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Late Check-inBy Thomas Edmund Bottomley QuailBellMagazine.com Surprisingly, the room itself proved far better looking than his long winding trip up there might at first have lead Mulroy to suppose. True, the fire escape slanting across one window and the tremulous neon marquee just below the other would never have been mistaken for the stuff of the choicest of accommodations. Still, the fact remained, at least in terms of its purely formal attributes, what awaited him in there, already bathed in the mellow glow of a spreading gasolier and a handsome assortment of hurricane lamps, was far more agreeable than he might have anticipated. The only aspect of the room Mulroy felt any inclination to take the slightest exception to, in fact, was on its walls: a rather oppressive helping of dingy yellow wallpaper. Yes, he thought, glancing up at that now, he could certainly have done without that. Why, it was positively creepy, that wallpaper. So creepy to have stared into its twining arabesques (William Morris meets Edward Gory, if you asked him) too long might, he half supposed, have driven even an arthritic half blind Coonhound quite mad. It wasn’t the old place’s decor, curiously agreeable, in its own musty, long, long ago sort of way, though he’d found it, that most concerned him now, however. That would have been those blasted forms. Oh, yes, that was the important thing now, he told himself. Accordingly he lowered himself onto one of the room’s ancient chairs and turned, instead, to what he’d given such short shrift to before when--much to his annoyance--they’d been more or less foisted on him. What the hell, he reasoned, couldn’t really see ’em so good before. Could’ve misjudged ’em. Heck, could’ve been just plain WRONG. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
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Give this beautiful lady a portrait.Just shy of a year ago, our dear Managing Editor, Josephine Stone, died when a valet driver hit her in downtown Richmond, Virginia. We commemorated Josie in a special issue of our print 'zine, Quail Bell Express: Issue 1 (which you can still subscribe to today.) Now, in observance of the one-year anniversary of Josie's death and to forever carry on her memory, we would like to have a portrait of Josie hung up in Penny Lane Pub. Josie worked at Penny Lane Pub throughout most of her college career; it was also the last place she stopped by to say 'hi' to friends before she died. She was on her way to a concert at The National, which lies only a few blocks from Penny Lane. We are envisioning an elegant, simple portrait rendered in charcoal. It would be framed and displayed on one of the restaurant walls, along with a littleplaque about Josie. Because we are a low-budget project run predominantly by college students and recent graduates, paying for this effort will be difficult. We already go over-budget on many of our projects. That's why we're asking for your help. With your donation, The Quail Bell Crew would be able to cover the cost ofcustom-framing (about $100), the wall plaque (about $50), and theportrait artist's services ($100.) So we're looking to raise a total of $250-300. Please consider donating to the Josephine Stone Portrait Fund so we can honor Josie's memory in one of most beloved places. Thank you for your donation. We sincerely appreciate it. Feathery hugs, The Quail Bell Crew The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
We're now taking subscriptions.Show your true love for Quail Bell! Please subscribe to our latest and most stunning print project to date: Quail Bell Express: issue 2.
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A Woman not DaphneBy Jessica Reidy QuailBellMagazine.com If you were the river I would never have been a tree. A lecherous god would have mauled my body in arrow-induced madness until inside I was wooden and your waves would murmur just watching. No sobered god would find a bough in his embrace, pluck my leaves and crown men with my virtue. Because you are not the river my limbs were pruned back and my innards dug out Jessica Reidy's work has appeared in several journals including The Los Angeles Review, Arsenic Lobster, Frogpond, Moloch, and Ribbons. She is the 2008 winner of the Nancy Thorp Poetry Prize. She has given readings in Ireland in both Cork and Dublin, including the SoundEye Cork International Poetry Festival in 2009 and 2010, and in 2012 at The Warehouse in Tallahassee, Florida. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
