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The Artist's Muse The Impressionist period brought on a new era of art in which particular attention was paid to the depiction of changing light, illustrating a sense of time passing, ordinary subject matters, inclusion of human movement and unusual angles. Often women were the subject matter of these visions, where their qualities of elegance and beauty were highlighted by an overall haze of romance. These photographs showcase the woman comfortable in her own skin; it is an exposé on the women behind the brush, seen through the eyes of an artist in her own natural setting. #Unreal #Photography #Photos #PhotoSet #Fashion #FemaleForm #FemaleDancer #BalletDancer #Impressionism Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter.
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The Burlesquespider lace and alcoholic's cream and crimson nails in the lack of glitter only darkness here where her name is Venus Darling Mother Mary anything you like she wouldn't tell you anyway with smoke mirror eyes and bat wing lashes waist bends to the piano beat only parted lips, legs, skin with the sweat of too many cheap drinks too little intimacy and not enough time or money to spend wasted between the thighs of a stranger #Unreal #Poetry #Burlesque #Lust #Prowess #Imagery #Music #Song #AudioAndoetry #WordsAndAudio Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Myth of Myth That huge, heavy door I found in the side of the mountain never opened. I knocked until my raw knuckles stained the wood’s deep grain a brackish red, barking myself hoarse repeating my name like the last of a known animal evolving stubbornly against its will. Winds howled in the forest shadows. The trees made unwelcoming noises of their own. A night sky full of bruised brooding clouds rumbled as it rolled overhead. Lightning struck -- sent me flying through silver electric air brighter than the moon shining on a dog’s unearthed bone. Choose your metaphor. There on the ground I again wished but failed to die in the mud. The dark mountain remained stone, still, silent. #Unreal #Poetry #Nature #Force #Blocked #Flow #Ebb #Creativity #Photography Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Puddle I. The bodies around me dream of poppies, draped half-lidded across scratchy couches. Science fiction is all that plays on the television, and I watch tin can space crafts drift in and out of stars, fingers of both hands on two different pulses to make sure there’s still life in their veins. I can feel the wet thumping through the pad of my thumb as space flashes by me and I wonder if this is how god feels. II. When the azaleas are in bloom we go walking among the fires of their blooms, grass soft underfoot. Golden bourbon sings in our veins, softening in the shadows and the sunlight that shines through lazy-branched oaks. There are notches in the park from the great war, where men hung like the wind chimes on my grandmother’s porch. She drinks sweet tea like it was water from Jordan, says words so gentle they melt in your mouth like rose hips. III. Summer closes. The trees bear heavy fruits, skin smooth under grasping palms. He takes a bite, juice running along his jaw, autumn sweet. We dangle our feet over rock edges, where fish dappled orange and yellow gape pink mouths wide. He says how sad it is that they their pond is all they know. I look to the north, at a horizon unsmudged by mountains, at the trees still summer-bleached forming a cup of its own, a puddle shimmering in unending sun where we swim day after day, pretending it’s the ocean. Megan Tilley, one of the one of the Cambridge Writers' Workshop's interns has been instrumental in planning the CWW's upcoming Pre-Thanksgiving Yoga, Writing, and Juice Cleanse Retreat in Quail Bell Magazine (November 22-23). In the interview, the CWW shares tips on creating a creative discipline of writing, yoga, and self-care. If you are interested in the CWW's Pre-Thanksgiving Yoga, Writing, and Juice Cleanse Retreat, there is a limited time reduced registration fee. It will only last until Thursday, November 20th at 11 p.m., so apply now! #Unreal #Poetry #CreativeWriting #Yoga #JuiceCleanse #PreThanksgiving #CWW #MeganTilley #NYC #CreativeDiscipline Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Man with the Purple Halo By Hannah van Didden QuailBellMagazine.com Editor's Note: This piece was originally published in Southword Literary Journal. It was mauve, actually, but purple was an easier colour to understand. She asked him why it was purple and he was taken aback at first. Then the corners of his mouth curled into a cheeky grin and ‘I didn’t even know I had one,’ he chuckled. She wandered off in a frown, wondering how anyone could possibly get on in life without realising what they had hanging over them.
The man sold The Big Issue at the entrance to the laneway that led to her office. He was there three out of four weeks and he wore a fuzzy purple halo with silver streaks through it. She had seen it many times before so it stood to reason that she knew what she was talking about. It was affixed to his head with a line of galvanized wire, most likely a coat hanger in a previous life. When it rained, he wore it and nothing else—not even an umbrella—over his head and she had to admit that he did keep remarkably dry on winter days. She was concerned, though, that the conductive wire might convert his halo into a lightning rod and she would one day hear news that he had been struck down by the very thing that protected him. When she laid eyes on Him, however, his halo was golden. The glow was so warm and glorious that she could not tear her eyes away. She had never seen a golden halo before—only blue, grey, black and, more recently, purple. It was magnificent. She was pleasantly surprised when the man attached to the halo approached her and asked if he could court her. He was perfectly handsome and winsome and old-fashioned, just as she had always imagined her One to be. ‘Of course,’ she answered, and she floated to her feet on the strength of his forearm. They dated for a month or so in absolute bliss. In fact, everything progressed so well that he sat her down one day and gave her his heart. He reached right into his chest and pulled it out before her very eyes, presenting it to her on a platter sprinkled with rose petals. She was so overcome with happiness that she cried diamonds—which she intended to sell. They would be set for life. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Hometown Heroes
By Ren Martinez
QuailBellMagazine.com Editor's Note: The Quail Bell Crew finds this story particularly timely given the recent publication of Rolling Stone's article on rape at the University of Virginia. Please also consider this a trigger warning.
