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The Silver ForestBy Olena Ptah QuailBellMagazine.com Not too far and not too long ago, in a little old cottage that sat on a green hill covered in emerald grass like a sea of precious stones, a little boy was born. His name was Jack. Every day Jack woke up and ran barefoot across the field of wet grass that raised high above his head, waking up all the sleepy bugs with his laughter. He ran to the little old barn, where his father milked the goats, and drank some fresh foamy milk. Parents told him it would make him grow strong and healthy. In the afternoons, when the lazy sun would take a nap in the fluffy clouds, Jack liked to go for a walk in the forest. The forest was very quiet and peaceful then. The air smelled sweet and the humming of the silver oak trees seemed to make the time itself slow down and Jack knew that it meant he would see his friends. His friends were of unusual kind. They were such friends one may find only in special places full of sunlight, like the forest is on a warm afternoon. Or maybe really early in the morning when the whole world is just waking up. Or maybe at night when one may notice a little floating spark. Yes, Jack’s special friends all liked to fly and sometimes glow at night. They lived in the trees and flowers. Some people called them fairies, others called them spirits, but Jack just called them “My Friends." The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Gnome's ViewBy Luna Lark QuailBellMagazine.com Ever wonder how a gnome sees the world? Wonder no more. These photographs, taken by a stumbling gnome and his miniature camera one spring afternoon, show you the world from small, enchanted eyes: The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Sweet UnknownBy Harley May QuailBellMagazine.com Dom pulled his cap over his ears to shield him from the bite of two things: the cruel wind and his mother’s voice. “You better not be heading to town,” she called as he walked toward the door. “Not with those traps still out there.” She put her hands on her round hips, her anger a force in its own. On the cold wooden floor beneath the table, his two tiny brothers played underneath the table with tin soldiers. They didn’t know anything of work. Not yet. His older sister stirred a pot of boiling water for their wash. Her eyes mirrored Dom’s, sunk in and dark underneath. Dom shook his head, pausing at the door. “Not going to town. I’m going to get the traps, Ma.” He left before she could say anything else and made his way to the small dock down the hill. The moment his feet touched the boat floor, his body relaxed. Peace. Every slice the oars made through the choppy water felt like a prayer of thanks to Dom. They took him farther out to sea and away from the two-bedroom house on the hill. He rowed from the nagging of his mother, and into the dark sea. Only one more year and he’d be out of the house. Away from the small fishing town, away from the careful watch of his mother, away from people who saw him as nothing more than a quiet boy. Away. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Word Painting of a Psychiatrist By Caroline Hagood QuailBellMagazine.com When I first saw you, curled in toadstool of mind’s eye, I wanted to learn how to paint so that I could explain colorly the conversation of your skin tones, the shock talk of hues that was your body. I wanted to convey the pickled awe at the inside of my throat as I looked on you. Even at 16 I knew what you were: wunderkammer, a madness of sense-awakening things, astonishment soup and wonder mushrooms in a boy shape, you most treasured cabinet of curiosities, you. But I cannot paint, so I explain you wordily. First, I talk about your very dark hair, much-coveted and positively full of wolves. It moves when you move, as though you were the wind blowing that hairy planet. Blackstar, blackbird, fly me somewhere on those unfathomable strands. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Pony Fish By Christine Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com Once upon a time, there lived a bright blue and red fish who longed to fly. Little did he know that, neighing in the pasture only a few feet above his rock in the sea, lived a pony who longed to fly, too. All day and all night, the fish would stare at the sky for the sight of a gull or owl. Sometimes he saw flocks of geese or even murders of crows. The little fish never seemed to notice the other fish around him. He cared not for scales, only feathers.
Meanwhile, the pony yearned and yearned just the same. She squinted at the clouds and stars until she spotted a cardinal or hawk. Regardless of the hour, regardless of the weather, the pony wondered when she too would fly. She regretted that she had been born wingless. And, like the fish who swam right past fellow fish, the pony never seemed to notice the other ponies around her. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Necro-AssassinBy Zyraya QuailBellMagazine.com “Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment.” There was a time when she dwelled on what had passed. For hours she would sit and wonder why she was cursed with such things, why fate saw it necessary to direct her towards the dead. Many with such great power would take it and do something important, but she never saw the need. She would spend days in crypts experimenting, playing with her abilities. On more than one occasion she caused the dead to rise and dance for her. The woman preferred the dark, and crypts suited her just fine. Due to her repeated use of her 'pets' to retrieve food and water, word had spread of the Summoner of the Dead who spent all of her time in the grim depths, and she had a few visitors over the years. Most wanted her help for one thing or another, she would refuse them. Some simply wanted to ask her questions, she would ignore them. Some wished to kill her, or perhaps purify her in the name of some god, she disposed of them. It wasn't until one offering escape and freedom of her curse came forward that she finally left the crypt, following his promise. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Bats and ButterfliesBy Christine Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com Eleana sits in the English garden, marveling at another Richmond moon, with its clean, clean face (pure at least compared to the jostling James.) Her wispy nightgown fans out around her hips like a period costume. A pair of crooked fairy wings hang from her shoulders, shoulders that shine bright white in the glowing night light. Her boyfriend bent the coat hanger she used to construct the wings after she muttered she was pregnant. She wears the ripped pantyhose, which she later inundated with dollar store glitter, the night of the fatal escapade. Suddenly Eleana stretches out her arms until she can stretch them no farther. They are long and milky before her. Her nails, painted pale gold, twinkle. Eleana draws her hands to her face and breathes in deeply, her chest heaving like a birthing mare's. The scent of lavender lotion mixed with misoprostol emerges from her pores. She shivers. A massive magnolia overwhelms the garden with the stench of its rotting flowers. The whole tree is dying. Its leaves begin to fertilize the fetus Eleana buried there just as the sun set and shadows started to descend upon the city. She shivers again and sniffs her hands until the stench becomes indiscernible. Eleana inhales the garden's natural perfumes, from waves of Virginia Dogwood to pulses of Tudor Rose. Eventually, she exhausts her nose. Her ears catch a flicker of sound. Eleana puts her hand over her gloomy gray eyes, shielding the moonlight from her gaze, and looks to the sky. She squints and, a second later, shrieks. Flailing her arms in the midst of wild screams, Eleana finally flings herself to the ground, ignoring the pain of mulch pressing into her soft calves. She rocks back and forth like a cradle. All the while, tears stain her face and she whispers, "I don't know if they're bats or butterflies. I don't know if they're bats or butterflies. I don't know if..." Hours later, the sun rises. The magnolia has shed its final leaf and Eleana's wings lie over her child's grave. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
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