The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
At the MomentBy Melissa Palmer QuailBellMagazine.com It was hard enough for Josie to get a date these days, what with the economy being so bad. It’s not like she could afford to go out to bars, even if she wanted to. It was hard enough with the social networking and the dating sites that promised to find her one and only, despite the fact that half of the handsome and available young men messaging her were actually convicts or overweight married guys looking for some kind of treat that had less to do with love and more to do with a tragic spell-check error. It was hard enough with all of that. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Into the Void (A Gypsy Tales Chapter)By Randy Rowe QuailBellMagazine.com The cosmic and planetary forces quivered. Time stopped awaiting the trigger to resume as Lillith entered the unknown, buffered within the serene garden that was her womb. At the edge of a village, a farmer stood at a well
with a bucket full of sand dry as ash. His attention halted, as did the wind. The birds quelled, daily sounds of village work and play, and the sky flashed. All around his life stopped. Only his breath and prayer could he hear as a force pulled him to turn and look across the field, where at the height of the burnt wheat a movement of blonde hair moved toward him slowly, bobbing up, concealed. His eyes riveted unable to blink or turn away as out from the field stepped a young girl. She was merely waist high: a sun ray. Their eyes locked, hers of blue: an untouched pearl. The little girl smiled and raised her hand, palm spread as only they moved within the air around their mind's land. She moved closer to the farmer and said, “Why are you holding a bucket of sand?" The farmer was startled to hear her speak his command, for their village was far from others and theirs was versed. Kneeling down with the bucket, he filled his hand with sand and held it out to her and spoke, “Our well is dry and we thirst.” “I too, thirst for a drink,” she whispered. “Please empty the bucket except for what my hands can hold.” Not clear why he did as she asked, the farmer complied. “Now that you hold this dry sand and I, an empty bucket, how shall we quench our thirst untold?” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Glitter Vomit RockBy Luna Lark QuailBellMagazine.com Located on West Leigh Street in Richmond, VA. Luna Lark scampers from street to street in the early evening, bringing color, joy, and questions to Richmond, Virginia and beyond. She arms herself with unassuming bags of tricks--plain grocery bags from the outside, glitter/paint/fake flower explosions on the inside. (Albeit her outlandish costumes may be less than unassuming). Luna Lark finds her trinkets on sidewalks, in garbage cans, in craft store clearance bins and at dollar stores. She is a firm believer in gleaning, dumpster-diving, street-combing and recycling. When Luna Lark goes location scouting, she looks for "ugly," "dirty" places. She decorates the ghetto, the projects, the bad neighborhoods upper-middle class children are supposed to avoid at night and even during the day. Luna Lark figures that everybody deserves art. LunaLark.com
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
BirthdayBy J.S. Watts
QuailBellMagazine.com This is a story about a birth and what comes after, but to get to the birth and its conclusion we have to start at the beginning, the very beginning, or at least the very beginning of things that are relevant to this story. In the beginning things began, such is the nature of beginnings. It is not for me to speculate about how or why: light overcoming dark, the breaking of an egg, flesh pulled from clay, the speaking of a word – of many words, the ultimate bang. Beginnings come about for many reasons and in many ways. It is only humankind that insists on reducing infinity to one way, one cause and effect and then believes it is acceptable to uncreate any of their kind that does not accept their particular negation of possibilities. So, we have a beginning and in this particular beginning many, many things have come into existence. There is time, space, matter, anti-matter and life and all of it, and I do mean all of it, is, in some definition of the term, conscious of being. Existence is a humming, throbbing self-aware focus of energy, or perhaps energy is just another thing that exists. Perhaps this isn’t a beginning at all, because the very fact of there being a beginning implies a something before the beginning and a something after it, but here there is no before, no after, just now, creation without end, etcetera. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Graffiti Souls Under the MoonBy Ruth Dominguez QuailBellMagazine.com In swimming the depth and breadth of you there was suddenly nothing more so together we stoked fires near the shore trembling, our graffiti souls covered only in our threadbare dreams like the Buddah you would say “A finger pointing to the moon, is not the moon…” and I would hold a moment silent and breathless to see if I could reflect moonlight the moon (which had risen now) full and succulent and in the end there is no end we move apart reluctant and deliberate as the expanding universe each body-- moons, stars, planets-- held together by a precarious gravitation. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Brothel without a HeartbeatBy Josephine Stone
QuailBellMagazine.com I look at the layers of rock. The ones on top are light and look like they are covered in powder. As I dig deeper with my plastic ladle, the rocks beneath are darker, clumped tight together and heavy. In some corners it is easy to wedge the spoon, bending at a 45 degree angle, under a clump and lift it out, smaller rocks spraying across the wooden floor. These bigger clumps are the spots where she likes to urinate. The feces are easier to get out. They are always on top, and she usually does a good job of covering them so they just slide on the spoon, and into the wrinkled, plastic grocery bag. Good cat. You have me whipped, Skaldskaparmal, and sometimes I cannot believe I get on my hands and knees to sift through these layers of disgusting pebbles, actually thinking to myself about igneous, sedimentary and metamorphic layers of your shit and piss. You are my best friend, though, and I suppose people do a lot for friendship sometimes. I'm already late for work, and that makes me relax. It's the initial hitting the time you're supposed to be there that's a doozy. Might as well take a nap now. I shake my head at my lethargy and figure that if I've already had my face in Skalds' box my day can't get much worse. It's not much work to do anyhow, just a few visits to make before I contact Rob with the stats. I throw on my best black suit, walk through each room to make sure all of the lights are off, and then head out to catch the bus. I kind of like the fact that it is so unreliable, and that everyone looks so sad on the bus. It's like we're on a ride to visit our terminally ill children, or to a gas chamber, and the driver knows it and doesn't want to hurry because none of us really want to get there too fast. People always seem to be thinking so hard, too, and it can be suffocating at times. I hop off at the Cranston Street stop across from a strip mall with its basic chain grocery store, Chinese restaurant, alcohol store and tattoo shop. I stay on the east side of the street and walk up the asphalt to the door of Moore's Funeral Home. Thankfully there are a lot of cars out front, a good sign. I am glad a lot of people are here to see her, and it will take the pressure off of me having to talk to anyone. I walk in and hear the typical, drab piano music playing from a hidden boom box. The place is packed, the walls covered in flowers. I take a seat in the back row, preferring to walk up alone, or when there is less of a line. I'm one of those wait-till-all-those-pushy-people-board-the-plane, or get-lunch, or get-into-Wal-Mart-on-Black-Friday kinda guys. I can wait. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The MournersPhotography: Jenny Davis Writer: Christine Stoddard Models: Lucy Coleman, Nora Mosley, Helen Georgia Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com They delved into their aunt's closet and dressed for mourning--
lost spirits floating through the bed chamber, hungry and sad. They sensed human dust streaming through the soft sunlight as they flattened their hair and tied their sashes, shuddering. The ghost's name was Maggie, Auntie Maggie of Greenville. She liked lockets, Snow White, gray kittens, and apple butter. The mourners recalled the cinnamon butter's sweet grittiness. They imagined those silver lockets swinging through the air. Snow White conquered their minds, lips smeared with fruit. She wandered the birch-filled forest, stroking a blue-gray cat. Auntie Maggie's face gleamed from every trunk and every leaf. Then the mourners returned to their black lace and black velvet. They concentrated on ribbons and bows, barrettes and gloves. The windows cried, "Maggie! Maggie!", but the mourners said, "Could you pass the hairbrush?" "Cousin, where's the powder?" And they primped for the funeral as flurries fell to the ground. |