All Crimes Are EqualBy Tyler Withrow QuailBellMagazine.com A slight figure wearing baggy jeans and a T-shirt flattened herself against the cold brick wall, attempting to melt into it as wailing sirens passed her by. Spotlights lit up on the ground near her feet, dancing in serpentine patterns across the wall of the apartment building she was hiding behind. For some reason, each of them passed her by. She held her breath, covering her mouth, her eyes wide with fear. After five minutes of abject terror, the spotlights shut off, and the two-story tall spiderlike android they were attached to turned towards the next street, walking awkwardly towards the next block. The girl removed her hand from her mouth, peering around the corner of the building, placing her hand delicately on the brick. The instant she saw that the android had left, she pushed off from the building, dashing off in the opposite direction. She rushed through the gaping maw of the alleyway directly in front of her, taking turns at random in her panic. After several minutes she stopped, panting, and caught her breath, pressing her back to the wall and slowly sliding down it to sit, her arms crossed and resting on her knees, curled into a ball. She reached into her pocket, retrieving the cheap digital watch she had stolen and looking at it. In a quarter of the screen a constant message played, displaying an older man in a dark suit speaking to a crowd of onlookers. A quiet message played from the speakers on the side of the watch. “All crime is to be punished capitally! Our city will be a clean city, a new city, and I will purge the criminals from its streets!” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The PotBy Joseph Morgado QuailBellMagazine.com My mother wanted to boil potatoes but only had a shallow pan. This would not do, so she sent me into the next village to borrow a pot from a friend. When I knocked on Sovanara’s door there was no answer. My mother had warned me that she might be at the well outside the village, drawing water for her evening bath, so I sat in front of her hut and waited. Many of the huts in the village had a stone Buddha sitting out front, like Sovanara’s. Some had herb gardens and chickens strutting about, pecking at the ground for bugs. Others had cats lounging by their doors, or children playing games. But the ground was barren in front of the hut that stood across the path from where I sat. Nothing there but dry, black dirt. The door of this hut opened and a frail old man came out with a broom. He began to sweep, and swept so vigorously it seemed he was trying to remove the very dirt from the ground. After a few minutes he stopped to rest, his shirt wet and clinging to his ribcage. He wiped the sweat from his face with the chequered krama wrapped around his neck and leaned on his broom, looking pleased with the results of his work. I didn’t care to speak. I only wanted to sit quietly in the fading light of the sunset and watch the changing colors of the sky. I was happy with this. The old man was not. “Little girl, what are you doing here?” he asked softly, his hands folded over the top of his broom. I stood and bowed. “I’m waiting for Sovanara.” “I saw her leave with a bucket for the well. Why have you come to see her?” “My mother needs to boil potatoes and I came to get a pot,” I answered, wishing to get back to my sunset. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Just Another Prom PoemBy Christine Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com Reflections of a night imbued by silk roses and silk hands, followed by silk pecks formed by silk bills; an evening that shone with the fervor of the maiden moon at the end of a dark fairytale where everyone lives happily ever after in Gothic bliss, all so gorgeously Gomez and Morticia, from the crown of the shadowy head to the soles of rotting feet. I remember the spools of black lace splashed upon my gown; erectly I stood, statuesque as an Edwardian heroine, beaming as I clutched my sweetheart whose eyes danced the blue dance of a dying swan; mine were sadder still, he always reminded me---beautiful but sad, like a big-eyed calf, so innocent of its imminent slaughter. We were sweet the way we mouthed our words, the way we echoed “I love you” on the floor where all the other girls squeezed into painful slippers while I pranced barefoot, brandishing chocolate-colored nails; he had once caressed those petite toes, nuzzled them with his black beak, the faithful bird that he was, crooning little phrases (surely the dearest little phrases) I could not understand but adored with every feather upon myself. But that was a night of fingers and tongues---the ball of balls, the date of dates, the memory of memories; and, you, do you remember your promotion, murkily at least? The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Are you our future poetry-editing fledgling?Quail Bell Magazine currently seeks a Poetry Editor. This editor will be responsible for reviewing Quail Bell's poetry submissions, notifying poets whose work has been accepted, and posting accepted work, in addition to seeking out new work. The editor will also be responsible for helping select poems for Quail Bell Magazine's print 'zine, Quail Bell Express. The editor is encouraged, though not required, to write original poetry for The Unreal, especially Photo Tales. Work is done as necessary, depending mostly on the ebb and flow of submissions.
This position can be done remotely, though applicants based in D.C., Virginia, and Maryland will be given preference. At this time, there is no monetary compensation for this position. Keep in mind, however, that this editor will be given exposure and many opportunities to contribute to a thriving online and print 'zine. That is not to mention many complementary projects and events. Examples include the Richmond 'Zine Festival, DIY Fest Baltimore, Once Upon a Time Fashion Show, etc. Please email your cover letter and resume to cstoddard [at] quailbellmagazine [dot] com. 1-5 poetry samples are also appreciated. |