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Bosom friendGently I sucked On her mangled fingers She carved a stone in my flesh And I laughed out loud Violently baptized she was By my dripping mouth She skipped a heartbeat And brought me a new one Roman Sirotin and I am a 24 year old Russian photographer, writer, painter and a dancer. More at RomanSirotin.com.
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The World of YarnBy Tim Steele QuailBellMagazine.com Sarah watched the number 17 bus go by her window every night sometime between 11:14 and 11:19 p.m. Once, it had been unusually late, and she had sat in her chair stiff with anticipation, wondering if this anomaly would be accompanied by another, and the hope that kept her coming back to the window would finally be realized. But as the bus had crept by at 11:27, her heart had sunk the same way it always did. The bus had been empty, as it always was. Sarah had gotten to the bottom of the situation several weeks ago, riding the bus home from the store for investigational purposes. She had discovered that the bus made its last stop right before passing her street and beginning its journey all over again, delivering different people with different lives to the same stops and the same places, a process at once repetitive and always new. As a child, Sarah had dreamed of seeing fairies and goblins and elegantly dressed rabbits lurking outside her window; now she dreamed of seeing someone riding the bus as it passed her street. She thought this was pretty reasonable in comparison. The bus being empty was one of society’s silent laws, an unchanging fact that wasn’t worth the universe’s attention. Sarah knew that for a seat to be filled one night would mean that anything was possible, the walls and boundaries and limits of the world all crashing down in one small but glorious upsetting of the order. The World of Yarn was painted in sloppy blue letters above the door to the yarn shop Sarah had taken over for her aunt. An average of nine customers a day entered the store, at least four of which would wander in aimlessly, looping around the small corners of the space and taking it all in, as if visiting some sort of yarn museum. Sarah watched these people from the corner of her eye, recognizing the exact moment when it registered in their heads: Oh, it really is just yarn. Perhaps they had expected The World of Yarn title to only speak for a small section of the interior, with most of the store dedicated to the selling of a much more exciting item. Some of these people would proceed to feign slight interest in a particular strand or two before walking out of the shop with deliberate steps, maybe giving her a quick smile as they went or stooping down to watch her aunt’s goldfish for a moment, identifying with the uncertainty of every movement it made. Sarah liked these people. She understood them. She wanted to call after them and tell them about her understanding. She wanted to let them know how much she appreciated their pretending. In some small way it meant they were thinking about her and her feelings. That was nice of them. She wanted to suggest having a party to celebrate their shared social anxiety. They would maybe be funny and suggest a knitting party. Sarah would then disclose that she didn’t actually know how to knit, and they would laugh and laugh and laugh. At the coffee shop next door, Sarah gave a different name every time she was asked. Julia. Georgia. Yolana. Francine. Pamela (pronounced Paw-ma-luh). Pamela (pronounced Pamela). Milly. Amy. Amelia. Amelia Earhart Jr. Summer. Autumn. April. Mrs. January June. Determined not to use the same one twice, she would return to The World of Yarn and write down what she had said that day in the name journal she kept under the counter. In addition to keeping the records of her daily guises, the journal contained all the interesting names that Sarah heard floating by in her general vicinity. These went in a different section, of course, to avoid confusion. When her imagination disappointed her, Sarah would flip the journal to the overheard names column, pick one, and tell it to the tattooed barista, a man whose ever-present nametag never allowed him to be anyone but Luke. Before Luke, the head barista had been a man named Gene whose irritation seemed to grow greater and greater every time Sarah ordered, his skeptical eyes half-rolling at the sound of each identity she took on. But Luke smiled at her when she came in, and called out her names with accents that gave life to their unique sounds. Sarah liked to imagine that she was the most interesting part of his morning. Maybe even his day. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
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My Salvation Army LoverBy Christine Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com It was a humid Wednesday afternoon when I first saw her, standing flamingo style in the shoe aisle. She was one of only a couple of customers in the store at the time. But even if the floor had been swarming with shoppers, I would have noticed her. Her coppery skin glowed under the fluorescent light and her orange hair fanned out past her shoulders. She stood tall and wiry. Holding a black dress in one hand and a fuchsia purse in the other, she wiggled her left foot into a patent leather, teal snakeskin stiletto. Sometime between the moment she kicked off the stiletto and plucked a pink pump off the rack, I popped up by her side. “That color would look great on you,” I rasped. I cleared my throat and inched toward her, detecting the smell of strawberries on her skin. I later learned it was her signature scent. She startled and dropped the pump. “Thanks,” she said under her breath. We both bent over to pick up the shoe, knocking into each other. I apologized and she muttered something without making eye contact. Then she headed straight to the check-out and Dan to ring up her purchase. I lingered by the shoe rack and stared at her while she removed her pocketbook from her purse. A rhinestone skull keychain twinkled from the zipper pull. A dollar store find, I thought. Whenever she returned to the store, it was always on a