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Short Story: The Graveyard

6/30/2013

The Graveyard

By Beth J. Whiting
QuailBellMagazine.com

John only left home for school or the graveyard. He didn’t have money for flowers. He just sat and reminisced about his mother.

He started to see a blonde girl at the graveyard as well. They arrived at the same entrance one day.

John started the conversation, “I noticed you're here every Saturday.”

“Yes, I'm here to visit my dad’s grave.”

“I'm visiting my mom.”

“I don’t see you at my school.”

“Where do you go?”

“Banks High School.”

“I go to Angel High.”

“What did your father die from?”

“Drunk driving.”

“Mine was breast cancer.”

They were silent for a moment, and then they unexpectedly smiled at each other.

“See you next Saturday?” asked John.

The next Saturday they took turns sitting together at their parents' graves. As they were getting up to leave the girl asked, “Would you like to go to my house?”

He hadn’t been to another person’s house since his mom died. He said, “Sure, what's your name, anyway?”

“Melanie.”

As they entered the house John saw scattered pictures on the wall of Melanie and her parents. The father had a neatly-trimmed mustache and the mother's bright red hair was pulled back. The mother greeted them from the hallway. “You have someone over!”

“Yeah. I met him at the graveyard.”

“That’s a strange way of meeting someone. What’s your name?”

Short Story: Whirl of Birds

6/28/2013

Whirl of Birds

By Liana Vrajitoru Andreasen
QuailBellMagazine.com

Turn the wheel, flow with the road. Pass houses, businesses, cars. In the weightless Texas air, everything flows by as a fragmentary landscape, luminous as the air breathing out of her body. Sinuous, the road, like the touch of his fingers blindly tracing her lines.

The sensation still in her pores, still feeling his face on her face, Bianca turns the wheel and turns the wheel. The car is taking her home instinctively, like a horse. Her body is still somewhere else, bending with his body of seething muscle, inebriation of Edwin, only Edwin. She can still feel the sheets on his bed where she has just been, where her phantom still burns endlessly, inhaling burning air through her own strands of yellow hair in motion.

The car slows down quickly, as if by some metallic instinct of its own. Bianca barely notices. She is aware that the car is no longer moving, yet feels nothing in her numb toes but that mad rhythm of perishing endlessly, skin to skin, without bones and without thought.

Her eyes fly above the street light, pulled up by the force of vaguely blue vastness, and she sees birds.

Black birds fly in circles, slow to the human eye, swirling in a dance they know as precisely as they know the winds and the prey. Long winged—vultures, maybe, or buzzards. Her mind sobers in slow fractions of a second. She wonders what they are doing right there, above the roads of a busy town—twenty of them, perhaps. Waves of Edwin seep out of her body and she resents that, looking up at the birds that dance above the moments she cannot keep. In just another microsecond she knows the light will turn green, but the microsecond lasts longer than that. More birds gather vertically: a sparse, lazy tornado of wings.

Green light. Her mind moves her foot from the break to the gas pedal, as her eyes linger on the sky. For what unfathomable ritual have these birds gathered, and why does her soul feel suddenly depleted? The slow turn of the whirl of birds dizzies, hypnotizes. There’s a meaning up there, something that the sky wants her to know, something about the immortality of heights. She will tell Edwin about it. One by one, the birds move from the whirl pattern to lines, like soldiers acquiring a new purpose.

She has to watch the traffic, but the mystery of the sky makes her eyes drift. She looks ahead, hoping for another red light so she can see more. It is as if her soul is hungry for a secret, something to make her feel part of the world, part of the flow of time. She stops at another light, opens the window and looks up. The birds are scattering in small files. She wonders what the earth looks like from that height. She wonders if the birds can laugh—or something ticking inside them can laugh. She sees herself, spectrally, at the beginning of the row of birds and at the end of it too. A thought from earlier that morning comes to her mind. Any life is made up of a single moment—Borges said that. She talked about it with Edwin on their way to his house. She will soon be twenty, though she’s always believed that to be a hundred years away.

Borges thought immortality belongs to creatures that are ignorant of death. These birds seem to know it, and they are flying to different corners of the world to disseminate that knowledge from above. You just don’t have as long as you think, she concludes. Only Edwin is a place with no death.

