The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Video By Laura Jane Favela QuailBellMagazine.com The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Video By Matt Johnson QuailBellMagazine.com Knock - knock - knock
What on earth is that? KNOCK - KNOCK - KNOCK "OK, ok, I'm coming. Hold your horses!" I pulled myself up to a sitting position on the couch. It took some effort but I managed to shuffle out to front room. I poked my head through the curtain covering the plate glass window. Two people, a man and a woman, stood on my dimly lit porch. I pulled my robe tight, fumbled for my slippers, got them on my feet and opened the door a crack. "What is it? Do you realize what time it is?" "Mr. Murdoch, we're from the Big City paper. My name is Carol and this is Hank." She motioned slightly to the man behind her. "We wanted to ask you a few questions. Do you, ah, have a few minutes now?" I closed the door on them. Rude, I know, but it was late, I was tired, and my arthritis was acting up. What did they want? It must be that dang YouTube video. I told Chester to keep that camera in his bag, but no, he had to get the whole thing on video and then like an idiot, he posted it to YouTube. What else would explain the sudden appearance of two reporters from the Big City paper out here in the middle of po-dunk no-where? Especially at this hour. What time was it anyway? It must be past eleven, at least. I opened the door again. Carol stood her ground. She gave no indication she would leave without a story. "Can't this wait?" A steady rain fell from dark gray clouds. Thunder rumbled off the mountains in the distance. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
In Which Witchy Gets Caught in the Uplands By Jane Walsh QuailBellMagazine.com We catch up with Witchy winding her way through a great maze of cars. She can’t remember which bike rack her broomstick is chained to. Like everywhere in this drought-ridden island it is raining. She attempts to button up the collar of her mackintosh while still forging ahead towards the rack she thinks she left the broomstick. It is not there. Angrily she looks out across the sea of cars to locate the next bike rack and at the same time uses this as an excuse to see if anyone has witnessed the humiliation. No, everyone else is heads down, intent on their own discomfort. The rain has been falling for so long the tarmac is covered in large puddles that are gradually joining up to produce a lake. Cars plough slowly through pushing out waves high enough to wet an ankle. Witchy has to shove her trolley back down the row and then back up the next. Her fingers are now cold and one is turning white. The wide brim of her essential pointy hat has the advantage of acting like an umbrella (and a parasol in the summer – it’s how she maintains her porcelain complexion). Unfortunately it is also windy today. Last week’s joyous April showers are now replaced by serious squalls. Whenever she raises her head water throws itself against her face. The errant broomstick is located. Under the perspex roof of the rack she heaves her shopping bag onto the brush end and tries to secure it with a bungee cord but the grapefruit aren’t cooperating. They squeeze out a box of Mr Kipling’s bakewell tarts. Witchy is tempted to leave it there but she is not the kind of woman to abandon cake. Firmly repositioning her provisions the whole bag is brought back into obedience and she is ready to leave. She pauses a moment to gather herself for the ride home and looks across the wide prairie of cars that reaches to the far horizon. Together they morph into a field of silver grey punctuated by the hollow darkness of empty windows. Water rills of sleek metallic bodies, drips from wheel arches and grimy bumpers to join the expanding oily lake. It’s not that Witchy has anything against rain per se. She has performed a raindance or two in her time. Weather is life. She rejoices in its unpredictability and mischievous refusal to accommodate human affairs. As soon as a drought is declared nature heaves a rain system over the land. Marvellous. On a personal level it may be annoying to have soggy socks but such discomfort is fair price to pay to live in this beautifully unquiet world. No, she just feels that if she is going to have to endure rain on a momentous scale then it would be better done somewhere other than in this swamp of suburban conformity. It is difficult to connect with the spirit of Gaia in a Tesco car park. If the Elements are to be flung in your face it is best to abandon yourself to the full experience. Resolved, off she zooms, this time in a more northerly direction to the one we last accompanied her to. On this occasion the journey is shorter. It is not long before we find ourselves balancing uncertainly on the jelly-like surface of a peat bog. We may look like sodden sheep, our backs hunched against a fierce wind, with a doleful look on our faces, but Witchy stands tall, her chin valiantly raised into the oncoming deluge. “This, now, is rain! None of that namby pamby drippy town stuff,” she may shout to us, if we were really there with her. She whoops into the wind and runs higher up the slope to get a better view of the vista. There is nothing all around. It’s like being on the moon. Entirely featureless, soft mountains flow far into the distance. Their massive forms are open, defenceless against a sky that drags heavy curtains of dark rain across their shoulders. It is an ancient