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Seul By Bethany Freese QuailBellMagazine.com I think of my grandmother’s skin—warm creases, her hands rinsing off a peach, its hair smoothed from the softness of well water. Just eat from my hands, can you taste how ripe it is? I just picked it in the orchard this morning. Or the first day I met Rebecca in that cold café and how the overhead lighting made her nervous, so she pulled and stretched at the bottom of her shirt whenever she talked, and sometimes even when she listened. These lights make me itch. Or the time Keith and I sat on top of Angel Ridge, his legs hanging over the ledge, his dark hair dissolving into the thickness of the night, sitting by my side, his thumb softening my ear, his words frightening me. We are all alone. And no matter how much I try to remember the warmth of my grandmother’s hands or the way I saw myself in Rebecca’s nerves, I can never escape the night of Keith, the night he made me believe, made me see—that we are no more important than the roots of the trees below. #Unreal #FlashFiction #Seul #Memories #Nostalgia #InnerThoughts #TalkingToMyself Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Hacer Falta Hermanita, home hums in your computer screen, a digital hutch of familiar smile lines and sleepy whispers, the kind that come when sisters make midnight confessions. Your bed lies as close to mine as it did during our days of yore. Your baby blanket has traveled from world to world with you. While the time zone may change, the blanket remains constant: pale as the eyes you were born with and too thin for full warmth but a necessity, a reminder of your home across pixels. Logging on feels like walking in through the front door and finding you perched the sofa, arms poised for a hug. This time last year, we might have shared tea on the porch or secrets in the kitchen and leftover pasta in the evening. Now there are borders we must choose to ignore on the paper maps nobody uses anymore. #Unreal #Poetry #MissingYou #SisterLove #Sisterhood #LongDistanceFriendships #StudyingAbroad #Homesickness Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Rainy Day DismissalA suburban American version of the Japanese stories of Ameonna, or the Rain Woman
James pushed the blinds aside and looked at the sky. The sun wasn’t fully up, but he feared it looked like rain was on the way.
“Jamie,” his mother called, “breakfast is ready! Get up! We can’t be late again.” James pulled the covers off the bed and put on his slippers that looked like puppies. His mother had put Thrifty Maid syrup on the table and was taking a plate out of the microwave. All of their meals were frozen things that had been nuked so some bites were burning hot and others were ice cold. “French toast sticks for the birthday boy!” she chirped. “Why do I have to go to school on my birthday?” James asked. “Because I have to work,” she said flatly. Then she perked up, “We'll get a pizza for dinner tonight. You can even get pepperoni, if you want.” James poured a thin line of syrup on his plate. He picked up a French toast stick and swabbed the syrup with it. His mother looked out the window. “The maintenance man’s van is already in the parking lot,” his mother said. “We need to get a move on or you're going to be late.” “I hope it doesn’t rain today,” James said, looking out the window at the decidedly gray sky. “I hate Rainy Day Dismissal.” It seemed like there had been more rainy days since their regular teacher, Mrs. Sullivan, had left three weeks prior to have her baby. James wanted her to come back to school. He didn’t like Miss Onna, the temporary teacher. Everything about her was weird from her hair and the big black bag she carried everywhere to the way she spelled her name: A-M-E instead of A-M-Y. James really didn’t like Miss Onna at all. She had long black hair that sometimes covered her face and made her look like a witch in a storybook. And, maybe even worse, she had a habit of licking her right hand when she was distracted. Sometimes, Miss Onna would stand at the side of the playground in the shade of the trees, looking at the horizon and licking the back of her hand during recess. He hated when she reached out with that hand to help him with his work or to pass back his homework. There was a faint pink spot in the place she always licked. The skin was shiny and no little hairs grew there; it was like scar tissue or a burn. He was afraid that spot would brush against him. He knew it wouldn’t be, but he was afraid it would be slimy, like her saliva would ooze back out of that raw-looking spot on her hand. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Sea and I By Jessika Malo QuailBellMagazine.com The sea and I have always been lovers Exchanging, in our dance, roles of power But then you came in like a thunder flash into our light And so I exchanged the vastness of the sea for courting the defined Little did I know that it is all the same For as you and I swim, above an unknown depth Our love resembles mine and the sea Where we exchange in our dance, the roles of power Until another thunder flash walks on our light. #Unreal #Poetry #Poem #CreativeWriting #TheSeaAndI #Lovers #VastnessOfTheSea #OurLove Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Beginning for Abraham By T.K. Lee QuailBellMagazine.com I
