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NorfolkDue East until you sink into the sea Sailing the highway, sailing the stories, and, finally, sailing the actual waves, waves that lap the feet of longshoremen. What if Ophelia had had an automobile? And grown up the daughter of an enlisted sailor? Would she have dreamt of a home in Ghent, swaddled in azaleas and honeysuckle? Or would she have driven into the ocean? Crashed into the lesser reefs? Let the fish feed upon her flesh? Terrified of never leaving Tidewater? Of always staring at the horizon-- longing, wondering, fearing? #Ophelia #Macabre #Suicide #SadPoetry #NorfolkVirginia 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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Where Janet Doe SleepsThe eye of the beholder weeps, From the ghosts her head-chamber keeps. Encumbered in shadowed confines, Until a weightless presence seeps, Through optic nerves and perturbed veins, Asylum walls and wrathful chains. The desperate sighs and rattles heard, Do not dare penetrate a word. The eye of the beholder sees, Vestal promise struck to its knees. Ignorant ears sense no dissent, From pallid lips with silent pleas. Unrequited vengeance blessed, A macabre depiction to rest, With some barren field's endless woes, Where only the beholder knows. Existence, but a fine vapor, Deflective matter to taper, And dissolve into lucid air-- Unless beheld, you’re never there. #Ghosts #Supernatural #OtherworldlyPoetry 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 GuttersBy Joshua Kraus QuailBellMagazine.com When the news said that a whole bunch of people got killed at the same time in the same place by the same person, Kora’s first thought was of Wade. Her stomach coiled and she felt like she’d swallowed boiling soup. Images came unbidden, not of butchered bodies or weeping loved ones but of empty rooms, silent houses, cold nights. All this before she remembered Wade was right there, nodding off on her lap, his closed eyes like pale sea shells half-buried in the sand. She brushed his soft hair back the way they did in the movies and ached to be him in that moment. Oblivious. Small. Cherished and feared for. And there she was again, struck with the totality of how much love there was to gamble. At first they were describing the incident as a “really extremely bad thing that happened which is really very bad,” but someone must have finally dusted off an encyclopedia and discovered the term “mass murder,” and from then on it was mass murder this and mass murder that, and Kora tried changing the channel but the same report blared on all of them. Turns out it all happened at Rusty’s Red Hot Roadhouse, Slow Zone Three’s one and only throwback diner/tax exempt house of worship. Drool smeared on Kora’s pant leg as she pulled Wade closer. Kora worked at the Roadhouse. And before the news anchor could say his name she knew who the killer was. The Ice Man. Of course it was the Ice Man. The Ice Man came to Rusty’s Red Hot Roadhouse every few days between 5 p.m. and 5:30 p.m. sporting a grimy denim jumpsuit and shrunken blue toque that grew on his bald head like rampant mold. He was either 35 or 60 and they called him the Ice Man because he always ordered a glass of ice right when he sat down. If the ice in the Ice Man’s glass melted before he received his Rusty’s Rock ‘n Roll Ribeye, which he always ordered well-done despite Rusty’s strong recommendation it be cooked medium-rare and served with a side of Rusty’s Red Hot Taters for just an extra $2.99, he would storm out. The Ice Man liked to sit in the booth closest to the bathrooms because the opening and closing of the bathroom doors would squeeze out a rolling cloud of shit vapor with a soft whoof that clung to the Ice Man like an aura, and he could then complain to Kora about what a repulsive decaying whore-infested slime pit she worked in, and reprimand her for the terrible life choices she must have made in order to arrive at such a shameful interlude. He also sat at this booth because it was situated on the side of the restaurant opposite the entrance, so that if the service was too slow, which thanks to his booby trapped criteria it often was, he could then make a great point of angrily crossing the entire length of the restaurant while shaking his head and moaning like a boy who had just walked in on his parents fucking. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
WiltedBy Anne McCrery QuailBellMagazine.com I wonder if you were beautiful long ago in the darkness of summer’s sun-faded night, starlight sticking in your eyelashes. Silk skin in the grass. A cream and sugar dress printed with wild strawberries. Nectar kisses on your lips, moonlight humming with honey bees. You pass by me in a torn windbreaker, rustling, a weary cigarette drooping between yellow fingernails, eyes buried in age and fatigue. You carry a plastic bag of wilted strawberries on a cold cloudy day. Anne McCrery is a writer and a student currently residing in Richmond, Virginia. She loves forgotten pieces of the past and constantly reminisces about things she's too young to remember. #Poem #Poetry #79Wilted #Strawberries #FadedBeauty 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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Women WarriorsChing Shih A Chinese pirate from the early 19th century, she proved to be quite the badass as she and her fleet remained undefeated throughout her career. She retired in peace and great wealth, which makes her one of the few pirates to have chosen to stop. And what’s more powerful to sea farers than the sea itself? Nellie Bly An investigative reporter who brought many shameful cases of abuse, mistreatment, and neglect in a mental health institute to light by disguising herself as a patient. Her reports after she got out inspired new reforms of the ways these facilities were regulated. Sound familiar, American Horror Story (Season 2) fans? She served as the inspiration behind Lana Winters! #Illustration #KevinVQDam #WomenWarriors #NellieBly #ChingShih 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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SpelunkerBy Holly Day QuailBellMagazine.com quiet church lies beneath the marching feet of men, a candle mass that lead the blind fish on. I don’t know how long I’ve sat here, listening to the drip of water, I’m turning to stone, inside out. winged choirs of bats flutter up above, their nail-head eyes waiting for me to fall asleep. so I stay awake. I sit here, trying to see their furry bodies, thick smears of blood against the night. 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 #Spelunker 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 Woman Who DiedBy m.j. cleghorn QuailBellMagazine.com Pork chops on Thursday.
