The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Chalk PoetryPhotography by Erin Maloney Videography by Olivia Blackwell Poetry by Christine Stoddard Featuring Luna Lark QuailBellMagazine.com Margo lost her lover like an oyster loses a pearl. Misery--and the creek by the sea--snatched him one spring evening. And now like a kindergarden artist, she beckons him with purple chalk. Before the sun pours into nighttime, Margo scrawls her words on crags and in crevices by the water. She asks how death is, and how long it will take for her heart to unfold from the mangled mess it has become, and if she will ever love again. The rocks do not answer and neither does the wind. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Wolf's RainBy Jon-o Gazdecki QuailBellMagazine.com Lost under the moon, Howling to the stars above. A wolf I am, brave. Her eyes, they glow red. Bloomed under the lunar light Paradise... She'll lead The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Eighth WifeBy Megan Arkenberg QuailBellMagazine.com Don’t open the door, he said, and I listened to him. Listened because, like everyone else in his life, I was afraid. Well, I thought, leaning against the tower wall to ease the burden on my laundry-bearing shoulders, if there was one thing my husband could cure a body of, it was fear. Oh, he was terrible in that first week of marriage, crashing around the dining room like a heated bull, dragging me up these steps to the door at the top of the tower and shaking a promise from me that I would not, absolutely would not open it. And then there were the stories—all his pretty little aristocratic ladies before me, carried off by consumption and apoplexy and what-not. Yes, consumption—as if those bitches had ever spent a night in the cold in their lives. So of course I was frightened. But even I, silly little laundry maid that I was, could see the value in a marriage to Count Bluebeard—and he was, contrary to what the stories may have told you, most phenomenally handsome. It wasn’t so bad. The drafts in the castle were loud, but not nearly as cold as the gaps in my father’s thatched roof—and if the rats were bigger than the ones at home, well, at least they didn’t bite. My husband, too, was not as cruel as he first appeared. His face, with its fierce blue-black hair and cold gray eyes, hid a soft, gentle—even submissive—heart. I vividly remembered bringing him a plate of apples on the morning after our wedding, feeding them to him with my own hands—the soft scratch of his tongue on my fingers when he licked away the juice. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Lonely UnicornDrawing by Helen Georgia Stoddard Poem by Paisley Hibou QuailBellMagazine.com There is no sexy in sad--sadness being sloppy, sunken, sometimes nearly mad.
I shall not paint the sudden flush that swells the heaving cheeks. I shall not photograph the pools of mucous saddled above the lip. Only the Virgin could weep beautifully, and not even a unicorn's tears shine gold. So hide your face, Unicorn Man. Mimic the ostrich and flee for the sand. When your fair lady-in-waiting comes to comfort you, hold high your horn. The Lord knows she swallows her own tears like blood. Her heart is a puddle of dark little tears, in fact-- skewing the ratio of water to flesh in her willowy body. Your ocean is her lake. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Coquette CorpseProse by Josephine Stone Photography by Stephen Palke Model: Brandy Rohz QuailBellMagazine.com I've got a disease growing at the base of my spine
and I've become too cowardly to say if it's yours or if it's mine. Inebriated whispers lay dormant at your neck, ears and hips you kiss them good-bye as they each fall from your lips. I try to catch them in my hands before they hit the ground they trickle through my fingers just to lay unfound. Our skin pales and sinks tight against our bones as we carry on with this dance and each joint bends and moans. To keep time we're stepping on footprints so delicately placed with my arms around your neck, and yours around my waist. Tonight our bodies will gracefully collide prematurely soaked in a sweet formaldehyde. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
From "The Legend of Jonathan West"By Benjamin Nardolilli QuailBellMagazine.com ...And to Manhattan we all came burning, Jonathan, and me, the greaser, the hipster, The future rock star and his wives, The next great hope, the last saint, A dozen future accountants, a fencer, A roofer, vice-presidents, and admirals, But no one else admirable, too many ambassadors, No one bearing gifts, only orders, all of us Young and beautiful, even In our ugliness we were still gargoyles, Too young for the world to notice, Too old to sit and play, though some tried, They lived a vanity fair and we brought the stories And the entertainment, the others Brought the drinks and chairs, We revived each other, cold water On flat floors, we were chased out, Consumed everyone’s experiments And still never lost our hair until we were in mourning. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
That DayProse by Margaret Amonette Photography by Christine Stoddard Model: Sarah Houis QuailBellMagazine.com She scrambled around her room and packed her things. When she finally paused, she ran her fingers over her desk, forming a line in the dust. She sat on their bed for the last time and gazed at the photographs and posters pinned to her wall from long ago. As the last papers strewn about were jammed into her bag, she walked slowly down the steep stairway. The late sun flitted through the window above the door, projecting the number ‘106’ into a shadow on the ceiling. The shadows always played tricks on this old house; they were somehow just as stifling as they were beautiful. Before she called a cab for the train station, she walked to the bridge. Last goodbyes to her river, to her trees. Last goodbyes to a place that would continue to haunt her days. But she took it in, locked it in her memories. The capacity to change flowed through her bloodstream. Hope filled her with grace. The long road ahead may be daunting, but it called to her, and she listened. Farewell to the past. Farewell, farewell, farewell. |