Wednesday. That's when all of the items that had been on the floor a month or longer were marked half off. She was a bargain hunter. I liked that about her. It meant she was smart with her money. I also liked knowing that about her. She was practical. I imagined her driving a used Corolla, using coupons at the supermarket, ones she had clipped with those dainty hands and their ever-lacquered nails. Each time she came to the store, I'd catch her off guard. I liked to see her jump. I liked the flash that shot through her eyes. I liked the way her shoulders quivered. I would always find something to recommend to her. It couldn't be just any rag. It had to be special, perhaps even a little strange, like her. It also had to be inexpensive. Once I brought her an electric blue fur coat with butterfly buttons. She was pawing through a bin of tangled scarves when I found her in the back of the store. “This would go nicely with your hair,” I said. She blushed. “Thank you. I have one just like it.” I nodded and tucked it under my arm. Later I hid it in the 'Employees Only' section with all of the unprocessed donations. I didn't want anyone else to buy it. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
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Changeling Bridge“There is a town some miles north of Prague,” the guide said as the bonfire flames licked higher into the night sky. “It remains a very primitive town — governed by myth and lore, comforted by superstition.
“It is said that many ages ago, on an unseasonably windy summer morning, a child was born to this village. A child of pain that only wrenched free of Mother following three days of terror and numbing agony, after which she would not lay eyes on it for nearly a week, abandoning it to the careless watch of the town nursery. “The Child was an unfortunate one, of bulbous temples, protracted lobes, and skin dotted with marks like tiny island nations. Boasting one eye of onyx and one of azure, it would often seem to focus in two directions at a time. And even after four years of life, the hair of its head would not grow nor would its gums sprout teeth, leaving it to suckle at Mother long past its due as only some unholy beast would. “A more hideous and foul creature the town had never seen. “Mother would often leave the thing down by the murky river, where it would splash obliviously in the shallows, or out in the valley hidden among the ewes, but morning would always find it on the doorstep, or in the chicken coop nestled among the hens or in her very bed tucked against her chest. “Because of this Man was shamed. “One day, a foul wind brought down the sole bridge in the village. Carpenter spent hours at the riverbed, scratching his head as he thought on how to restore it in a timely manner. And so he hummed and he hawed; he consulted The Elders and he ordered Mother to her tea leaves, but no answer could reach him. “As night devoured dusk and he sat dangling his feet in the shallows of the river, Demon came upon him, spreading wings of mercury as he glided across the frothy whiteness. Alighting by his side, Demon cocked his head in appraisal of Man. “‘What troubles you, dear one?’ he asked affably. “‘An important convoy is to arrive three days hence, and the bridge is broken.’ “Demon gave a cursory glance to the dark wood and iron bobbing in the water as he replied, ‘So it is.’ Turning back to Man with a barren smile, he said, ‘Shall I mend it?’ “Cobalt eyes narrowed in suspicion as Man answered, ‘On what terms?’ “Demon gave a loud chortle into the night, wings rippling with glee. ‘You, Man,’ he began, wiping a silver tear from his onyx eye. ‘You have grown far too clever for your own good. Well done, consider your hand shaken.’ He gestured to the splintered remnants of the bridge, causing the beams to float above the water — tantalizing Man with the effortlessness of the act. ‘I will mend your bridge and well before the sun rises on the third day; all it will cost you is the first life to cross onto the stone.’ “Man thought for little more than the space of a heartbeat before acquiescing with a firm nod of his head. “‘It is done.’ “And it was. When Man rose the following morning and returned to the river, the bridge was fully restored and had even surpassed its former glory. In the center of the bridge stood a young man with eyes of coal, staring up at the morning sky as though it offended him. Man glanced at the Thing toddling on unsteady legs behind him, and felt a momentary guilt over his forthcoming treachery. The Elders always said that to trick a demon was a great boon, a mark of honor; so what reason could be given for this heaviness that had descended upon him? “Demon was fixated and did not lower his head at Man’s approach, only turning once the young was near enough to smell, its pungent odor clouding his head. Recognition and shame dawned; and with a snarl of rage, Demon pounced towards the traitor, but the Thing had already been tossed onto the cold, brown stone near his feet. “The Child’s eyes focused on his, the azure fogging seamlessly to black. “Demon lifted the Thing by a leg and with one last sneer at Man leapt over the ledge and disappeared into the still water below. “And to this day, any malformed or otherwise imperfect child born of the village is tossed from the bridge as an offering. “And to this day,” the guide intoned, his ebony eyes flickering in the flames as he made an end to his tale, “both Man and Devil are shamed.” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
From the Creator of Fox HuntFox Den Liz Cleaves is a freelance illustrator in the magical city of Portland, Oregon. Recently she published a picture book called Fox Hunt, that she wrote and illustrated. She holds a Bachelor's in Illustration from the Pennsylvania College of Art & Design and is a member of the Oregon Society of Artists and the Society of Children's Books Writers and Illustrators. She hopes that her illustrations will inspire creativity in people, regardless of their age. Seasons Greetings Tangled in Yarn Color Tree To see more of Liz's illustrations you can visit her website LizCleavesIllustration.com or find her work in our upcoming print quarterly.
