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Insomniac in ScotlandThe sun reaches slowly upwards into blue dawn
the seagulls make sure the ear can hear their morning cries the breeze is sea salt ridden and gentle on the skin this body will not sleep The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Practice Makes the Perfectly BizarreBy Alan Cooper QuailBellMagazine.com Croucher Art is the only thing in my life that’s constant. It’s the only thing that I constantly think about and constantly want to get better at. Up until high school, the concept I had of art and what exactly was “good” art varied a lot. Both my parents are artists, as well as my grandpa. My mom being from Japan and my Dad being from Chicago gave me a wide spectrum of different techniques and artistic styles and perspectives on the world of art. I never thought I would ever be a professional artist or considered myself an artist at all. Being surrounded by people who were just way better than me made me feel like I couldn’t do anything as well as they could. Sure, lots of people called me the “artist” and were constantly asking me for drawings. But growing up with artists for parents, I just didn’t feel qualified to call myself an artist. I never thought I would ever get into painting. I guess I was too embarrassed to try something new like painting and have people judge me for being bad at it. I always felt like I had to be good at everything that had to do with art on my first try or people wouldn’t think I was a real artist anymore. I even remember ripping drawings out of my sketchbook for fear they would think I wasn’t good. But slowly that changed and my mom gave me a few pointers on how to paint. I liked it! It was actually a lot easier then I thought it would be. Granted, I wasn’t doing anything that amazing. But for the first time in my life, I enjoyed painting and I started to work with more mediums and try new things. I also realized that nothing has to be perfectly measured and painted with precision. Although there is a time and place for that, I guess I found my style and I’m happy with my work. Robbery Scared of Nothing See more of Alan's work here.
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The Roller RinkBy Terrence Adams QuailBellMagazine.com That old Parent Trap, is what she called it. Boarded up years ago by the county because the owners owed thousands in back rent, or that they refused to pay their utilities, or some kinda thing that would result in a nice family oriented place gettin’ the screws put to it by those bastard collections agencies and their platoons of shifty eyed suit and tie men. I never had any memories of the place myself outside of a few frontal lobe snapshots my brain kept stored away for when I was cursed with restless, vivid sleep. Anyways, I stood in front of it now. The setting sun behind me made the entrance look like a branding iron fresh from being dangled over an open flame. The gravel that made up the parking lot poked the soles of my shoes and forced me to shift my position every few minutes. I stared on helplessly. it had been long enough now that the boards covering the doors and windows were beginning to rot and weaken from seemingly endless bombardments of the constant seasonal onslaught. Warm wind rose and drifted across my body giving me the sensation that it was trying in vain to push me away as though it were a flirtatious teenager attempting to show affection for a member of the opposite sex for the first time. I tried to clear my head of the underlying fear that the breeze wasn’t a breeze at all, but that instead the building itself was, impossibly, breathing. I can’t rightly recall why I even stopped here in the first place. Work had been hard enough and for the majority of the day I found myself wishing with profound indignation that the roof would just go ahead and cave in, leaving me buried underneath mounds of rubble, suffocating to death. All I wanted to do was go home, drink, and let my nerve endings twitch out for a while. I had no need to be here and yet here I was. Funny how life works sometimes. The hammer in my hand dangled lazily, the weight of its head pushing comfortably against my fingers. I swung it lightly to and fro as I began to walk slowly and without a definitive purpose towards the front doors. For a place that used to be a popular little roller rink I thought it interesting that I didn’t feel anything even close to childlike enthusiasm upon approaching it. The first few nails gave way easily, falling soundlessly around my feet. Dust particles drifted into my nose, causing me to stop momentarily to fight through a particularly aggressive fit of sneezing. Her words created waves in my head. Parent Trap. Parent Trap. Parent Trap. Terrence Adams has worked as a freelance writer for the past ten years. He has written for multiple websites covering multiple formats from pop culture to business. He has worked as a head copywriter and editor on a full-time basis for both Premiere Radio Networks in New York City and an internet start-up called Playpon.com in Columbus, Ohio.
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The Grace of the CrazedPresence Roman's works give a peek into imagination and his individual essence. Each piece is distinctive, imprinted with his own touch of insanity. Without resorting to HDR and blank model whoring, bright lights and prime colors, his instinct leads us towards a more atmospheric space to inhabit the astral lens of being, as in a distant memory. His work is uncompromising and pure, coming from deeper intentions. Spell Flight See more of Roman's work here.
