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Notes from Last NightBy Helen Georgia Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com the shy kisser gemma, the guardian angel meat pies at 5 in the morning totally bitten The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Estranged PostcardsThe mixing and combining of images.
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Field DayBy Beth J. Whiting QuailBellMagazine.com It was field day at her school and Kathy was less than thrilled. She had a book with her and was planning to read the whole day through. She sat to the side of the playground and began to read. Within an hour the coach came up to her and said, “If you don’t participate in three events, you will lose points.” Something told Kathy to make a break for it. Were there really three events worth participating in? When the coach was out of sight she ditched school. Kathy decided to take a detour home through the forest. As Kathy was walking home, she heard a weird sound coming from a pit in the forest floor. She crept to the edge and found a Bigfoot-like creature pacing across the ground. When it saw the girl, it said. “Don’t be alarmed.” “What?” “I am a man, more correctly was a man. My father did experiments on me and I ended up this way. My name is Steve.” “Why are you here?” “I ran away from home. I thought I might survive in the wilderness. It’s been a day out here so far and I haven’t really. Can you do me a favor and bring me some food?” “Umm. . . I guess. You’re not very young, are you?” “I just turned eighteen. Not too old. What about you? Thirteen?” “No, twelve.” “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” “It’s field day. I ditched.” “Oh. Who wants to be in school anyway?” “You lived a normal life before today?” “For the most part. My father was a scientist and he came up with an idea to show just how close the monkeys and humans were to each other. I was his guinea pig. If I had known that this was going to happen I wouldn’t have done it.” “You seem like a smart guy.” “I was. I was the top student in my class.” “And your father threw it all away.” “Yes, he did.” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
To Bury the Life from BeforeBy Christine Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com The soil on her grave took two years to dry because the storms would not cease. The clouds could not blink back their tears; and their misery blackened the sky. When I try picturing her face—every crease-- I tremble before one of my greatest fears: she has faded into another city phantom. Who can make her out in the noir? Who remembers her before one car rendered her the tragedy of the annum? A ghost giggles in the dark; a bat flutters through the park; the trees bend, their palettes stark. I want to see the obituary in the flesh. No newsprint, no words, not even a letter. Just a smile or a sigh, however fleeting, from the girl who dreamt of meeting a fate of bylines would be better than staring at this photograph a thousand times. But I must start another day afresh to the silence of her heart beat, to her absence from headlines. They have forgotten. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Film Frames in FocusBy Zach Bowman QuailBellMagazine.com Zach is a jack of all trades, with talents and interests in illustration and filmmaking. His artwork mainly deals with mysterious and macabre subject matter, ranging from realistic to cartoonish. Even though he has been an illustrator longer than he has been a filmmaker, he graduated from Virginia Commonwealth University with a B.A. in Industry Filmmaking and a B.F.A. in Auteuristic/Independent Filmmaking in 2013. His film work surrounds dark and existential themes, including death, obsession, and love.
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The BalloonBy Rory Fleming QuailBellMagazine.com When the town was still small, Fred made a hot air balloon. He made the balloon from vinyl canvas and the basket from woven straw. When he was done, he put a sign out on the field of daisies. It read: HOT AIR BALLOON RIDE FIFTEEN DOLLARS MUST BE 5’ TALL TO RIDE He reasoned fifteen was a fair price and that young kids shouldn’t ride the balloon because people are much sadder about early deaths. He didn’t do anything to let the people in the small town know that the air balloon was there but they came anyway, people with all kinds of stories. Fred shook hands with the first person who rode the balloon. He was a world traveler, yet he had not ridden in a balloon. When he went up into the cloudless sky with Fred, looking at the small patch of land and the long emptiness, he teared up. It reminded him of his daughter who had neglected to talk to him for years. He asked Fred if he had any kids. Fred said no, his kid was the air balloon. The man was paying to stand inside it. When the air balloon landed in the field, the man and Fred shook hands. The man adjusted his explorer’s hat and went on his way. The next day, a couple with a young child wanted to ride the balloon. Fred said that he was uncomfortable with letting the kid ride the balloon, even with parental supervision. “It’s too early to see the world, kid,” he said to the little boy, “for what it is.” The parents were upset with Fred and declined his offer to ride the balloon. Yet many more came that day, from word of mouth. The explorer told all his friends about the experience that moved him to tears. His friends lined up to ride the balloon. They were both male and female, of various ages and sizes. They were poor, they were rich. Fred would let two riders into the balloon at a time. Often they hugged while in the balloon. Sometimes they did this because they were just scared and needed someone to hold onto. Often Fred couldn’t tell. Fred gently smiled while guiding the balloon with the strings he had wrought. Fred couldn’t remember a time without the balloon. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Up Up Up We GoUp Up Up We Go is a collage of the cityscape, which serves as a reminder that there is always an escape from the crowdedness, noisiness, and ever-changing lifestyle of the city.
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Shall we dance?By Roman Sirotin QuailBellMagazine.com My place is among the rotting corpses Forgotten and buried by blooming decay You're dancing along with four angry horses On top of one of them I sit and play My place is among the dead autumn leaves Blown to ashes by cold winter breeze You're dreaming above the mountain peaks On top I am a floating scatted mystique My place is among the magnificent stars Long dead, but still shining bright from afar You're watching them glow as they shoot through the sky I just might be one of them falling to die On you. Shadows sank to my face In vicious dark ways This world's a joke What else's there to say? Roman Sirotin and I am a 24 year old Russian photographer, writer, painter and a dancer. More at RomanSirotin.com.
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TsunamiBy Sarah Sullivan QuailBellMagazine.com Illustration by Zach Bowman It wasn’t like waves. The water was black. I said to myself, “We are in God’s hands now.” Sarah Sullivan is a graduate nursing student at the University of Virginia.
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