The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Safari SirenDirector: Tykeya O'Neil Stylists: Lindsey Story and Sidney Shuman Photographer: Jasmine Thompson Make up Artist: Rachel Thibault Writer: Christine Stoddard Model: Sacagewea Allen QuailBellMagazine.com Ananzi is a safari siren
A trickster of men and beasts The sexy Puck of Africa Long-legged and hungry The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Happy one year anniversary!Dear fledglings,
Thank you so much for giving us a full year of your dedication. Last year, we launched our website on September 11, transferring content from Christine Stoddard's blog to the new and improved QuailBellMagazine.com--a full-fledged experiment in the imaginary, the nostalgic, and the otherworldy. Now we have submissions and contributors from all over the world and, even though we're just beginning, we've already gotten a fair amount of exposure. We've launched a print 'zine, created a mobile app, put on a fashion show, and tabled at several art festivals. There's only more more to come. Again, thank you for lending us your ears and eyes. We love our readers and know that you love us, too. Feathery hugs, The QB Crew The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Photographers' Guidelines Quail Bell's a magazine dedicated to all that is imaginary, nostalgic, and otherworldly. We like the magical, the historical, the quirky, and the just plain weird. Give us beauty (or at least strangeness) and give us insight. More specifically, this is what we hope to see in any photo you submit to us:
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
All I Need By Omid Khanzadeh QuailBellMagazine.com Cleaning Lady-Excuse Me She knocked again. “Don’t come in,” yelled a frightened boy. The old woman stood against the wall waiting for the boy to be done. She went and knocked on the other door and heard a similar cry of discomfort. “Not done yet,” said a female voice. She passed the time by wiping the wooden doors down with her special homemade wood cleaner. The male and female figurines were especially wiped down carefully. She used her fingernails to pick the dirt within the dress of the female figure and the head of the male. She looked at her watch and noticed it was almost time for the closing bell. She placed her ear against the smooth door and heard a little girl having some difficulty. The old woman began refolding her towels and rearranging her nicely placed cleaning products. She looked at her watch again as she waited patiently to complete her afternoon routine. These were the last two bathrooms left in her shift. She started cleaning the water fountain and scraping the gum off from underneath a nearby bench. She even considered mopping the hallway again. She went over and again knocked gently on the girl’s bathroom door. She didn’t hear anything. “Cleaning lady-excuse me,” said the old woman as she opened the door. The door quickly shut close as the wooden door almost knocked the old woman onto the floor. She threw her wood cleaning towel down in frustration. She held her knee and sighed as she stood up and saw her towel staining the area around it. The female voice on the other side of the door began muttering sentences but the cleaning lady heard nothing. The old woman left and came back with a mop in her hand. She began mopping the floor. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Next Exit By Philip Kobylarz QuailBellMagazine.com “I had wanted to fuck her for forever” were the first words that came into my mind as I looked out on the chocolate mountains behind the billboard of the casino. Years ago, my wife and I had come to this very motel in Winnemucca, Nevada as it was the half way point from Idaho to California. We were moving. In transition. She had a new job. Everything was perfect. The giant sign outside the window blinked a twelve foot version of what I thought we were: “Winners." No neon letters were missing. That’s all it said. W i n n e r s. That was then and this is then and now. I have returned to Winners Casino in the hellhole that is this place with its one strip featuring a virtual sadness museum of little to no relative history, the cigarette smell of desperation, and oddly, a Portuguese restaurant. I am without wife, which is fine because she would be perfect for this place, draped always in black dresses, her favorite non-color. Like the blackness that she enveloped herself in, she is gone. Long gone. This time I am here to meet the new her. The woman I had been accused of having an affair with. My student. An obsession that never was but an undeniable afterthought, or bugbear . . . what is it when there is something stuck always in the back of the mind? What is that word? A brain splinter? In the desert, words escape me like sweat evaporating. Her name is Brianna Olsen and indeed she is shorn of Swedish Mormon stock. She has for years written me letters. She took all my classes. She would stand very, very close to me. Cue the police song. She absolutely would not give up. And since I have nothing now, nothing that is my own, why not? Isn’t that what Nevada is for? Beautiful unattainable illusions. We have agreed to meet here. She is 26 and already divorced. My age is irrelevant but do not think she could be my daughter. More like little sister. Or maybe a niece. A niece I can have my way with and this single factor, not the conversation or what we will eat, terrifies me. I am drinking watermelon martinis in the bar of the casino. They are very easy to stomach and are a bit weak but there is sugar on the rim. No one of any youth has entered the casino is the last hour. The requisite obese woman with tubes hooked up to her nose and a Pseudo-Hawaiian shirt most likely purchased at a flea market. Men whose skin have transformed into beef jerky, slick backed hair, Polo-like shirts, and gold bracelets. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Bowl By Carrie Ryman QuailBellMagazine.com Willow’s face was flushed with a radiant glow of love and forgiveness. Any trace of shame or judgment that had blemished it was now gone. My wife’s smile, redolent of our honeymoon years, gave me the strength to turn around, step to the rim of the Bowl and face the green liquid below for the second time in my life. “It’s the right thing to do, Field.” Her voice was calm and steady, without a hint of reservation. She stood behind me, encouraging hands on my shoulders. “I know. I need a few minutes.” “Take your time,” she said, sliding her arms around my waist. “Careful,” I said. “Don’t get too close.” “It’s okay, honey. Just let me know when you’re ready.” She pressed her cheek against my back. I could feel her warmth through the thin fabric of my cornsilk shirt. I caressed the backs of her arms. I strained for one last breath of Willow’s salty rose perfume, but the air was an acrid mix of pine and chemical. It stung my nostrils. I closed my eyes, trying to forget where we were, standing at the edge of our lives together. How many places had Willow and I stood this way? A happily married couple spooning lakeside in the moonlight, at the base of our marriage tree, at the edge of the Oasis city garden, beside Sage’s crib. “Sage.” My throat ached every time I said my son’s name. I tightened my lips to keep the misery from breaking free, but a ragged sigh escaped. “We’ll take care of him.” Willow tightened her arms around me. “Your brothers and sisters will help me.” “Yes,” I croaked. If I spoke another word, I would sob like a coward. Sage will grow into a fine young man. At the age of eleven, he was halfway there. He wasn’t a baby any more. My son was in the Hall of Learning at the moment and had no idea that his parents were here, standing at the Bowl once again. Willow would greet Sage at the jade arch after his lessons and tell him, give him my letter. I wanted to spare my beloved son the pain of saying goodbye. Sage could be proud of his father again. It was enough for me, knowing that. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Raven PoopBy Micah Taylor
QuailBellMagazine.com |