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lyingBy Jennifer Gordon QuailBellMagazine.com Hair wrapped around fingers Purring soft moments that Live in my head A lifetime of regret A heavy blanket across my skin Like the warm Texan sun Of our lies I have been saying goodbye For a year And still I ache For your silence 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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One Daughter's FantasyBy Jewel Kats QuailBellMagazine.com “My father never read to me as a child,” I say while toying with my steel-plated medical alert bracelet. “Ever.” Dr. Susan Walker quickly jots this into her midnight leather notebook. “I see,” she responds in typical psychiatric speak. She puts down her Mont Blanc pen, and her dark eyes gaze into mine. “Do you still resent him for this?” “What do you think?” I answer with an annoying twitch in my eye. “The man lived under the same roof with me for fifteen years, and was too drunk most of the time to remember my middle name. The worst part is, I can’t do anything about it. The sucker dropped dead two years ago.” Dr. Walker flashes me a half-smile. “You’re never totally helpless, Tiffany,” she remarks with her voice deepening an octave. “Even talking like this helps…” I bite down on an already chapped lip. “Well, you don’t have a lifetime to spend on me.” I look up at the round wooden clock behind her desk. “Besides, it’s not like anybody really gives a damn. Even these sessions with you come with the stupid red tape. I get fifty minutes a week to spill my guts, and that’s about it.” I rise to my feet. “Our time is officially up.” “We can always go overtime if the matter at hand is urgent,” I hear Dr. Walker call out as my pinched toes march toward an escape. “Whatever. See you next week, doc,” I say over my back, and amazingly not once teeter on my mother’s hot pink heels as the door slams closed behind me. By the time I get home, it’s four o’clock. My feet are killing me. I hobble up our wobbly brownstone steps, and fish a cluster of keys out of my jeans pocket. It feels like an eternity before I open all six brass locks belonging to our otherwise chipping front door. I’m greeted by the stink of stale marijuana smoke, even though there’s nothing in sight. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Creepy (Yet Cute) Author PortraitsPoe Nick Velardi is a freelance illustrator and author from Philadelphia with the shoe-size of a grown man and the imagination of a kindergartener. He's proud to be a kid at heart and loves telling stories through a signature cartoonish style. He recently graduated from the Pennsylvania College of Art & Design with a BFA in Illustration and published his first children's book,THERE IS NO MONSTER IN YOUR ROOM! Nowadays, he spends his time living by the beach in New Jersey, doodling and painting the world inside of his head. Lovecraft Shelley For more work by Nick, check out his website VelardiIllustration.com, or like him on Facebook at Facebook.com/Pajamarai. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
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Personal WhoreBy Roman Sirotin QuailBellMagazine.com I am a shell I am a corpse I am a tumor I am a ghost I am the emptiness I am my foe I am thy God's Personal whore Stupor clouds, come my way Winds are blowing words away, Time will take, our lives away Sooner then we will learn to say, No. Roman Sirotin and I am a 24 year old Russian photographer, writer, painter and a dancer. More at RomanSirotin.com.
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A Death at Chaco CanyonOn a hazy summer morning fraught with dread, my two-year-old son slipped over the edge and landed soundlessly in the dust below. The sun shivered. The moon moaned. Ladders clattered and shouts bounced across rock. Later they laid his tiny body on a stone slab, draped fragile flowers around his crushed neck, sobbed in the stifling heat—but I could do nothing. My mouth was still open in a silent scream. Sarah Sullivan is a graduate nursing student at the University of Virginia.
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The Magic of CollageBy Jennifer Gordon QuailBellMagazine.com Strangest Sort of Friend Beauty—the appreciation of it, the study of it, perhaps even the decay of it—has become a lifelong fascination for me. My goal in art is to explore time through nostalgia and memory to create something new out of something old. There is a single line is Shakespeare’s "Julius Caesar" that had the most profound effect on me, while I was studying acting at the New Hampshire Institute of Art. Portia tries to connect with Brutus. Getting down on her knees, she says, “I charm you, by my once-commended beauty." In that instant of saying these words out loud, my heart became broken; my body shook….and I knew in some way that the rest of my life would be defined by those words. “Once commended beauty." I search for this in an old photograph, a faded letter, a building that has fallen into decay, the face of a beautiful man with sad eyes. These things are all connected to each other with an invisible ache, which attaches them to me as well. I see their beauty. I see the memory in all of them, the all-encompassing wish to be recreated. I try in my work to capture that, whether it is in a collage incorporating vintage Victorian era photos or through photography of urban desolation and surreal portraiture. I see time, and feel it pressing against my skin as I work. It’s 2013, and 1873 all at once, the edges of this reality fade, and I slip through, unseen, and hope with everything that I am, that I can find something there to lead me back. Collage work is a combination of photo transfer, acrylic paints, watercolor, oil pastels, and a little bit of magic… You Always Listen Countess See more of Jennifer's work here.
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Gaia's WrathBy Ghia Vitale QuailBellMagazine.com I cannot wait to see the look on your face, When humankind’s predestined nightmare comes true, And you’ll die in awe of My terrible grace. My thunderous laughter will echo through space, When My indignation blackens the sky’s blue. I cannot wait to see the look on your face. With blasting breaths, I’ll return the manmade mace, That blasphemed the nurturance of the sun’s hue, And you’ll die in awe of My terrible grace. The acids that crawl from My tearful embrace, Will dissolve all structures and flesh, through and through. I cannot wait to see the look on your face. With sadistic precision, I will erase, All traces of the evil that humans do, And you’ll die in awe of My terrible grace. I’ll grant no reprieves, nor spare any place. (And you thought that I was submissive to you!) I cannot wait to see the look on your face, And you’ll die in awe of My terrible grace. Ghia Vitale is a recent college graduate and writer from a beautiful, green Long Island hamlet. Her poetry has been featured in three editions of The Horror Zine. Purchase College published her senior project (Manfred: An Accursed Druidic Shaman) about occultism in the poetic tradition of Romanticism. She currently writes freelance articles about witchcraft, feminism and social justice.
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