she had no belongings other than a broken vase she kept a herb in, a small wooden box she found while out strolling one day. The box was ordinary and bore no embellishments or decoration; but it did hold what she considered to be her most prized trinkets: one autumn leaf, a single copper coin and a key.
While she worked, the servant thought of what she would have to do to repay the one who would grant her wish and hoped she would be kind as servants rarely got much time out of work. That night the servant went at once to bed, tired, as her knees and hands ached from the harsh work she had done during the day. When her head hit the makeshift pillow, she closed her eyes, nearly drifting into blessed sleep only to hear a voice beside her. "You wished and I came, girl." When the servant opened her eyes, she saw the strangest sight she had ever seen: a lady tall and well-built, wearing a black leather corset that showed off her figure, a flowing skirt and boots...and she held a whip. Her fairy wings elevated her as she spoke. "But the wish you made has certain consequences, so, as a result I need you to give me your most treasured possessions as payment for that wish." The girl thought of her broken vase and the box. "I'm afraid I am only a lowly servant, Lady. I have no riches, only a vase with a herb in it and a box full of my things." The fairy smiled, waving her whip around, wondering why she held that when fairies usually held wands. "Where I come from, everything holds value no matter what it is. What does matter is that you trade it for something else." She wondered why she had wished and whether she would get it. The fairy stood there before her ready, so she must have been able to grant her what she wanted most of all. "Will you grant me my wish?" the servant asked, feeling most nervous. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Dinner on the GroundBy M. Alouette QuailBellMagazine.com We rose to bake biscuits and wash the quilts Grandma made her last year of life. We rose to whisper prayers, comb our hair, and promise a day of joy, not strife. We rose to collect our flags and flowers into bundles tied up for the truck. We rose to load everything and ourselves, huddled like ducks in the back. The War between the States ravaged our farm and our state long before I was born, but I remember it with my family once a year, every year, come Memorial Day in May. The county comes together at the cemetery for a potluck of fried chicken and corn, sausage and gravy, collards and kale, custard and peach cobber, crab and Old Bay. We visit the fallen soldiers, like my great-uncle Steven and his not-so-secret lover, the lover my family only came to recognize after they received that fateful letter. Sometimes Mama and I sit on the porch braiding ribbons and twisting wreathes the week before the gathering, the week before the dinner on the ground, the week before I watch my Auntie Jolene wring her hands as she grieves because she still recalls when things were not so civil between the North and South. But this year we are too poor for wreathes so we focus on feeding the mouth, not the eyes, and all our flowers—necks cracked, heads falling—were found. As we break our bread, Daddy says he heard a report of a new war in Europe on the radio, one greater than the last, and that he reckons we'll be visiting far more graves in a year. #Nostalgia #MemorialDay #CivilWar #CivilWarCemeteries #WarBetweenTheStates #Confederates #Confederacy #USHistory Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.
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Walking Backwards Into TimeBy Starling Root QuailBellMagazine.com #Imaginary #Nostalgic #PhotoCollage #LayeredImages #ChildhoodHome #FemaleSubject #Mosaic #DifferingOpacities #Art Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.
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Burke and HareA corpse is a corpse of course of course, but defining murder involves as much wordsmithery as the trickery required in performing the very act, not to mention becoming a pro body herder. Imagine the winding alleyways of 19th-century Edinburgh, ripe with real blackness and grime, the breeding ground for swine, the playing place of hungry whores and their desperate johns. Why, such is a site for crime and slime, just the site for the evil Laurel and Hardy to strike. Smother the face. Suppress the chest. No knife, no gun. No blood, though plenty of sweat and sometimes tears. The Royal College thanks you, you gentlemen, you fools. There are no heroes here, only victims of two kinds. The first plainly being the deceased. Yet the killers suffered victimhood from their own avarice, assisted by the sort of friendship that binds two scam artists, two hustlers, two pawns. Burke and Hare—horrifically together as one in the name of fortune and medical revelation, but mainly what goes click and clank and pays the rent. #Nostalgic #GraveRobbers #GraveDiggers #BurkeAndHare #EdinburghHistory #ScottishHistory #ScottishMurders #Scotland Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.
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The EndBy Holly Day QuailBellMagazine.com it’s not that I missed you when you left it’s just that I couldn’t stop thinking about all the things you left behind, all the dependant little creatures in your house, left to fend for themselves, trapped in their fishbowls behind locked and closed doors I keep thinking about your goldfish, picture them floating lifeless in their bowl, the long-nosed dolphin fish I picked out for your tank, the baby iguanas posed on their perch waiting for their handful of crickets, the cats you adopted pawing frantic at the doorknob waiting for you to come home. I wish you had left me a key 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 #TheEnd #Goldfish #FishBowls #AdoptedCats #FishyFriends Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.
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MansplainBy Sarah Sawyers-Lovett QuailBellMagazine.com I was a dude in distress. Stuck on the side of the interstate while cars whizzed past me, I whipped out my phone to find it dead. Again. I got out of the car and sat on the hood, trying to look hapless and unthreatening enough for someone to stop. It wasn’t just that some jagoff had sideswiped me into the medium; it was that the impact had flattened both of the driver’s side tires and I only had one spare.
And if I’m being honest here, I didn’t even know how to change a spare tire. Being the dashing son of media royalty meant nothing if you had to get your hands dirty, amirite? I was thinking about hoofing it to the next ramp, when the whoop of a siren startled me. When she got out of the car it was like that scene from Wayne’s World where everything goes all slow-motion and “Dream Weaver” starts playing in the background. She was a bit taller than me, and her police uniform hugged her curves in ways that made me consider a life of crime. “Need some help?” she said, her aviators glinting against the bright sun. “Uh…just a tow, probably.” “What happened?” “Got sideswiped and popped a couple of tires.” “Get any plates?” “Too busy cussin’.” I grinned and tried to look charming. Her radio buzzed and she called my hit and run in, then said that a tow truck would be along in a little while. “Thanks, Officer…” “Cinder.” “Do I have to wait here, or can I convince you to let me take you for a cup of coffee?” “I’m on duty. You should wait with your car.” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Limerent Objectification |