“She was the woman who always brought pork chops on Thursday." Some woman. Red hair. Nice camel coat. A woman of a certain age. Classy. The Upper East Side type. Her grandfather was a tough guy with a gang on the the wrong side of the street... His name unmentionable in polite society... But, of course, I remember her…Who could ever forget? She came by every week for twenty years. What’s not to remember? Just like family. I knew everything about her children. I wonder how they are taking this. How sad. I can hardly believe she’s really gone. Here one minute, poof! Dust the next! Just a snap of the finger… When your number’s up, your number’s up. Yup, that’s what they say… We’re all sorry. Say Sam, is the beef tongue good today? Lamb chops? Don’t make me cry. The woman who died. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Illustrated MemoriesA Proper House I strive to create tone in my work. In my stories and images about relationships, nature, psychology, and femininity, I want to evoke subtle feelings and memories that are easier felt than explained. I draw from the natural world; one, because I find it rich in metaphor, and two; because I have both respect for and fear of nature and how easily it could swallow all of us. The experience of being an inward, nervous, precocious child and my experience in relationships inform my personal work. I enjoy working editorially because it allows me to process others' stories and give a visual voice to them. I enjoy words and songs and listen to music and podcasts constantly while I work. Brother You are the Love of My Life Jensine Eckwall is an illustrator based out of Brooklyn, New York. Growing up, her family moved often and then settled in the Northeast. Jensine graduated from the School of Visual Arts in 2013. Her work has been recognized by the Society of Illustrators, American Illustration, and 3x3. She was named Zankel Scholar by the Society in 2012. Her clients include the New York Times, Chronicle Books, the Boston Globe, Nylon, and Town & Country among others. #FeaturedArtist #JensineEckwall #Illustration #Memories #AProperHouse #Brother #YouAreTheLoveOfMyLife 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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First LawBy John Stegner QuailBellMagazine.com As soon as Stacy opened the bathroom door she heard a crash and then a scream from Jason, her boyfriend of six months. Despite the crash’s oddly high volume and the definitively painful tone of the scream, she had already showered and combed her hair without hearing a sound, so she assumed that he had been sleeping soundly until that point. It was more than likely that he’d had one of the traumatic nightmares to which he was prone, and so she turned on the cold dormitory fluorescent ceiling light and rushed to his side.
“Poor Jason! It’s okay, baby” she tried to place her hand on his head, but he jerked it off as he struggled to sit up. He was very disoriented, and so she put her arms around his shoulders to steady him. “Holy shit.” He said between deep, gasping breaths. He held his head and leaned his arms on his knees. “Oh my god.” “Shh, it’s okay” she said. Her hand stroked his matted hair. He still had not made any eye contact. “Does your head hurt, baby? Do you want to talk about it?” “I don’t know, I was floating. Like,” he took another large breath and stared at the spot from where he’d just landed. “I was floating above the bed. I was out of control.” “Oh, wow babe, that sounds terrible,” she said in the steady tone and cadence of the wearily patient. “How did that make you feel, darling?” “No, you don’t get it,” he said standing up and shifting his head to the ceiling, the walls, the floor. “I was literally out of control. I couldn’t get down.” He kept his hands on his head and paced. She wrinkled her mouth—this conveyed a note of concern and solemnity worthy of this level of disturbance without seeming condescending or hyperbolic or generally fake in any degree—and nodded her head slowly to show that she was neither frightened nor dismissive. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Hirsute HeroinesIn Hirsute Heroines, a series of illustrations by Hayley Blatte, the passive pinup girl is turned on its head transforming the cliched manicured muse into a dynamic diva. These deceptively simple pencil drawings combine elements of glamour and fantasy with the "grotesque" and "taboo," raising questions of female beauty and identity in the modern Western world. Hayley Blatte is a Brooklyn-based illustrator, sculptor and performance artist. Her work examines the social and cultural constructs of gender identity by reappropriating elements of classic American iconography including flags, handmade quilts, military uniforms and pin up girls. Hayley was born and raised in New York City and received her BFA in Fine Art from CalArts in 2008. Since graduating, she has assisted artists, fashion designers, and stylists including Narcissister, Todd Cole, Mordekai, Victoria’s Secret, Ralph Lauren Hosiery, and Marc Jacobs. She is currently part of Nothing Space, an Art Collective based in Bushwick. #HirsuteHeroines #HayleyBlatte #Illustration #PinUp #Feminism #GenderBending #Gender #Taboo #Beauty 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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