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ShowtimeCurtain call, doll.
Peepers bright. Hair right? Mind your mark. To the left. There. Park yourself there. Wet your lips. Press them. Cherry, cherry red. Smile. Now serious. Pensive. Get your wits about you-- but get ready to lose them, too. Go mental. Furious. Break down. And scene. Black. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Mirror MaskYour face is my face and my face is yours
and if we touch fingertip to fingertip our wrists will melt into our arms until our shoulders are one as the sun fuses to the sea with the death of dusk mouthes open wide for each other The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Owl and the CrabEditor's Note: The following illustration and poem have been excerpted from the forthcoming anthology, Ladies of Lore, written by Christine Stoddard, illustrated by Christine Skelly, and designed by Kristen Rebelo. Feathers lapp a speckled shell,
sipping waves of copper milk, in a tense union of forest and sea, where lovers are like hunters, fondling for grains of golden sand and slightly weathered mice bones. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
WomenChi Nguyen is a painter, graphic designer, writer, and activist. Follow her on Tumblr at ArtistSeekingRelevance.Tumblr.com.
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Red Means GoBy Roman Sirotin QuailBellMagazine.com It is the color of my hate And the saturated blood inside Extreme gifts for extreme individuals Comfy by the edge We spit down on your faces Oh the blessings of the holy Will make your life worthwhile As we pour our godly liquids Onto your empty hearts Nothing still grows So we embrace the green Relief on the surface There is nothing to see down there Besides your piss covered faces Roman Sirotin and I am a 24 year old Russian photographer, writer, painter and a dancer. More at RomanSirotin.com.
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VandalistaThis is a shrine for the bruised woman curled up on the stairwell
behind the law firm on Main Street. This is a shrine for the woman whose man threw hot oil in her face, and melted her lips off her mouth. This is a shrine for the woman whose mother sliced off her clitoris with a rusted machete. This is a shrine for all the women who have hurt until their sore eyes dried and their hearts felt raw. And though it is but chalk and the rain will wash it away like drowning ants and worms to sewers, I will draw this shrine until humanity sees the camel's grace in the soul of every suffering woman. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Coyote ManBy Christine Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com The black of his mouth in the alleyway that night was blacker than black--
his tongue lapping at my mention of money, eyes onyx flecked with amber. We cut a deal, and he knew my name, my family, mi colonia, mi vida. Before I left, he pressed a dead lizard in my hand and whispered, “Ojo, güera.” And I walked fifty paces to the bus stop, counting each step and praying: Dios te salve, María. Dios te salve, María. Dios te salve, María. When the camión rumbled toward me, I pushed a coin through the slot and took my seat, the same seat where my brother had been sitting that day when the soldiers snatched his lunch pail and kicked him to the floor like the sort of children who kill birds, tearing them up feather by feather. “My son is sick!” he cried, and they bashed his head against the pole. “I have a wife,” he whimpered, and they bashed his head against a seat. The anciana one seat away flinched, but kept her gaze on her bare feet. “My son...” he heaved, “will die and my wife will starve if I join you.” So they beat him with their guns until he choked and spat blood. They called to the driver and jumped off the bus, laughing. And your brother came to you that evening with eyes like plums. And you promised that you would help him cross the border. Tonight the bus, though empty, bears the scent of the coyote man. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
ExaltationBy Sarah Rakel Orton QuailBellMagazine.com Covered from neck to ankle in a heavy cotton dress, my hand on my father’s elbow, I approached the prophet and knelt before him. He lay ancient, polka-dotted hands on my head and recited a blessing I cannot remember. All I could see was his son standing beside him, smiling at me. Sun damage sprinkled his cheeks, and a few, almost invisible, gray hairs strayed from his thinning, tightly combed hair. I remembered my mother and father’s words: it was an honor to be chosen as a wife for the prophet’s son. They were delighted at the announcement. At least, they claimed to be. The night after the ceremony, I lay in the bed I shared with two sisters, plagued by fears for my future with a man older than my father. In the stillness of my thoughts, I could hear my mother, sobbing quietly in the kitchen—in the bedroom, my father snored, oblivious to her absence. I knew I would never see her sorrow; I would only hear it surreptitiously. Listening to her stifled cries, I fell asleep and dreamed of my baptism from years ago, white-gowned and immersed in cold water. I sunk beneath the prophet’s grasp, and he continued his braying prayers, even as I vanished like a stone flung into a well. *** I waited for the wedding date like a condemned prisoner anticipating the swinging blade of the executioner. I tried to remind myself of the honor bestowed upon me, imagining the babies I would provide to our eternal family. I told myself I was selfish to think only of myself; that fear was a manifestation of sin and selfish pride. My marriage was a gateway to heaven. I was born to be an obedient wife and fertile mother. Determined to bury my wicked reluctance, I attended service every week, my posture a straight line to the sky. I couldn’t help staring at my future husband’s wives—my future sister-wives who sat before the congregation, displayed like a row of motley flowers. There were seven, and they sat in order from youngest to oldest. Each had long hair pinned in braids, and downcast, solemn eyes. The oldest wife’s face was lined and rigid from years of devotion and labor. I’d heard rumors of her heated bouts of jealousy, even violence toward the younger wives—people whispered she’d been locked in a barn for weeks for disobeying her husband. The youngest, Miriam, had been my best friend. Since her marriage at thirteen, two years ago, she was sequestered in the prophet’s home like a beautiful princess in a neglected tower. Every time I saw her, her husband’s hand gripped her arm or shoulder. I hadn’t seen her smile since we used to play in the fields beyond the complex with my brother Jacob, running with our hair free, pretending to take flight like the hawks who hunted for mice with shiny eyes and thick claws, the old family dog, Daisy, desperate to keep up. We used to pick wild flowers and give them proudly to our birth mothers while Jacob sneaked a piece of warm bread. Like me, Miriam avoided her father’s other wives—they endorsed only their own broods, competing for my father’s attention like squabbling hens, their downy-haired children multiplying like a virus. Jacob had been my favorite sibling, the only one I could really talk to, the only one who’d kept my secrets, the only one who really looked like me. I hadn’t seen him in over a year—not since the elders thought he’d shown too much interest in Miriam, for daring to speak to her in the company of older, more eligible men. One summer night, I remember him walking her home, his head bowed shyly. The next day, he was gone. My parents never spoke of him after that. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Not Just Black and WhiteBy Jacob Eveland QuailBellMagazine.com Shelter Growing up in my grandparent's antique shop and having a house full of pets has had a great impact on my art. I incorporate and reflect upon my appreciation for antiques and history—along with my respect for nature—in my work. Poised Flashpoint
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