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StrayBy Brigette Pugh QuailBellMagazine.com Illustration by Zach Bowman They were the perfect couple. Everyone said so. Marie, quiet and thoughtful, a balance for Charlie’s charismatic affability. They began dating in high school and it was generally expected that they would finish their university studies and marry soon after. More a question of when, not if, and their union was only one of many expectations for Marie. She was from a talented family and sure to be as successful as the women who came before her—composers, musicians, artists and actresses—such a long line of creative achievement that those who put faith in the fantastic spun tales around an enchanted moonstone amulet that had been passed down through generations too many to count, and even those who didn’t believe in fairy tale things thought the family charmed. Marie avoided talking about her family when possible, but her reluctance did not stop others from comparing the magical stories she wrote to the work of an ancestor known to scholars as one of the first women to write down what had once only been spoken. An interesting connection to most, and fuel for those who believed that Marie’s imagination proved the amulet’s power. Magical speculation aside, on one point everyone could agree: a young man as lively and captivating as Charlie could only benefit shy Marie, whose talent no one could deny, even if she was a bit too reserved for her own good. The young lovers had no reason to argue with the future expected of them. It was their intention to marry whether others wished it or not, but on one issue the couple could not find resolution. One night a month, Marie left the apartment they shared near campus only to return in the morning looking exhausted and disheveled, sometimes with a fresh scratch or bruise. She refused to explain the absence and became agitated whenever Charlie pressed for her defense—that her time away was spent innocent of the suspicions he held was all she would say. He wanted to trust her and for a time was successful in forgiving this one failing but, as is often the case when seeds of doubt thrive, his concern found the fertile ground of a sympathetic ear. An acquaintance of the couple, a girl Marie knew from writing class, happened to be at the corner bar one night when Charlie found himself alone and wishing he was not. After a few drinks, Charlie forgot Marie’s private inclinations, for they were not his own. Openness and candor were his natural qualities and soon the girl was offering consolation for the cruel position that had been forced upon him. Surely any feeling person would have his same concerns. His toleration was a sign of character that should be admired, not tested. Charlie protested, of course, insisting that Marie wouldn’t pretend just to him put him on trial. But then does it follow that she is not pretending, the girl asked, frowning to cover the satisfaction in her voice. Marie had always been friendly to the classmate when she and Charlie met her outside of class, though others had privately warned Marie that behind her back the girl spoke ungenerously, perhaps even jealously of the stories Marie had published. But Marie was not one to spread an ill will, and Charlie had no reason to think the girl’s counsel anything but sincere. It was under this guise of friendship that the girl’s influence was able to take root in Charlie’s thoughts as he paced away the last dark hours of morning, awaiting Marie’s return. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Sueños tapatíosBy Christine Stoddard
QuailBellMagazine.com The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Thoughts on becoming a museBy Jennifer Gordon QuailBellMagazine.com I tell you that I’m moving to Paris To study flowers Hanging them upside down They would fill my house Like ghosts I will become a muse Daring you to take pictures Of me Holding a martini glass I enjoy your silence You never seem to disturb My thoughts Have I become your Virginia Woolf In black leather boots Sinking Even without rocks To fill my coat pockets Jennifer was born a strange, pale, and quiet child, a ghost scared of ghosts....Originally from new Hampshire, she studied acting at The New Hampshire Institute of Art. She grew up to become an actress, magician's assistant, artist, writer, dancer, and muse. She currently haunts lonely places in Ohio, though she is not dead.
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The RegularBy Maggie Grabmeier QuailBellMagazine.com Ramona settled into her seat, nudging her guitar case further under the table with her foot. The restaurant she had travelled to was called Scales, a three-way pun between the dingy monthly open mic nights, the fried seafood on the menu, and the presence of physical weight measuring devices crammed onto shelves and nailed onto walls. The scales were old and discolored and from a variety of time periods. One time Ramona had put her hand on the flat part of one and watched the dial leap upward with her weight, but a waiter with a Boston accent told her not to touch. Since then she had thought the restaurant was trying too hard. She looked around at the other people in the room. A lot of them she recognized as regular performers, like that older man with a Red Sox cap who played bluegrass, a high school girl who brought a long-haired boy to play guitar for her. They both played covers. Ramona pulled a stack of CDs out of her backpack and set them on the table in front of her. They were wrapped in a hand-folded paper envelope with the words “Ramona Coates EP” scribbled in hasty Sharpie black. She also brought out a piece of paper that said “CDs $1” in the same handwritten rush. The sign generally turned off the people in the restaurant from wanting to buy a CD because the price was so low that it seemed sad. Ramona swung her long black hair over her shoulder and picked her Yamaha out of its case. The fingers on her left hand stretched and crawled to the G chord. Blackbird was one of the first songs she’d ever learned, and the first song she always played when she absently picked up her guitar. She swung it abnormally slowly and quietly so that the sound of her fingers sliding up and down the metallic strings held as much weight as the staccato plucking of notes she played. She closed her eyes as she started to hum/sing the lyrics. Halfway through the first verse, the restaurant manager tapped the microphone with her fingers, sending a thump and a whine of feedback through the speaker next to the makeshift stage. As the owner began to thank everyone for coming, Ramona glanced out the window behind the stage. Though it was nearly 8 p.m., the sun still shone through into the restaurant, casting the owner’s face in shadow. “And for our showcased performer tonight, all the way from Providence, we have the lovely Pandora Blodgett! So you all can look forward to that at 9:00 after the open mic portion of the night.” The restaurant owner’s voice was high pitched, and she emphasized her “s”’s so strongly it sounded calculated. Ramona had never heard of Pandora Blodgett, but she clapped without smiling along with the rest of the crowd, following the restaurant owner’s gaze to a thin middle-aged woman with blonde hair so long she was almost sitting on it. She was wearing a white sundress and a necklace with an enormous blue stone. She looked at the ground during the applause. Coy, Ramona thought, like an older young Joni Mitchell. “Without further ado, I give you our first performer!” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
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