Short Story: Giants

6/27/2013

Giants

By Patrick W. Marsh
QuailBellMagazine.com

It had been two months since Florence last saw her grandson. Edgar or Ed, as she liked to call him, had been the product of her daughter’s misguided attempts at nightlife. Now, the father was absent and her daughter was alone, stressed, and financially strapped. Ed wasn’t a mistake by any means. Florence adored him. She’d whisper in her daughter’s meek ear as they’d watch him run the sandbox ragged. Florence would tell her daughter in hushed tones that Ed was a blessing and a miracle. Her daughter wouldn’t say anything, she was a pale, short, and porcelain skinned woman, who looked ready to shatter at the slightest sign of force.

Her daughter had Ed early on in life, and secretly, Florence was jealous of her early start.

It was a sweltering afternoon in the middle of July. The sun was thick, weighty, and coalescing in an armored haze. Bugs of all shapes and sizes scoured the layered green lawns, filling the air with their incessant grumbles. Their tiny drums made the summer natural, pure, and lucid. Florence sighed and looked at her gold watch wrapped around her soft wrist. She didn’t notice the time at first, just the way her skin was bulging out around the neat sterile band. She was going to get her blood pressure tested on Tuesday. This was the age her mother’s blood pressure elevated. With the possible medication she’d have prescribed, she’d bruise easily, like a withering bowl of old plums.

Florence was approaching the age were every doctors appointment was negative and every test positive.

It was twenty past one. Her daughter was over an hour late. Florence hated being on call for someone who didn’t even want to spend time with her. Florence sighed and walked to the end of the grey speckled driveway. The lifeless stone spread out under the hot sky. She lived in the suburbs. Her husband, Walter, owned a blue house with uneven black shingles. There were three bedrooms. Two were empty, sterilized, and smelling of dusty linen. They’d never been full of anything, not even people.

A rust-ridden, black Volvo puttered up to the driveway, followed by a puff of oil soaked smoke. Her daughter had arrived. Florence tried to think of something to bribe her daughter with, to at least make her stick around awhile longer. She was out of cash. She didn’t even know what her daughter liked to eat anymore.

The door wailed open. Her daughter scurried out quickly tugging the little eight year old boy. Ed immediately broke free and dashed to Florence’s outstretched arms. Ed was tiny, with brown eyes and smeared black hair. Her daughter dropped a miscellaneous purple bag on the scorching concrete and methodically walked back towards the car.

“I’m in a hurry as you might’ve noticed,” Her daughter said, while pulling some tangled hair away from her dilated eye.

“Yeah, yeah, I noticed. When’ll you be back?” She asked wiping Ed’s face. He had some uneven, dried, chocolate rings beneath his lip. The stain was dry and stubborn; meaning, it must’ve been there for quite a while.

“Later, don’t know, could be whenever,” her daughter said.

“Okay, that’s fine. Oh, I won’t be able to watch Ed on Tuesday. I’ve got a doctor’s appointment,” she said bending down slowly. She pushed up her silver glasses, which had drifted down to end of her round nose.

Short Story: Closer Than She Appears

6/26/2013

Closer Than She Appears

By Elisabeth Black
QuailBellMagazine.com

I was reciting lines at the point on the Lovers Beach when I first met William. He stood among the rocks not far away, his back to me, tense and bare and with his head held high. My mind said, “Animal,” though his body was human: not slender but well-proportioned. The sun, dropping behind us, reflected orange on his black hair. I flushed at the sight of him, for I didn't know him, or why he was there. I should want to sneak away without him noticing me, yet I wished to go closer.

The problem was, he stood in the water. Gathering all my restraint, I took a firmer grip on my shoes, bunched my skirt in my other hand, and waded in up to my ankles. So much gravel underfoot, and the terrain treacherous... I was usually alone this far down the point, hidden from the parking lot and picnic bench. “Who are you?” I called.

He turned slowly as I hobbled to meet him in the surging of the tide. The waves splashed up to my knees, making my throat constrict. The man, he stood smiling, though my cheeks and eyes burned so hot.

“Where are your clothes, man?” I slid my gaze from his shoulders to the shore, without getting a good look at his face.

“My name is William. I have no clothes.” His voice was hollow like the inside of a shell, and the tide whispered through it.

While he talked, I was able to meet his gaze. I stumbled backward in the water, almost tripping and falling in. Just saving myself, I clutched my shoes tighter, re-gathered my skirt I'd dropped. It stuck cold to my knees. My belly aflame with the man and the waves, I said, “You mustn't stand here naked. It's against the law.”

He smiled at me. His lips were red. “Why don't you come in for a swim?” He held out his hand, palm up. He should have been gooseflesh all over, but only a faint flush colored his cheeks.