landscape of water. Earth and sky facing each other over millennia have created moorland proud of its stoicism. Desolate, it doesn’t need or welcome the touch of human feet. Witchy is beginning to sense the damp resentment. She turns back to the broomstick, gives the moor a nod of respect, then flies off. Time spent on a bleak Yorkshire fell is a more refreshing experience than time spent in a bleak car park but neither has to be endured for long. With less noble thoughts of central heating and dry under-garments Witchy knuckles down and speeds home. She tilts her head so the hat brim shields her from the still falling rain, but this means she cannot see where she is going. It is only when her trailing skirts snag on a weathervane attached to an old stone barn does she realises she has gone a little astray. Hovering, she tugs but the old cock won’t let go. From below a voice shouts “Let me help”. The tines of a long pitch fork are thrust towards her and with some wrenching manage to untangle her. She shouts a thank you and is about to fly off but is stalled by the warm smell of home baking wafting up from the cottage her rescuer came from. “Fat Rascals.” “Pardon?” “Fat Rascals. I’ve just got them out of the oven. Come inside out of the rain and have one with a cup of tea.” Never one to refuse a bun Witchy quickly finds herself sitting in a saggy but comfy armchair by a peat fire. Her rescuer, a Hannah Hauxwell, is fetching butter from the larder. Hannah is a woman who has lived by the moors all her life. Her face is etched with all the extremes cold and sunshine can throw at her. She lives contentedly alone on her small farm, raising a few scrawny sheep that she sells at market twice a year. They don’t bring in much money, but she doesn’t want for much. She gets by. Through steam rising from a cup of strong tea Witchy sees an old photograph of a man in a waistcoat and flat cap sat on an ancient tractor. “That’s my father” Hannah explains. “He managed the farm before me. It was bigger then of course.” She rummages in a dresser drawer and brings out a leather-bound photo album. Inside are pictures of similarly dressed men. Instead of tractors there are horses and the sheep are plump with rosettes stuck to their halters. “That’s my grandfather and his brothers,” Hannah points with an arthritic finger. “Your family has lived here for a long time?” “Generations. All buried in the church up the hill. We’ve always been here.” Witchy wonders if Hannah has seen many changes. “The farming families have left,” she concedes, “and the landlords wear suits now and go about in Range Rovers. I had some suits knocking on my door last year talking about extensification. I told them I didn’t know what they were talking about, but I could take them up on the moor if they wanted to see it. They didn’t.” Later in the afternoon the rain stops and Witchy flies home. She generously leaves her box of Mr Kipling’s bakewell tarts as a gift. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Everyone Leaves By Aden Harry QuailBellMagazine.com July 7
I always preferred rain. Most people can’t stand getting wet but I’ve never really had a thing for the July sun. Today it’s scorching and I’m sweaty and irritated and sticky and I don’t have the patience to cope with Carl’s energy levels, the mother’s stress, the father’s snorting... Annnd yet another fight in this alleged family home where, allegedly, everyone is so exhausted from all the effort they put in to trying to keep the family together! Everyday is the same – so painful and so full of bullshit, but at the very least it’s given me an urge to do something; to write, seriously, for the first time in my life. No more snippets. No more half-page empty ranting that could be scribbled down by any other boring, whiny, ordinary girl July 8 I don’t think I've slept well enough for months now. My eyelids drop by themselves, probably puffed out (I don’t dare look in the mirror) and filled with something infectious. It’s only a quarter past four – the sun's rays haven't even really hit the ground yet, and here I am; so, so tired, yet completely awake. I won’t be able to sleep again for over twelve hours now. I really need Carl to grow up, and FAST! Let the battles commence! Let us fine people wake up every last sleeping soul in this tired old village. What could it be now; who makes today's breakfast? Who takes ruffy (dog) for a walk? What happened to teamwork? Ah... HA! Pathetic. They’re putting words in each others’ mouths, scoring points over ‘who communicates with the other the worst.’ Their harsh voices have near driven me to run away. Hmm... Why moan anyway? One hour: 8:30, and I'll be out of this place, heading for college. College is my second world, not even offering so much as a break from my first. When I first got there, I thought I’d be going from school to college with a new beginning; a new life altogether. But when I got there I was drowned in a flood of familiar faces and thus, my second world; my second hell, was established. I can't sit here on this jagged rock for much longer. Who knows what just happened between Kristine and I? Never has one of my friends exploded into a fit of insults and degradation at me like that before... I suppose I'll be walking the rest of the way to college myself, eyes to the floor. No, I didn't need that at all. No college today. My brain is dead. Kristine has killed me. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Mockingbird SongBy Katy Towell QuailBellMagazine.com The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
