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O Robin Hood, Where Art Thou?ForgetFairytales.com #RobinHoodTax #WallStreetBankers #TaxWallStreet #TaxTheRich #GiveToThePoor 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 ImpressionBy C. Janelle Tuma QuailBellMagazine.com My children, when I was born, the world was not as it is today. It was darker, and despair was as common and plentiful as the hairs on your little heads. It was as if the sun didn't shine for nearly a hundred years, and the hearts of men had fallen into shadow.
But you well know that all was not lost. At the age of five, I possessed faith without bounds, and the mistrust of the great wide world had yet to take hold of me. Because of this, it was so easy to see the dog as simply a gift from some greater being for a lonely little girl who was desperate for a friend. He was loyal and steadfast as we patrolled the small spit of woods behind Mother's house, defending me from every creature, real or imagined, that we came across. The dog—an unsightly, flea-bitten black beast—had a way of appearing precisely when he was needed. In retrospect, that should have been my first indication that there was nothing unplanned about our meetings. However, at five years old, all that I was able to comprehend when the black dog leapt out of nowhere and placed himself, teeth bared, between my tormentors and me, was that he had saved me from being mangled by the neighborhood bullies. And each subsequent time he defended me, I grew more fond of him. It didn't take long for the children to realize that I was no longer an easy target for their violence. They left me alone to wander the neighborhood with my protector, perfectly happy to imagine myself a whole collection of friends that treated me as well as he did. For an entire year, the dog was all I had, and he was always there. Mother used to tell me about a house deep within the Dead Forest. She said that it was small and leaned heavily to one side. The thin, weak walls were rotting and the foundation below them was slowly sinking into the barren mud, surrounded by the decaying corpses of what had once been mighty elms. The house lies two miles beyond the old red ribbons that remain around the trees to this day, a reminder of a time when children had to be warned that they had wandered as far as they could go, and that they'd best turn back if they wanted to come back at all. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Aural SexBy Ghia Vitale QuailBellMagazine.com Pale, Aphrodisian sapphire, Surrealistic embrace, Alludes to Venus-kissed embers, Dancing behind your face. Luminous omens inspire, Musings within cryptic fire, Of scarlet grace, Satin and lace, Our spirit remembers, Molten mire, In torrid ribbons, cascading, Down two necks—each, a separate spine. Crushed-velvet skies, serenading, Two beings as they intertwine. All constellations realign-- Dulled by a blossoming presence. Blinding incandescence, Comprised of our essence. From corpses converged, A phoenix emerged. #LovePoetry #Lust #Sultry #Seduction #BodiesEntwined #Death 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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Serpent Girl"'Serpent!' 'But I'm NOT a serpent, I tell you!' said Alice. 'I'm a—I'm a—' 'Well! WHAT are you?' said the Pigeon. 'I can see you're trying to invent something!' 'I—I'm a little girl,' said Alice, rather doubtfully, as she remembered the number of changes she had gone through that day." - Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll #Illustration #BrianaHertzog #AliceInWonderland #SerpentGirl #LewisCaroll #Art #Quote 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 Writers—their works and their homesClockwise: Zora Neale Hurston, Virginia Woolf, Dawn Powell, and Sylvia Plath My series, Women Writers, consists of oil paintings atop collages I made of each author's collective writings. I painted a portrait of each author over her own writers. I also did linocut prints of their houses behind them. These houses actually kind of reflect the things they wrote about. Dawn Powell wrote a lot about New York City, and her home was in Greenwich VIllage, Virginia Woolf was greatly inspired by her garden, etc. I've been planning on creating pieces as a kind of homage to the powerful female writers I grew up on. These women really questioned what was considered "normal" in their society. I chose these specific writers because I don't think they are given enough credit for their works. Dawn Powell is not well known. Sylvia Plath died shortly after critics tore her only novel apart; only after her death did she receive much attention for her honest portrayal how a patriarchal society hurt a woman aspiring to something greater. Nora Zeale Hurston died very poor. Virginia Woolf's writings weren't even taught in my school. These writers kind of back up the theory that men pretty much dominate our artistic history. The only female painter I learned extensively about in all the art history courses I've taken was Artemisia Gentileschi. On the required reading lists growing up in the public school system, it was primarily works by male authors. I want to continue the paintings, maybe go a little bigger and a little more modern with the writers. We'll see! Grace is currently a senior at Virginia Commonwealth University majoring in Communication Arts with a minor in Art History. Her mind has always preferred to talk through the hand: drawing has always been her language of choice. In addition, she enjoys a good book, a warm environment, inspiring friends, and a mind-flushing run on terrain. #Paintings #WomenWriters #GracePopp #Feminism #ZoraNealeHurston #VirginiaWoolf #DawnPowell #SylviaPlath 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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Mist Between The PinesBy Bremer Acostia QuailBellMagazine.com I once lived in a town called Fogfield. You’d know the place if you ever ran out of gas while driving somewhere more desirable. You see, Fogfield isn’t really much of a town, as far as towns go. Some towns are big, other towns are small. In the grand scheme of town sizes, this one is somewhere in the middle, wedged in between a mountain and a forest of pines.
