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Voynich Manuscript
By Veronica Tolentino
QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: Veronica Tolentino is a freelance illustrator and printmaker who grew up in a quiet ‘burb in New Jersey. After studying at the School of Visual Arts, she received a BFA in Illustration and had her work published in PLANSPONSOR Magazine and Visual Opinion, a publication of the School of Visual Arts.
#Unreal #VisualArt #VeronicaTolentino #Illustrations #Colors #SkinnydippingInTheGarden
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Thoughts
By Karl Stevenson
QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: First appeared on On the Grid Zine on April 1st, 2015.
I do not comprehend the things you say
Because this stage that I am upon does not play out that way. Each note my unsavory voice cast is only echoed in this second of the hour glass. My strength has been measured Like a camel treading through months of countless sand Only to find there is no dead end. Either I am at that point where the electron Fired and the constellation’s Star showers imagination On the toddler’s eye. Or at the exact time Helen Keller Discovers the life she sees is the one that Can’t be shared. I’m at the iceberg which found its way to Africa and is ecstatic to be adventurous only to Be entrapped in smothering heat that erodes it to Death,where at the coast line a girl is bathing in the cool Winds off of it for a mere time only to return to her disordered nation. I am that mighty stone that Killed Goliath the warrior, but also the Friend, father and Citizen killer.
#Unreal #Poetry #WarBetweenMindAndMouth #Goliath #Friend #Father #CitizenKiller
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Bloody Bindy
Getting punched in the gut was like having someone shove ice down my throat and push it deep into the pit of my stomach. Frozen fingers curled around my internal organs and sent an ice-cold feeling that avalanched through my body. It was a slow buildup of tumbling snow through my veins. And once I was completely frozen over, I fell to the ground limply and looked up at those chilling blue eyes of hers.
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Lingerie
By Katie Lewington
QuailBellMagazine.com
He woke beside her, it must be early. Still he got up, took out the bins, picked a banana from the tray and ate it as he filled a glass. Light washed out the hallway, he walked through its warm beams to mount the stairs and step back into the bedroom, bringing his girlfriend the pill and the glass of water. She was asleep, mouth drooling saliva on the white, plump, pillow. He laid it on top of the dresser for her to swallow and drink later then he showered and went downstairs to watch the Grammys on TV, scrolling through his Twitter feed on his mobile phone, barely aware as she woke and took her shower with none of the hot water that he had had, carrying her handbag along as she finished upstairs. Thinking of the shopping he would need to get for them, "Don’t forget your sandwiches." he told her, hearing the thunk and rattle of the fridge door and she showed him the lettuce, tomato and ham sandwiches, kissing him and leaving for work ten miles away, at an accessory shop.
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Mimes in Hi-Fi
1.
I have the same questions about love, death, etc., that everyone else does. Can funeral expenses be claimed on taxes? How do they say “fellatio” in French? Is this even real? The border between blue and aquamarine is in the process of being torn down. Why, perhaps, I can’t seem to avoid stepping in puddles of sky. Here’s a piece of advice: if a bird starts to speak, don’t interrupt. It might be reminding you to take one pill every three hours as needed. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Gorgon in New York
Cate Caldwell
QuailBellMagazine.com
“I wear this veil because I am a Gorgon.” Maddie said.
An angry pedestrian punched the hood of a Cadillac Escalade outside the coffee shop, and Maddie did not doubt the driver deserved it. The driver laid on the horn, the pedestrian yelled obscenities. The light changed. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Big Day in the Desert
By Charlene Langfur
QuailBellMagazine.com
Today it is like mind-bending. I imagine it is like the rush
of air or the ocean splashing in the shallows, waiting for the big wave or cutting up the first of the fresh peaches of the season, the summer’s bounty; you know the kind, ripe, the pink blush of the fruit but what I know for certain is what is in front of me. My small honey colored dog after her bath. Curls all over her neck, ready to take me out into the world again, past the giant palm outside the front door covered with tiny green dates, soon to grow bigger, the white Sonoran sand still cool in the early morning under the green palm over the white sand.
#Unreal #TinyGreenDates #HoneyDogs #ForcedSocialization #FreshPeaches #PinkBlush
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Art Knows
By Kateri David
QuailBellMagazine.com
Closing hour: brass teeth gnash within their locks.
Darkness has transformed the night-watchman’s son, mellowing his skin to a wan frenzy. The grains, his tiny body seeming to meld with the black of the museum passageway he is crossing. Half-running with his hands stuffed in his pockets, the boy enters the next room, portraits of regal looking figures lining every wall. He vaguely remembered, though he tried to choke the thought, that the dates on these paintings were centuries old, and their subjects were often real. Whipping his head left and right, his eyes flit over the faces in the frames, just to be sure none of them get any notion of moving into their two-dimensional heads. Ghosts could be real. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Ghost Story
Let’s say that ghosts are real, that right now there is one in your living room where you sit in your favorite wing chair reading. But you do not know that the ghost is there. You do not know if the ghost is male or female, because the ghost is invisible. I mean, it’s a ghost. You cannot see it.
For greater ease in telling the story, let’s say the ghost is a he. So he stands there, poring over the book titles on your shelves. He stares in the mirror, but he cannot see himself; he’s a ghost. He is invisible. But maybe that is only vampires, only vampires cast no reflection. Maybe ghosts can see themselves. So you are reading Pride and Prejudice. The ghost stares out the window at the daisies in your garden. Maybe the ghost grimaces a bit, watching you scratch your scalp or pick your nose while you read Austen. You cannot see the ghost, but the ghost sees you. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Full Complement
By Phil Temples
QuailBellMagazine.com
I round the corner and head up the street towards the neighborhood bar. That’s when I spot the utility truck. And the traffic cones. And the spectators. And a police car.
This can’t be good. Power outage? |