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ManageBy Katu QuailBellMagazine.com The barista asks you how you’re feeling- so you tell him that you are not ready for a relationship to spur out of nothing. There are so many things that you want out of the Other and it cannot start in Small Talk. Then he stares at you quizzically because he was just being polite as you go on about wanting a best friend you can have sex with for a long period of time without being Judged. However, while you are explaining your past relationship’s perfection, you realize you just came here for a soy latte. Apologize to the innocent fellow who withstood your ranting. He found you endearing like a free cookie. Katu is a junior at Sarah Lawrence College. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Gumball ApocalypseBy Andrew J. Stone QuailBellMagazine.com i. Death by Gumball Billy’s dad took a sledgehammer to the spiral gumball machine. Glass shattered and slivered all over the Dubble Bubble style carpet in his son’s room. The gumballs rolling down the machine shot across the room and splattered against the wall. The sledgehammer fell from the man’s fingers and thudded dully against the carpet. The recently deceased spiral gumball machine was the last of its kind stationed in Billy’s room. The man dropped to his knees and in the same motion, swooped his son into his arms. “Stay with me boy,” the man said. “Please don’t die. Goddamnit Billy, please don’t die.” Gumball blisters burned Billy boy bad. Blue gumballs and pink gumballs and red gumballs and purple gumballs and yellow gumballs and white gumballs and green gumballs deep dived into the flesh on Billy’s face. His nose had already dissolved and poking through his paper skin cheeks was bone, bright and white. The gumballs sizzled and bled all over Billy’s face and the boy looked like rainbow decay. The man fought the pain as his fingers picked and plucked the gumballs off his son’s flesh. Blood started to drip from his fingertips, joining the rainbow. The man managed to wipe away just over half the gumballs when a scream sounded from another part of the house. The embrace between father and son tightened as the man whispered into Billy’s remaining ear, “You stay right there Billy. I’m going to check on your mom. I’ll be right back, okay?” Billy shut his eyes. “Just keep those eyes open a little bit longer Billy,” the man said as he used his fingers to open the lids. They stayed open. Unblinking. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
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Doll BabyI met her on a full moon and I killed her on a full moon,
because the clinic was cold, and Pa was dead, and Great-Aunt Hazel was up North, and my seventeenth birthday was two months out, and I was too scared to forge a signature then. My lover played football at Randy-Mac, gave me his jacket and I never gave it back. He always scored because I never said 'no'-- he the hunter, I the doe, eyes of red, heart like snow. His daddy idled at the Commonwealth Club while my daddy had shoveled coal all his days, skin hanging gray from his Chickahominy cheeks. An old lady at the apothecary said I could expel the doll baby naturally if I only drank this tea and sat in a tub for an evening and did not scream too loudly. So while my classmates pinned their curls for their drive-in movie dates, I writhed in warm water-- toes magenta raisins prickling in agony. Somewhere Randy-Mac laughed at an actor's line, his arm around another little doe. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
'Zines, 'zines, 'zinesUs. This. All day. (Well, 11 a.m. to 5 p.m.) Gay Community Center of Richmond, Virginia. Our 2:30 p.m. workshop will rock. More on Facebook...
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untitledBy Jennifer Gordon QuailBellMagazine.com Over the years My hurt Fades into a memory One that no longer wakes Me in the night With the longing Of an injured soldier Years since losing a limb I try to pretend That the things he says to me With a look Don’t flood the years Of my marriage into nothing I put on lipstick And eyeliner He tells me that sometimes You feel bad for me That my life as An object on a shelf Isn’t what he had in mind For me He should be carved out of stone Relics taken And placed in a church I would grow my nails And leave marks across his skin As if my doing that My hands would be beautiful And not resemble those Of a twelve year old boy He is a tumor going inside me Like a cancer that has no choice But to spread Pressing against my heart and lungs I get shaky and winded So much easier these days His hand rests on my collarbone A monument of time The architecture of our bodies Memorized and written into fact In the shadows of this life We are gods. 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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A Midsummer Night's DreamCome hear the serenading fields, Of the tolling bluebells, The songs to which each mortal yields-- Such sweet, seductive spells. You’ll join the solstice merriment, Waltzing amongst flowers. Intoxicating enchantment, Amidst twilight hours. Do cherish that ominous tune, To which the Faeries dance, For by the falling of the moon, You’ll meet macabre romance. With all the greening earth abloom, They’ll rob you of a restful tomb. 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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Catch us in New York City!Want to see us in all our feathered glory? Then meet The Quail Bell Crew at Molasses Books in Brooklyn, New York next Saturday, October 12th. We'll be reading, screening, and celebrating. Join us as we present a variety of new art, writing, and projects. More on Facebook.