Here’s a little trivia about Fogfield. Read in between the lines of the brochure: The townspeople here wear polka-dotted dresses and undertaker suits with blood ties. Sometimes the businessmen wear the polka-dotted dresses and dance inside a nightclub called the Loose Oyster. They probably tell their wives they’re driving to the hardware store to buy tools. The houses look like plastic models inside a train garden. Every lawn is freshly mowed and glittering with dew from last night’s rain. At six every morning, the husbands all exit their doors at the same time, wave to their neighbors, and hop into their cream-colored convertibles. The population consists of the neighbors next door to me, the neighbors next door to them, and the neighbors next door to the neighbors, forming a donut of houses. Our favorite sights include miles of brown farmland, a convenience store that’s open 24/7, and a shaggy white dog with three legs. We’re not entirely sure what happened to his other leg, but we suspect that he lost it while reaching to lick his crotch. Now with the town’s history taken care of, I’ll tell you a little bit about myself. Ah, let’s see here: I’ve never been one of those good-looking guys. You know the ones. They have messy blond hair, green eyes, dimples, and athletic scholarships. And come to think of it, I’ve never been that smart either. Mom always told me if I studied hard enough, I could be a dishwasher someday. And if you were to see me, you’d probably look back once and then really stare. That’s because I was born with three noses. My one flushed nose curves over to the left but my two smaller ones are the size of a puppet’s wooden nostrils. Ok. I know, I know. Every time I tell somebody that, they probably think to themselves, “What a flying bunch of bullshit,” but I’m telling the truth. Really, I am. You see, all the country’s top specialists with plaques lining their walls and degrees from Harvard, said I was a regular anomaly, and I wouldn’t live past my first year. And despite their face scans and warnings, I decided to go on living, much to everyone’s displeasure. I even had my very own picture posted inside the medical books. So, if you’re ever bored one day, and you happen to scan through a red tomb written in obscure English about the world’s strangest conditions, you’ll see me. But most days, I’m not a celebrity or anybody special. And to hide my noses, I wear a cloth mask in public. Some people come up to me and ask me to remove it. But I never do. And some people, well, most people living in Fogfield, avoid looking at me, afraid that my deformity could be infectious, afraid that if they actually talked to me, I’d tell them some bizarre truths about who they really are. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Reading in BedBy Starling Root QuailBellMagazine.com There is no world except this book, where every character pleas for you to look,
and the plot you see is just one strand of the story, whether delightful or gory. You shimmy under the blanket and sheet, seeking warmth through your feet, as you turn the page, burrowing further, pitying the protagonist in a cage. You are the wide-eyed child and the author is your silver-haired sage as you race to the end, drifting into Dreamland, the book a friend. #PowerOfBooks #ReadingIsFundamental #NighttimeReading The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Prints for the HomesickThe World's Largest Family Reunion Drawing inspiration from the subtlety of words, puns, small objects, and adolescent naivete, I sincerely hope to make you homesick. A compulsive need to keep a sketchbook as a way of marking the passing of time results in the subsequent drawings rearranging themselves into zines and other small books. My main medium is printmaking but I'm been known to have affairs with other markmakers. Shovel Macondo Begonias The Breatharians Courtney Menard was born in the quiet tundras of Buffalo, NY but has since laid down roots in Brooklyn. #FeaturedArtist #Art #CourtneyMenard #Printmaking #Homesick #Pastels
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Reflecting on the Nighthe took her to the Parthenon he laid her down among the headless trunks of women dead 2000 years or more, he held her down until her watch stopped and her breathing stopped and her fingers stopped rooting and wriggling among the stones her blue ’82 Porsche abandoned just another relic in a place filled with holes 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. #Poetry #Poem #CreativeWriting #ReflectingOnTheNight #Love #Rape
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Provincialismdi Blasio sliced the slice with cutlery
A Big Apple no-no I'm reminded of as I tear into my New York-style special of sausage and green peppers with a knife and fork myself Nobody called the papers Nobody phoned the news Only my fiancé teased me We had just finished perusing wedding venues likes files in a briefcase Accountant peering over our shoulder Money always a sad song When he—my husband-to-be—asked what I wanted to eat And even though this feminist felt fat, she said pizza Extra cheese, please Who cares about fitting into a dress? Wedding magazines are for shaming The same way New Yorkers shamed their mayor for his table manners at John's of Bleecker Street #NYPizza #MayordiBlasio #BleeckerStreet #NewYorkers #NYC #Manhattan |