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A Family History of Mental IllnessBy Sarah Sullivan QuailBellMagazine.com Depression dances before me, a manic grey ghoul his teeth crooked as the tombstones of my uncle who shot himself and the grandfather who died, muttering, in prison- and now this ghost has come for me. He sews my lips shut with monofilament, weaves his slimy fingers through the ventricles of my sore heart, pinches crackling neurons of my mind like a horse’s reins. He scatters the grainy pills on the table with a sly laugh. Thought you’d gotten rid of me, didn’t you? Oh, but you never will. With a flick of his bony wrist he taps the floor beneath my feet and it gives way. I dangle in the dark, gaunt feet swaying and knocking, like my uncle and all the ones who came before. Sarah Sullivan is a graduate nursing student at the University of Virginia.
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It Just Takes a Little SoulBy William R. Soldan QuailBellMagazine.com As he walked along the dusty stretch of road with his bottle and rickety old guitar, R.J. thought of all he’d lost. His mama had worked herself into the ground and his daddy, well, he never knew no daddy. Gracie and their sweet baby were gone now, too. During childbirth, that was. Music had always been his comfort in troubled times. Even when he was a boy, and he took work in the blistering heat of the Delta cotton fields to help his mama, music gave him strength. Oh, them were hard days. And when he lost his wife and unborn child, he took refuge in whiskey bottles and juke joints, playing his songs and drowning his grief. But the liquor and smoky rooms lit a fire in his belly. Gave him a yearning. He wanted fame and fortune. He’d once heard his mama say, “Them crossroads is a place of evil.” He’d asked her why, and she’d said, “You just mind me, boy.” His mama never did do much explaining of the things she said. She’d just tell him to mind her and fetch the water from the well. And he always did as Mama said. R.J. was known to have a good ear. He could play a guitar might fine for a man who couldn’t read notes. He and Willie Brown used to sit in the old graveyard, drinking shine and singing songs. They was real good, too. But just being good wasn’t good enough. Being the best is what satisfies. Soon, as the years was creeping by, he noticed his hands wasn’t working no more, not like they once was, anyway. All them days picking in the fields, and all them nights plucking rusty strings made his hands ache something awful. He struggled to make his fingers work the chords, and tuning that thing was downright painful. Calluses and blisters would split open, bleeding all down the neck. So seemed he was losing his strength and comfort, too. So now, midnight in Mississippi, he walked, guitar slung over his shoulder and a bottle of shine in his hand, heading down to where the 61 and 49 highways crossed paths. You mind me, boy, he heard his mama say. But mama was gone. Everything that mattered was gone. So he walked on. There, at the crossroads, was a big old willow tree on the southwest corner and open fields everywhere else, the tall grass bending in the breeze and glowing in the moonlight. R. J. sat himself under that old willow on a patch of dry earth and took a good swill of shine, his guitar laid across his lap. He flexed his fingers. Lord, how they hurt. But the Lord wasn’t nowhere around. The Lord had taken everyone he’d ever loved, and now was taking his ability to play. No, R.J. wasn’t looking for the Lord. He wasn’t really sure what he was looking for, but when he thought of his mama, somewhere deep inside he knew this spot was as far from God as he was gonna get. Them crossroads is a place of evil. |