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The Typhoid PrincessBy Christine Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com Intestinal hemorrhage drained her color of all human flesh tones, bleaching her like the maggots awaiting the feast of her corpse. She wore matted hair and purple lids like a fashion statement. The photographer was scheduled for Golden Hour, her darkest hour, the demon hour before her death. She'd relish the sight of her face on the cover of a magazine, something she'd stare at over and over again in Hell. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Gifted OnesBy Misty Thomas QuailBellMagazine.com Editor's Note: The following is an excerpt from QB Managing Editor Misty Thomas' novel, The Gifted Ones. Check out the 'zine at Quail Bell Magazine's table at the Richmond 'Zine Festival this Saturday. The first time I realized what my sister and I had, I knew we were very different. I also know that we are very special. We have been given what some people call gifts. These gifts are those that hold great power. We can read into the future and we can cast spells and make real magic. Magic sounds like such a silly term considering all of the technology we have been given in the twentieth century. I suppose some would call us witches. We prefer to be called the gifted ones. We do not follow some supreme religion or practice cultist behaviors; we simply summon magic from the earth, air, and fire. We are spiritual witches, so to speak. Special gifts and powers are not something that is given to people easily. Our mother knew with us that we’d be special. She was also born with these special gifts. When she found out that she was having twins, she knew then that we would change her life and the lives of others as well. Twins… no one knows the true power that they hold. And these are our stories. Not all of them are good, not all of them are bad, but it wouldn’t be an interesting tale if our lives went down like a fairy tale now would it? Not at all. I guess I should start at the very beginning. That’s where stories usually start out isn’t it? But where do I start? Do I reveal the entire family tree or just touch on the subject of our mother and father? I’ll start with our father. There’s not too much to tell about him. He grew up somewhere in the most southern region of Georgia. We don’t remember too much of him due to the fact that he left us really early on. Maybe we were four or five, maybe older. The memories of our father are all repressed. We would have glimpses of these memories in which we would share with each other on occasion. The most vivid of these memories was one in which our father was drunk and had been using cocaine all night long. He had many drugs of choice, but I do think that was the one that night in particular. He was arguing with our graceful yet naïve young mother. Who knows what they were arguing about but they seemed to go at it for hours. That was the night that we realized the power that we had together. This is the kind of thing that you only see on the science fiction shows on television or in those movies. As our father put his hands on our mother, he said “You’re a freak and so are these girls! What have you done to this family? This is a family of fucking freaks!” I looked at my sister and I looked at our mother, the pain in her eyes was crushing me. My sister and I looked at each other and attempted our first protection spell. All it took was for us to think “protection” over and over again. Then it happened, our father fell to the floor. In one instant, we had stopped him from hurting our mother and us forever. He wasn’t dead, he was passed out. He had fainted because of the spell that my sister and I had used on him. When he awoke from the spell, he was disoriented and immediately packed his things and headed out of the house. That was the last time we ever saw our father and that was the first time that we knew our gifts were intense and incredibly powerful. Harmony and I attend school in New Hampshire. We live in a very small town outside of Manchester. It’s quiet and that’s the way our family has always wanted it, quiet and low key. This is our senior year of high school. But this isn’t the first or last time we will attend it. It will just be in another place and another time. Like I said, we’re different and memories of ours are over grand amounts of time and space. I’m starting with these memories though because they’re happening now as you read this, in 2012. |