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Song of SeasonsBy Candice Marie Broughton QuailBellMagazine.com My legs kissed by Tulips Delicate creations Of complicated beauty Branches hooked into wet earth Roots reaching for the sun Well what kind of flower are you? Crystal rain drops on lashes like seeds gestating And in a moment, They crash on cheek Streaks of freshness intermingle with the stale saltiness of petrified emotion Artemis's fingers in your hair Your pigtails the tension in her bow And I, drunk on golden dust, Stumbling enough to make Bacchus jealous Seemingly dancing to the Daffodil's song But it's your nectar that's done me in The intelligence of youth The scholastic devotion of memorizing the shape of every leaf Cataloging each Noting the change in color So you won't forget your friends after summer But in winter, You won't remember them at all Until they return in spring in the form of feathers Pressing flowers in the folds of your skirt Not knowing their beauty was simultaneously impressing upon you Pale delight frozen in time Joy in mimicry Knowledge in listening Romance in kissing bark as sap kisses you back Love spelled out with all the letters between January and July All the rest left to chance And I will just buzz by Only sensing sweetness Never sensing time And you Wondering how a song with no words could have such a complex rhyme A cat's cradle in a spider's web All the universe's constellations on a dandelion's head Freeing a jar of lightening bugs when you hear, “Sweetie! It's time for bed.” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Nira and IBy Shweta Narayan QuailBellMagazine.com Nira and I are with Hemal on the day she dies. She is teaching us a clapping song game, a remembering game. She is winning. We call Hemal by name, though that breaks respect law because she is my mother's younger sister. She says being called jal-amaa makes her feel old. She is sixteen, which is old; Nira and I are five. My amaa opens the door screen and says, "Hemal, we must talk. Nira, go home; your amaa will worry." Hemal's eyebrows pull together, scrunching up her caste marks, like maybe she ate all the butter or forgot to douse the cookfire. She gets up and ruffles my hair. "I'll be back soon, little ones." She ducks outside. Arms grab her. She fights. My father shouts, "Don't try to lie. We saw you with that boy, that fisher caste scum! And all this time you were living in my house, luring in the mist..." Nira says, "Your ataa won't beat her, will he, Shaya?" Her voice is small. I say, "Shh," and put my arms around her. Voices pile on each other, words like Law and Honor, words like stones. Nira's eldest brother says, "Fishers use children's fingers for bait." He is supposed to marry Hemal. Amaa sobs, "Sister, little sister, how could you?" and Hemal says, "How could you?" Then the half-bricks and cobblestones and broken bottles start. Shadows huge and sudden against the door screen; the thud of Hemal falling; screams and wet breaking noises. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
River GenieWriter/Photographer: Christine Stoddard Models: Julie DiNisio & Virginia Nickerson QuailBellMagazine.com Like chipmunks scampering from log to log,
the debutantes descended upon the shore of a wide and restless river. Through sun, through wind, through fog, they scoured the bumpy banks for lore that they might share in their salons. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Sunday ReveriePhotographer: Vera Pakizer Stylist: Pauline Stevens of Elations Designs Model: Luna Lark QuailBellMagazine.com The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Mermaid's GiftBy Megan Arkenberg QuailBellMagazine.com “Do you know the reward for combing a mermaid’s hair?” The fisher-boy shakes his head, his sea-colored eyes as unreadable as the moon. I lean forward, slapping my tail in the surf. The water sprays up around us, cool and salty-sweet. My newly combed hair feels like a cloud flowing around my shoulders. “Three wishes. Anything you can think of, I can grant you.” “But at what cost?” I laugh. A flock of seagulls circles, answering the sound with their own low cries. “I see you’ve heard the stories—and been wise enough to listen. That is rare in one so young.” With one webbed hand, I trace the smooth line of his cheekbones. “And one so fair. But if you know the stories, surely you can outwit me.” He flinches out of my grasp. “I know I cannot.” “Ah. You are wise indeed, young master.” I touch his face again, just with my fingertips, and this time, he does not pull away. “But will you be foolish enough not to accept my gift?” “I have nothing to wish for.” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Momentary Mask A fortune teller once told me I'd find a gift by the river but could only treasure it for a moment before it was no longer mine. I always thought she meant a bird, a feathered little gem. What I saw one winter afternoon proved me wrong. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
To the Uniformed Men in BlueBy Matthew Harris QuailBellMagazine.com that renown brother/sister hood who happens to known as fraternal order of police remove an inxs sting from bad company and open doors whereby alice in chains adorned in a suit of deep purple metallica contribute to the ongoing musical genesis whereby talking heads rage against the machine with guns n roses or recount fields of korn swaying in the breeze on a green day of linkin park akin no doubt to reveling in nirvana inviting barenaked ladies to side step any puddle of mud while searching three doors down for a rolling stoned temple pilot considered like u2 and me to be used as thee white striped twisted sister tool swallowing bread spread with ample red hot chilly peppers pearl jam while awaiting king crimson and queen, yes? The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Fisherman's FateBy Jennifer Spencer QuailBellMagazine.com A distant dream succumbs the mind As the fisherman takes in the sea Dangling the life of a fish he finds He smiles at the power to let this fish be free He dreams of residing in the water Where all is isolated and time stands still Releasing prey too small back into the ocean border Closes his eyes and dreams of the gift of gills Whispering the secrets in the ocean's ear Soaring through reefs of unsolved destinies Letting go of all his hesitation and fear He becomes one with the sea and life's mysteries Tell the tale of the hidden Atlantis Where all the answers roam and secrets await Listen to the melody of a mermaid's bliss And just maybe, interpret the soul behind a fisherman's fate |