In Which Witchy Gets Caught in the Uplands By Jane Walsh QuailBellMagazine.com We catch up with Witchy winding her way through a great maze of cars. She can’t remember which bike rack her broomstick is chained to. Like everywhere in this drought-ridden island it is raining. She attempts to button up the collar of her mackintosh while still forging ahead towards the rack she thinks she left the broomstick. It is not there. Angrily she looks out across the sea of cars to locate the next bike rack and at the same time uses this as an excuse to see if anyone has witnessed the humiliation. No, everyone else is heads down, intent on their own discomfort. The rain has been falling for so long the tarmac is covered in large puddles that are gradually joining up to produce a lake. Cars plough slowly through pushing out waves high enough to wet an ankle. Witchy has to shove her trolley back down the row and then back up the next. Her fingers are now cold and one is turning white. The wide brim of her essential pointy hat has the advantage of acting like an umbrella (and a parasol in the summer – it’s how she maintains her porcelain complexion). Unfortunately it is also windy today. Last week’s joyous April showers are now replaced by serious squalls. Whenever she raises her head water throws itself against her face. The errant broomstick is located. Under the perspex roof of the rack she heaves her shopping bag onto the brush end and tries to secure it with a bungee cord but the grapefruit aren’t cooperating. They squeeze out a box of Mr Kipling’s bakewell tarts. Witchy is tempted to leave it there but she is not the kind of woman to abandon cake. Firmly repositioning her provisions the whole bag is brought back into obedience and she is ready to leave. She pauses a moment to gather herself for the ride home and looks across the wide prairie of cars that reaches to the far horizon. Together they morph into a field of silver grey punctuated by the hollow darkness of empty windows. Water rills of sleek metallic bodies, drips from wheel arches and grimy bumpers to join the expanding oily lake. It’s not that Witchy has anything against rain per se. She has performed a raindance or two in her time. Weather is life. She rejoices in its unpredictability and mischievous refusal to accommodate human affairs. As soon as a drought is declared nature heaves a rain system over the land. Marvellous. On a personal level it may be annoying to have soggy socks but such discomfort is fair price to pay to live in this beautifully unquiet world. No, she just feels that if she is going to have to endure rain on a momentous scale then it would be better done somewhere other than in this swamp of suburban conformity. It is difficult to connect with the spirit of Gaia in a Tesco car park. If the Elements are to be flung in your face it is best to abandon yourself to the full experience. Resolved, off she zooms, this time in a more northerly direction to the one we last accompanied her to. On this occasion the journey is shorter. It is not long before we find ourselves balancing uncertainly on the jelly-like surface of a peat bog. We may look like sodden sheep, our backs hunched against a fierce wind, with a doleful look on our faces, but Witchy stands tall, her chin valiantly raised into the oncoming deluge. “This, now, is rain! None of that namby pamby drippy town stuff,” she may shout to us, if we were really there with her. She whoops into the wind and runs higher up the slope to get a better view of the vista. There is nothing all around. It’s like being on the moon. Entirely featureless, soft mountains flow far into the distance. Their massive forms are open, defenceless against a sky that drags heavy curtains of dark rain across their shoulders. It is an ancient landscape of water. Earth and sky facing each other over millennia have created moorland proud of its stoicism. Desolate, it doesn’t need or welcome the touch of human feet. Witchy is beginning to sense the damp resentment. She turns back to the broomstick, gives the moor a nod of respect, then flies off. Time spent on a bleak Yorkshire fell is a more refreshing experience than time spent in a bleak car park but neither has to be endured for long. With less noble thoughts of central heating and dry under-garments Witchy knuckles down and speeds home. She tilts her head so the hat brim shields her from the still falling rain, but this means she cannot see where she is going. It is only when her trailing skirts snag on a weathervane attached to an old stone barn does she realises she has gone a little astray. Hovering, she tugs but the old cock won’t let go. From below a voice shouts “Let me help”. The tines of a long pitch fork are thrust towards her and with some wrenching manage to untangle her. She shouts a thank you and is about to fly off but is stalled by the warm smell of home baking wafting up from the cottage her rescuer came from. “Fat Rascals.” “Pardon?” “Fat Rascals. I’ve just got them out of the oven. Come inside out of the rain and have one with a cup of tea.” Never one to refuse a bun Witchy quickly finds herself sitting in a saggy but comfy armchair by a peat fire. Her rescuer, a Hannah Hauxwell, is fetching butter from the larder. Hannah is a woman who has lived by the moors all her life. Her face is etched with all the extremes cold and sunshine