Ha. A swim. In water. “No.” With a wrench, I began to pick my way out. The sun was setting, the whole ocean reflecting a fluid, dark-interrupted light.

“Your eyes, they're black as a seal's,” he said.

“Stop it,” I said. “Listen, if someone sees you there like that, they could very well call the police. It's... strange.”

“Don't go.”

I faced him, the water sliding sand around my feet, suggesting things I dare not credit. “Why?”

Short Story: Doubting Thomas

6/25/2013

Doubting Thomas

By Curtis Thomas
QuailBellMagazine.com

‘So, Reverend, I’ll ask you again. What are we going to do about this indiscretion?’

Reverend Holland sighed and rubbed his face with both hands. ‘Ms. Severant, I’m not sure what you expect me to do. I can’t just tell them to leave the church because they like to wear jeans on Wednesday nights.’

Ms. Severant stared at the pastor with ice in her eyes. ‘But Reverend, we have always upheld that the Lord’s followers must always look their best during service, whether it’s Sunday morning or Wednesday night. It’s an affront to God, is what it is. Your father would never have let something like this remain unaddressed.’

Mr. Holland took a deep breath. ‘I am not my father, Ms. Severant, no matter how badly we would all like that. Now, I will consider what you’ve said, and I will pray on the matter. Good night.’

‘But Reverend, I demand––’

‘Please, just Mr. Holland. I have a sermon to write, Ms. Severant, if you’ll excuse me.’

Ms. Severant stood up, glaring at Mr. Holland, nothing but the patter of rain on the small window filling the uncomfortable silence. Without a word, she stormed out of the tiny office.

Mr. Holland leaned back in his chair and shook his head. Even after four months of being pastor, the pettiness of most of the congregation still amazed him. He couldn’t believe his father had been able to put up with it for so long.

Thomas Holland’s father was the great Peter Holland, an evangelist of considerable renown. He had spent his early years traveling the globe, preaching, and bringing thousands of souls to Christ each week. As he got older and started a family, he had settled down in Sunshine Valley, Missouri and started the only church in town, appropriately and unimaginatively named The Sunshine Valley Church. The church Thomas had now taken over.

Thomas had always been expected to go into ministry, which he hadn’t minded. If it meant being connected to his dad, that was good enough for him. Thomas admired his father’s resoluteness, the certainty behind every decision he made. Thomas couldn’t even pick out a sandwich without wondering if he should have went with the roast beef instead.

So he had gone to seminary, pushing his doubts aside. It had usually felt like the right choice.

Then his father had gotten sick. The congregation at Sunshine Valley Church had asked Thomas to fill in until his father recovered. Thomas agreed.

And no one doubted he would recover, least of all, in this case, Thomas. The Great Peter Holland wasn’t like ordinary humans. He didn’t die.

Then he got worse. Thomas led the church members in prayer meetings, preached on God’s power to heal, his willingness to answer prayers.

And then the Great Peter Holland died.

Photo: Rosie

6/24/2013

New Age Rosie the Riveter

Photographer: Lawson Craighill
Model: Helen G. Stoddard
QuailBellMagazine.com

Rosie the Riveter

Short Story: Field Trip

6/24/2013

Field Trip

By Beth J. Whiting
QuailBellMagazine.com

Charlotte’s worst nightmare had come true. Her mother told her that she was chaperoning the field trip that day.

No way. Her mother would see she was a loner.

Charlotte tried to get her mother to see that this was not right.

“I need to help out your teacher on the field trip, and that's that.”

In the end her mother wouldn’t say no.

Her mother drove her to school that day.

The field trip was to an art museum downtown.

The students had all boarded the bus, and Charlotte sat alone.

Her mother entered with the other adults and said, “Darling, I might as well as sit by you.” She balanced her checkbook on the way.

The museum had a lot of interesting art pieces. Charlotte walked around with her mother’s group. Charlotte was scared about lunchtime. During field trips she usually sat with the teachers and she didn’t want her mom to know.

As they stepped into the courtyard for lunch, Charlotte told her mother she needed to go to the bathroom.

She wandered a while and saw a boy sitting alone.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m hiding from my mother. She’s on a field trip with me. I don’t want her to see I don’t have any friends.”

“How come you have the same story as mine?”

“What’s your name?”

“Charlotte.”

“My name is Ivan.”

“I hate this situation.”

“Me, too. My mother is embarrassing me.”

“What grade are you in?”