Fucking phone. Fucking people on the fucking phone. We’ve decided to go in a different direction. Your resume was impressive but. But. But. Fuck. And now the cell phone was in several pieces. Beneath the painting his sister made one night while she was high on cocaine. Suddenly, the red made sense. The sharp edges of all those fucking squares made fucking sense. Suddenly, he loved it. Like, whole-world-loved-it. Shit. He could see clear through the bottle and that meant he was out of whisky. That meant if he wanted more he’d have to get up off the couch, throw on a shirt, throw on some pants, throw up and walk down the street to the corner liquor store and buy another bottle of whisky with money he was running out of. Shit. He smelled it. Fucking dog. No, shut your fucking mouth, it was a piece of God, this dog. All he had left. She was a goddamn gorgeous beast, White German Shepherd. Graceful, quiet, but old. Incontinent. Arthritic, and then, suddenly, he was crying. Abraham was crying. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Limbo We use big words to depict our predicament. Each letter expands; So the space between Tongue and breath shift into abysmal cavities; I am left to spelunk for the jagged truth Below. And to exhale the misty gem Above. And while these caves Echo a subterranean Unknown, Just know, The ground is hard, And the space between Is only limbo for you and me. #Unreal #Poetry #Photography #InLimbo #Relationships #Heart #Truth #Imagery #Diction Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Pearls Before Swine “Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you.” Matthew 7:6 God said, “Do not cast your pearls before swine.” So, I held them closely and adorned them on my neck, Counting them, thanking the departed oysters, Who martyred their bodies, To bless the world with some of the rarest beauty, Which, somehow, Managed to find me and encircle my throat, In memorial reverence. As I wandered through unbridled wood, I saw a shanty shack - A farm? - From a distance, I heard the calm murmuring of squeals, But as I stood outside of the pen, I realized that these poor pigs knew not their fate: To be slaughtered, gutted, without a dignified wake. I tried to tell them but, They wouldn’t listen, So, I trudged through their heavenly swamp of mud and shit, To tell them that we were had, that I could liberate them. I guess the swine didn’t realize who I was, Because, Just as I poured my humble offering into the acrid trow, They barrelled toward me, Bellowing orgiastic warcries, As they trampled me facedown into their hellish morass. Piece by piece, The swine devoured me en mass, Feasting upon my flesh, Gnawing at my bones, Greedily homping at flattened neck beneath their flailing tongues, Screaming as their valorous mouths tore out my vocal chords, My pearls, Savagely churned, but uncrumbled, Unlike the rest of the meaty swill made out of me. But that’s okay; I know exactly what's in store for them. #PearlsBeforeSwine #Bible #Pigs #Trow #AnimalCruelty #NoThanks #Ignorance #NoGoodDeedGoesUnpunished Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Cosmic Love By Naomi Yung QuailBellMagazine.com And then the stars Are brought out: Poured forth from A pail of dusk And strewn across The immaculate shore of black; Connecting like glittering garlands For some cosmic birthday party, Littering the sky With their luminous Glow. The moon—hung so carefully-- Hides half her face behind A cumulus curtain of shadow Like a shy teenage girl; Yet, It does not hide her Beauty. The stars and the moon Watch over the earth, Until the sun comes to relieve them Of their duty. One star was in love With Earth and he So desperate, so eager In wishing, Began to rush towards her. But haste makes waste And he lost control, Tumbled As a falling star; A brilliant fading flash Zipping across the night sky To perish In the embrace of she He so Loved. #Unreal#Poetry#NaomiYung#CosmicLove#FallingStar#Comet#Love#Celestial Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Living Doll Your childhood plaything Became your clone. You traded crayons for Your mother’s lipstick. Children’s fairy tales for Trashy romance paperbacks. Your room’s rose wallpaper is Canopied with Audrey Hepburn posters. At night, you braided your hair For those sophisticated waves. You sucked on lemons To perfect your pout, and Brushed with baking soda To bleach your teeth. Your envy: the doll’s porcelain skin-- Not too unlike the seat cover. You clutched after meals, To keep the spirit clean. #Unreal #Poetry #JessyRenrut#NeelyJohnson#Beauty#Perfection#ImpossibleStandards#SkinDeep Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Mediocria By Sarah Schwister QuailBellMagazine.com Mary sat in her small, cramped room hovering over an ancient book, its aged golden pages baring ink blots that resembled fairies and other mythical creatures. Hearing her baby brother, William, start to fuss from down the hall, Mary watched her mother’s shadow glide underneath the door. Mary drew her old lamp in closer, licking her lips in excitement as she read the legend of fairies over and over again. She mumbled the story to herself as she pictured what a real fairy would look like, her imagination raped of ideas by the faded black hole illustrations.
As William quieted down, Mary called her mother, Vanessa, just as the shadow brushed the corner of the parched wood floor. “Momma, could you come here, please?” Mary called, pushing the lamp back and straightening her pale blue blankets. With a creak, Vanessa looked at her daughter in a golden crown and candlelit glow from the contrasting lights. “Mary, dear, night hasn’t even fallen yet, why are you in bed already?” Vanessa asked, sitting on the corner of the twin bed and leaning over to brush Mary’s pale curls out of her bright eyes. Vanessa tried a smile, but failed as she saw her husband in her oldest child. Mary did not boast her mother's fair skin, sharp cheekbones, chocolate hair, or purple eyes. Every featured mocked that of her father, Henry, and her attitude was exactly the same. Vanessa faked a smile and brushed her daughter’s cheek before recoiling to her previous position. “I want you to tell me about fairies. A new legend, I have read all of the others from your book,” Mary said, tightening her fists in excitement. Vanessa looked taken aback, eyes darting around uncomfortably before deciding. “Well, it is said that fairies are the keeper of dreams and the guardians of the innocent,” Vanessa said, back growing rigid as she spoke. “They are invisible to our eyes, but it has been said that they can be seen at twilight; and caught.” Vanessa paused, growing unsure of her daughter’s wide eyes and twisting smile, but continued once again as Mary’s hand twitched. |