can throw at her. She lives contentedly alone on her small farm, raising a few scrawny sheep that she sells at market twice a year. They don’t bring in much money, but she doesn’t want for much. She gets by. Through steam rising from a cup of strong tea Witchy sees an old photograph of a man in a waistcoat and flat cap sat on an ancient tractor. “That’s my father” Hannah explains. “He managed the farm before me. It was bigger then of course.” She rummages in a dresser drawer and brings out a leather-bound photo album. Inside are pictures of similarly dressed men. Instead of tractors there are horses and the sheep are plump with rosettes stuck to their halters. “That’s my grandfather and his brothers,” Hannah points with an arthritic finger. “Your family has lived here for a long time?” “Generations. All buried in the church up the hill. We’ve always been here.” Witchy wonders if Hannah has seen many changes. “The farming families have left,” she concedes, “and the landlords wear suits now and go about in Range Rovers. I had some suits knocking on my door last year talking about extensification. I told them I didn’t know what they were talking about, but I could take them up on the moor if they wanted to see it. They didn’t.” Later in the afternoon the rain stops and Witchy flies home. She generously leaves her box of Mr Kipling’s bakewell tarts as a gift. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Video By Matt Johnson QuailBellMagazine.com Knock - knock - knock
What on earth is that? KNOCK - KNOCK - KNOCK "OK, ok, I'm coming. Hold your horses!" I pulled myself up to a sitting position on the couch. It took some effort but I managed to shuffle out to front room. I poked my head through the curtain covering the plate glass window. Two people, a man and a woman, stood on my dimly lit porch. I pulled my robe tight, fumbled for my slippers, got them on my feet and opened the door a crack. "What is it? Do you realize what time it is?" "Mr. Murdoch, we're from the Big City paper. My name is Carol and this is Hank." She motioned slightly to the man behind her. "We wanted to ask you a few questions. Do you, ah, have a few minutes now?" I closed the door on them. Rude, I know, but it was late, I was tired, and my arthritis was acting up. What did they want? It must be that dang YouTube video. I told Chester to keep that camera in his bag, but no, he had to get the whole thing on video and then like an idiot, he posted it to YouTube. What else would explain the sudden appearance of two reporters from the Big City paper out here in the middle of po-dunk no-where? Especially at this hour. What time was it anyway? It must be past eleven, at least. I opened the door again. Carol stood her ground. She gave no indication she would leave without a story. "Can't this wait?" A steady rain fell from dark gray clouds. Thunder rumbled off the mountains in the distance. "We have a few questions about the video on YouTube. It really can't wait. We're trying to make a deadline for tomorrow's paper." She smiled. She had brown shoulder length hair, brown eyes, and very straight white teeth. She exuded confidence. The second reporter, Hank, looked about ten years her junior. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He was anxious, or maybe he just need to go to the bathroom. "So, can you tell us more about what happened that night? I mean, it's all very strange on the video, blurry and hard to see." I stared at them. They seemed harmless enough. "OK, come in. I guess it's the least I can do seeing as how you've traveled all this way." I stepped aside, motioned to the couch in the TV room and they came inside. Carol sat, her legs crossed neatly, pen in hand, pad of paper in her lap, her brown eyes wide and contemplative. She seemed genuinely interested. The second reporter, Hank, new to the job I supposed, continued to fidget even after I'd shown him the way to the bathroom. He leaned forward into my personal space. He piped up, which seemed out of turn and disjointed. "Yeah, but isn't that what makes it so popular? The whole gestalt of the video. It's mysterious. You have to use your imagination." Did he just use the word "gestalt?" It's too late for this, I thought, trying not to betray my irritation. "Do you really need to talk with me now? Can't it wait until the morning?" I decided that I was too old and it was too late to get into this again. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Hot-blooded Affair By: Jasmine White QuailBellMagazine.com Courting a legendary man-eating creature known as the dragon is by no means an easy feat. It’s downright difficult, if not suicidal. If you are looking for a quick fling, I suggest choosing a being that doesn't see think your a meal. But, if your heart is set on it, I shall explain how to gain a dragon's interest. Or at least maximize your chance of getting past the entrance without being incinerated on sight.
First, I am surprised you were able to find a dragon to begin with. It's not like they rampage through cities anymore. When humans upgraded from swords and suits of armor, the remaining dragons took to ground, some quite literally and others shape-shifted into humans. No one enjoys a bullet or bomb to the face. A dragon discovered by a human will attempt to kill it. You must launch into the courtship before it can work up a fire-loogie. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Stairs to no endBy Daniella Koffler QuailBellMagazine.com |