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Being Brian
By Jerome Blanco
QuailBellMagazine.com
After Brian stuck his tongue out the window while driving up the I-5, he lost sleep thinking about what life would be like if he were a dog.
“You’re a person. You’re not an animal,” his wife said. “Is that my fault?” Brian gnawed at a chicken bone over dinner. He hadn’t shaved since they returned from San Diego five days ago. “My body may not be fur-covered,” he had told her, “but my face can be.” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Lord of the Lake
By Julian Drury
QuailBellMagazine.com Editor's Note: Originally featured in Terror Tales #4 for Rainfall Records and Books
Fishing in Lake Garmanta requires patience to an ungodly degree. I have to hold the reel just right, not too tight. I let the fishing pole hang on in my hands, prodding for a bite every so often. Just like when I fished next to my dad in this same boat as a kid, I have to just sit back and wait for the fish to bite. It seemed like a nice day enough. The sky isn’t too cloudy, and the normal rotting muck stench that I would smell wasn’t there. It seemed a miracle to me. The lake was calm, the air still. The cold began to set in. The trees with browning leaves on opposite ends of the shore did not bristle with any sound. Even the chirping of the birds was gone. Everything was quiet on the lake, it seemed too quiet. There was no sign of practical life. It all seems very weird to me. I have never seen the lake that dull before.
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l(one)ly
Her loneliness is a half-lit, empty train station in the wee hours of night that waits impatiently for something, someone to happen.
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OrchidShe pirouettes to a point of perfection. As she strives for unknown pleasures sensitivity caresses her movements; every nuance . . . Made pure by every gesture: A stride, a step, a jump; another revolution, turns her heart to passion. Boom the rumble of the drums carry her forward into a mid-air split. Before reticent toes tip toe forward in a shy expression of grace. Destined for her finale her exhilarations become tense; spring loaded: She’s about to become beautiful and bare; like a dew drop Orchid lost in the morning sun stretching towards an enigma, a star, and shuddering to a point of perfection before the evening falls.
#Unreal #Poetry #Dance #Orchid #Imagery #Creation #Feminine
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The Usual
Highs and lows
and shoes blocking the doorway. I saw a fuzzy bird in the skid marks on the 6 train. I willed it to come alive, but this world is usual and just 3-D. I’m not sure what’s infamy, what’s fame. It’s not my job to take long walks on the shore, picking up empty shells, imagining something inside. I am not the creator. I am entitled to more. And most of the time the ocean is somewhere between tides.
#Unreal #Creation #Nature #ComingAlive #3DWorld
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Failure in the Bushes
Words by Craig Rondinone
Image by Gretchen Gales QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: This poem originally appeared in The Rose and Thorn Journal in 2011.
Sitting and shifting
With the poison ivy, Stickers, And whatever else lies Between these bushes. Cannot find my way Without getting poked, Prodded or pinched. Cannot see the clear Without getting blinded, clothes-lined or choked. I am lost in the brush With no pathway out, No sun to shine my trail, No star without cloud cover. So I sit and shift Attempt to locate comfort And failure somewhere Between cozy and cramped, Between defeat and titanic. And I think I just found both In the same place Directly underneath me.
#Unreal #CozyAndCramped #FindingJustRight #FailureInTheBushes
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Lydia and the Red Lilies
By Jessica Dylan Miele
QuailBellMagazine.com
When Lydia was caught kissing boys at school, she didn't return home for fear of her mother's terrible temper. Instead, she headed to her grandmother's house, and along the way bought a fat bouquet of red Stargazer lilies, her grandmother's favorite. A wolf approached as she was walking out of the floral shop, gazing at her with shiny black eyes and drool on his lip.
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Thomas James 2: Thomas James
By Kiki Stamatiou
QuailBellMagazine.com
Thomas James was a man down on his luck. He searched his soul for the answers as to how he could get out of the mess he was in. After doing some time in jail for drug possession, vandalism and destruction of another’s vehicle, he came out of there having a new perspective on his life. He knew he had to make changes in his life that could make a positive impact upon his own life and upon society. Walking down the intersection of the street, he thought about what his life would have been like if his father had been a good and descent human being with high standards in regard to morals. How he would have carried himself in public today had his father been someone people could respect.
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The Artist
The artist sees with uncommon perceptions:
made clear. Made strong. Made right. Made wrong. Imperfections defined with a sharp fencing brush. A quick squiggle here and soft stroke there. With subtle tones and textures applied with confidence; with caressing care, with skin stripped bare, with sinew wrapped on bones protruding, beyond the study of life.
Vibrancy dealt freely for enhancement sake.
Not for enhancement. Not sake . . . A blood pulse witnessed from inside a mirror. The artist’s reflection poured out onto paper. Painted as promised by craft, and by skills that cannot be mastered but only bent to their wills. In a brief state of flux from the life that they study: from eye to brush . . . An artist sees with uncommon perceptions.
#Unreal #Artists #ArtsyFarsty #Masterpiece #FromEyeToBrush
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The House That Never Was“So do you know who you’re going to homecoming with?” I asked, turning my head to face Derek while we shuffled down the street. “I was actually hoping to go with you.” I snorted. “Oh. I didn’t realize that. I’m actually going with Stefan.” “Is it because I’m not popular?” “No. Of course not.” We plowed down the next street, passing by The Red House. You know that house. |