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6/23/2013

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Short Story: Fell Ghost

6/22/2013

Fell Ghost

By Zach Mann
QuailBellMagazine.com

Fuji was fastening his work belt when he spotted the water basin across the lot, beside the stone steps. As a habit he held his breath and pushed his hands over his crimpers and strippers, silencing them against his jeans. He listened for the whirr of the little motor, if it churned inside the bamboo chozuya, keeping the water running. His ears had been trained to check, so mosquitoes wouldn’t take advantage in the warmer months.

Meanwhile his two Hokkaido dogs skipped around his feet, chomping at snow.

“Shh! Minke!”

He always commanded the mother, for the pup followed her lead. Dutifully Minke parked herself in the snow. The pup paused, unsure, long enough for Fuji to hear the faint effort of the motor, and the cedar-scented wind, with its metallic aftertaste of cold rock, the sounds and smells of winter in Kochi. Then Fuji stomped at the icy asphalt with his Crocs and chased his dogs across the lot. They yipped, hopped away and wagged their curled tails. They panted back at their owner with red smiles.

Beyond the dogs, past the chozuya, through the Shinto arch and up the stone stairway, Fuji could see the canopy of the tree. The electrician’s tree, he called it, for the metal sheets and cables bolted into its barky flesh, hardware added each decade to keep its three-thousand-year-old bulk in one piece and upright, to delay its natural return to mulch.

But today it wasn’t the monks who called him. The temple shared its lot with an elementary school, out of session for winter. The administrator had asked Fuji to add more outlets to the new computer room, and he was happy to. His wife Kasumi was a teacher there once. It was Kasumi who organized the children to paint the mural on the front wall: monks praying before the tree, and the priest of Susano-o, with globs of white paint to represent his Edo-era vestments, performing a cartoon version of Shinto wizardry. On the trunk of the tree was written the kanji for “old,” a fitting entrance to a school known as Old Tree Shogakko.

Now the mural was one of Fuji’s many remembrances of her. The fell ghost’s capture was Kasumi’s favorite folktale. The priest’s name would have been the name of their first son. Instead it was the never-spoken name of Minke’s pup.

Fuji didn’t get paid for his work at schools and temples. He made enough money from the Kochi prefectural government keeping the streetlights on and the bridges lit, and stringing new feeders across red cattle valleys to catch up with the growing beef trade. But he liked this part, too, driving his truck all around the Shikoku foothills with his dogs, parking at the edges of ravines, by the old houses that fall into hillsides, the homes of old hermits who tended their own rice paddies and grew their own turnips. When the power went out, they called him, not the prefecture.

Prose: Temporal

6/21/2013

Temporal

By G. David Schwartz
QuailBellMagazine.com

That everything gets done temperately and nothing get done absolutely is proof of something concerning the works of the Absolute. Everything is temporary.

He leaves and he returns when it suits him. The other is calm when it suits him. They are in reality satisfied only temporarily.

I am indefinitely dissatisfied -- or worse, if I can coin a word, missatufied (so close to mystified). I am a spent spark plug. The absolutely and people would laugh when Woody Allen says it's missatufied. A reassuring but false voice cons its way back into a house.

A sobbing, so temporary, voice pours its way over a sizzling heart -- not to smooth it. No. That would be too much to ask. But to put it out.

That such insignificant a thing in temporariness can speak louder than the Absolute proves nothing terrible, but does prove troubling. Yes, it is the old problem of evil, but aren't we all? That a loop we know will ring through and then disappear for a time (yeah, even that is for a time) is more significant than the pole which does not move.

Yes, and how terrible. They want the ring without the pole, or the pole with motionless ringing. Both are absurd. Better to have neither.

To paraphrase Voltaire, if God does exist, God shouldn't. How Nietzschian. Was then Nietzsche a humanistic thinker? Certainly, he had a different, possibly better vision.

The question, again, (and again and again and) is not the existence of God, nor the nonexistence, but of God's relevancy. Today God gives me nothing whatsoever. I eat, but it is from food which grows whether I eat it or not, grown and picked by farmers and, or farm hands. It is put in a shelf at the local grocery which is run by an atheist, kept clean by a Southern Baptist, rung up by a Catholic and so on. Many religious people including non-religious humans make, produces, and take care of my needs, my family's needs and all the needs in the world.

And these people, just like me, are temporary. As temporary as the aging product…as humans (another aging product) as, I hazard to guess, not only all of humanity, but all of every thing.

Thus I do not claim to be an atheist but inasmuch as the Master of the Universe (who has a virtual infinite number of names) may be as well. We were created in the image.

Schwartz is the author of A Jewish Appraisal of Dialogue and Midrash and Working Out Of The Book.