The video was grainy, but the picture was clear.
“Please.” The word was uttered in perfect clarity between bruised lips, the rabbit-like teeth smeared in red. “Please, help me.” Whoever was holding the camera laughed, a cruel bark that had the girl flinching. The other guys in the video were interchangeable, sporting Abercrombie hoodies and boat shoes. Their smiles were all the more monstrous beneath the crew cut of their hair. “Shut up,” one giggled, bending down to the girl splayed out of the floor. Her jean skirt was hiked up, her knees mottled purple. “You haven’t even been hurt yet. Don’t act like you don’t like it.” A hand with clean fingernails slid up her thigh. The girl looked towards the camera, her face slicked in salt. “Please,” she begged. “Please!” Priya slammed her laptop shut. “Shit,” she muttered, leaning her head back in her chair. “Just…shit.” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
From Darkness By John Grey QuailBellMagazine.com Last night, in the kitchen, her husband beat her unconscious. From his darkness, a swift right fist emerged. From his darkness, he felt her jaw crack, heard her head hit the floor. But, even in his darkness, he suffered regret for what he'd done. And even now, still in his darkness, he has remorse for company. What does darkness feel like when you're in the midst of it? Like a cabin in the woods with no electricity? Or the smother of a pillow pressed into your face? And remorse? A candle maybe? A little push back so you can breathe at least? Last night, she suffered a blow so hard and fierce, it knocked her out cold. There was such a darkness, she couldn't even feel herself in there. And, when she emerged, she had no memory of ever having been in a place so black. And from her darkness, she didn't lash out, merely packed a bag and left. Both agreed that these arc dark times. And with room for more than one darkness. #Unreal #Poetry #Abuse #AbusiveRelationship #AbusiveMarriage #Femicide #BadHusbands #BadMarriages #UglyLove Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Welcome to Reality Words and image by Cheryl Jordan QuailBellMagazine.com It happened at a cafe in North Beach: my third eye opened. Not in a cyclops, mythological monster sort of way. I don’t wear a red dot there either, and for that matter hadn’t believed in or thought about the third eye until that day. I just looked up from my coffee and saw everyone with swirls of energy around them and it was friggin’ unnerving. Ethereal billows of color escaped from nearly every person, sometimes completely overwhelming passersby who didn’t seem to notice. People were popping out of their bodies left and right, floating on the ceiling while their corporeal containers went through the actions of ordering half-caff mocha lattes. Emotional spectrums bled like wet on wet watercolors, their seeping influence made me realize almost no one was feeling their own feelings. In this surreal cloud I was truly a party of one, an observer of an extraordinary scene. I looked back at my Americano, and saw words forming from a tiny plume of steam: “Welcome to Reality." The waitress startled me, and I wiped the words away as nonchalantly as I could. “Refill?” she asked. “Uh, no. Definitely no. Thank you. That is some kind of kick-ass coffee you make here!” She smiled sphinx-like and walked away, trailing spirals of whimsy and regret, and the faint scent of roses. #Unreal #ThirdEye #Prose #CreativeWriting #Fiction #NorthBeach #California #Fantasy #Reality #EmotionalSpectrums Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Existential Driver's Test1. When you arrive at a four-way stop simultaneously with a vehicle to your right, which of you, after coming to a complete stop, should proceed first? a. you b. the vehicle to your right c. neither of you should ever move again, because it is presumptuous to assume a definition of “right” when we are all pulled by gravity toward the earth’s center, the earth itself is in rotation, and its rotating sphere is ellipting about the sun. Moreover, direction, self, interior, exterior, and the animate are, at best, tentative and feeble cognitive and emotional formations. 2. When you drive through a construction zone, you should… a. speed up before something falls on you b. slow down to provide for the safety of your fellow drivers, pedestrians, construction workers, and yourself c. stop suddenly to marvel at the material achievements of mankind d. clench your eyes shut, accelerate rapidly, and wonder at the futility of what our species calls “building” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Mis/translations Diana Norma Szokolyai and Rita Banerjee are the founders and co-directors of the Cambridge Writers' Workshop (CWW). You can read about the CWW's upcoming Pre-Thanksgiving Yoga, Writing, and Juice Cleanse Retreat in Quail Bell Magazine. In the interview, the CWW shares tips on creating a creative discipline of writing, yoga, and self-care. Rita also discusses the creative writing invention exercise "Mis/translations" and how it can help kick-start your writing. Rita's poem, "Who Lamb" was inspired by a Mis/translation exercise at the last CWW Verderonne retreat. Norma read her own poem, "hullám/wave" in Hungarian and Rita "mis/translated" based entirely on the sound and feel of words that were foreign to her. hullám/wave By DBiana Norma Szokolyai (to be read out loud simultaneously in Hungarian & English) Az állando hullám The continuous wave igaznak hangzik rings true egymással keresztbe futó hullámok cross sea elmerülök a hullám sírban I am submerged in a watery grave érzed? Do you feel it? Már jön az érzelmi hullám The tidal wave is already coming Az égbe nyúlik It is reaching for the sky és a felhök, gyáva mint a nyúl and the clouds, timid as rabbits hallom a folyamatos hullámot I hear the continuous wave beszélsz hullámositásokat you are talking channelings szeizmikus hullámok idógörbéje time curve, a hajadba, hullámos papirszalag in your hair, streamers hullám, hullám wave, wave, hullám wave |