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Fourth Grade Reading Level Tiarra, my princess without a crown, reads with the fervor of a fairy with a new wand. I listen attentively when she reads to me about magic birds who can fly to the moon. Positive passion—not violent passion—is rare in this palace of poverty. Christine Stoddard is the Executive Editor of Quail Bell Magazine. This poem is from her forthcoming collection, The Children of Jackson Ward, which will feature photographs by Kristen Rebelo, Art Director of Quail Bell Magazine.
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Apocalypse By Alan Scally QuailBellMagazine.com Welcome in, droogies. Unfortunately, I'm not sure I know the way out. I do know that demons are made, not born. My demons were made in various places: The streets of Belfast. The coal mines of Scotland. The rain-soaked hills of Oregon. The magic city of Paris. The blues clubs of Chicago. (Vaya con dios, Son Seals.) And under the bloody red sun of fantastic L.A. In 1971, my demons sat in a cafe in Amsterdam sipping cheap whisky and smoking bowls of hashish, trying to remember where the cemetery was located. My roots are in County Antrim, Ireland, where the past is never the past because it hasn't happened yet. In order to survive roots must go deep. Roots never see flowers or the sky. When roots are told of blossoms, clouds, the sun, and infinite green spaces,they think they are being lied to. My art is my truth.
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The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Wound Underground/Word RemovalBy Claire Ledoyen QuailBellMagazine.com I wound underground: New nails to scratch down the back board of life, not chalk. The L stopped like a shot. Is my stare blank enough to enter this car? Empty like the night before the first line? Through the tunnel pressure I seize the wind in my ears The walls beat rituals onto these walls; somebody’s name, bloodstains, graffiti. If we all explode, well let’s all explode. Subway Station Get-Down, January 18th, 1 of 2: Everyone’s got work in the morning, tired and trying to get home with Tragic Bumsong hit on a ukulele, dischord People are in the streets Admitting that they’re rude? What is this world coming to? And police can frisk you if they look over your shoulder and read what you’re writing; say suspicious activity Say, I don’t have a gun strapped to my inner thigh, I’m wearing a dress! I come on the train and set an example. What I thought was my subway stop was not my subway stop. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Goldfish ManBy Janna Liggan QuailBellMagazine.com When my father's brother came to visit, he filled our entire room. My grandmother's eyes would disappear in her thick brown wrinkles and often my mother would sing. My father would sit on his low stool by our window and carve as he listened. Sometimes his shapes would take meaning and turn into a cup or a bowl. But other times, especially after he’d been in to the village, the shavings would quickly disappear, slice after slice dripping from his fingers to the dirt floor, his hands left holding a figure with many arms or legs, heads and mouths–but always without eyes. A long time before, my father's brother had brought me a goldfish from one of his travels. Every time he came to visit, he would bring a bigger bowl and every time after he left, my goldfish would grow. We would sit together on the floor by the door and I would hold the larger bowl as he slowly poured the water from the old into the new. My fish would flap and swish at the last moment before he leapt in, flashes of gold glinting in the sunlight as he claimed his new home in the churning water. I never named him. He was too beautiful for any word that I could think of. I remember that visit as I remember his last. Crystal clear, like my goldfish’s water when it has just been changed. I can almost see through it, see through every bit of it to the room behind. The visits in between are all muddled and muddy but the day he brought my goldfish, he told us a story about a panther. He sat on our one rug, woven long ago by my grandmother’s hands, I by his feet and my mother and grandmother behind me. My father, as usual, carved on the stool in the corner. I remember placing my pointer finger gently into my goldfish’s bowl and waiting while I listened. At first, my fish dove to the bottom, but as the story progressed, he slowly drifted upwards. I thought at one moment he drew near enough that I might quickly press forward and touch him, but in a flash he escaped me. I wanted to know what his scales felt like, rub them backwards and learn if they were sharp, press his throbbing gills closed and see if he could breathe. My father interrupted to laugh at my curiosity, “Leave it alone then, girl. It’s just trying to swim. Stop jabbing at it.” I began to protest, but I knew he was right. Every time after that, when I dropped my finger gently into the water, I just held it still. After awhile, he became almost comfortable with its presence and would swim circles around as I watched. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
I Hope You Can Draw NowBy Christine Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com “Miss Stoddard, will you teach me how to draw?” She is the smartest girl in the class; the fastest reader; the biggest trouble-maker; a little diva of disaster. “I can't right now.” Kiddie scissors always jam on three sheets thick of construction paper: red, white, blue. “Did you finish your worksheet?” She leans onto the low table and whispers: “I don't mean now. I mean when I's grown like you.” I choke and almost drop the blasted scissors. Be firm. Authoritative. Don't get attached. “I won't be here when you're grown. I'm moving at the end of the school year.” “But someday you'll see me. Someday, when I's grown, we'll pass each other on the street or see each other on the bus. Will you teach me then?” The scissors clank against the wood pulp. “Maybe then.” And then I drop my gaze and turn my head to hide the tears rimming my eyes. Christine Stoddard is the Executive Editor of Quail Bell Magazine. This poem comes from her forthcoming collection, The Children of Jackson Ward.
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The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
TimeBy Joe Marchia QuailBellMagazine.com The one thing that gets us up out of bed every morning is the fact that we know nothing for certain. We have our guesses: we will not win the lottery, we will not be movie stars, we MAY get a promotion. But right beside those guesses is infinity. Small and large and timeless infinity. Joe Marchia is an author who has published several short stories and poems in various literary magazines such as Citizens for Decent Literature, Instigatorzine Magazine, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, The Beatnik, Milk Sugar Literature, Emerge Literary Journal and Two Hawks Quarterly.
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The Boy with the Dirty DredsBy Christine Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com Rashard always tucked his tiny fists into his coat sleeves, ready to propel them forward into a fast punch at any kid who talked badly about his eight brothas and sistas. Rashard was tall for a six-year-old but still small. His chubby cheeks and sweet vacant eyes belied his meanness. They bulged like his purple lips. Rashard was a caged dog who had been kicked too many times, but still found the rare occasion to wag his tail. One day, his mama walked into class wearing a Shell polo, stinking of gasoline, missing her front teeth, and bearing a Happy Meal in her soiled hands. The other kids called her “ugly.” To Rashard, she was the deity of Mickey D's. Rashard was always the first kid to punch me and the very first to hug me. He smelled of unwashed skin and his dreds were always dirty. Christine Stoddard is the Executive Editor of Quail Bell Magazine. This poem comes from her forthcoming collection, The Children of Jackson Ward.
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