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An Edwardian ChristmasBy Paisley Hibou QuailBellMagazine.com Time stamp: 1:55 p.m., December 26, 2010. The living room camera was nearly out of electronic juice by then. No elves would clink it into submission with teeny mallets. They, like Santa Claus and the very spirit of Christmas, had fled to the North Pole at the strike of midnight only hours earlier. And Jessica, a lone installation artist, had forgotten to tend to the tools of her art. Somewhere an empty gallery wall moaned, the same as Prancer and Vixen groaned about having to squeeze into a stall again. Jessica gazed wistfully at the pine tree, standing in the kitchen doorway that faced the living room. Just a day before, every member of her “bougie” family huddled around that tree, eating Pringles and Oreos, and engaging with their techie gifts in one way or another. They listened to Christmas albums from Justin Bieber and Lady Gaga on one of the boys' mp3 players. They sent text messages while talking about Kindles. A whirlwind of blatantly circa 2010 icons had defined their celebration of the birth of Christ. Thus, Jessica was not sad that Christmas had ended; she was sad that it had not happened the way she had hoped. Breaking out her reverie, Jessica flinched at the plastic ornaments swinging from her tree. She had never understood the appeal of Spongebob Squarepants. Regardless of her personal preferences, Jessica had decorated the tree using the ornaments her nieces and nephews had given to her, mostly so they could not accuse her of re-gifting them. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Quail Bell Press & Productions is taking orders If you have an arts or communications project you need completed, Quail Bell Press & Productions will deliver the job with just the right amount ofimagination, magic, and quirk. We are currently talking to clients and taking orders for a wide variety of assignments--from logo design to marketing copy to illustrations to press releases to digital photography and more. Send an email toinquiries@quailbellmagazine.com with information about your project. We'llhappily evaluate it, see if it matches our talents, and provide you with a quote. Learn more about us at our soon-to-be launched site: QuailBell.com. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Dead RiverBy Erin Cole QuailBellMagazine.com Where there is a dead river, there is a wilting echo in time, a parched memory frayed and thinned in the helix of life. All that thrived has dried and vanished, but the fish will return. The larvae will reclaim sustenance to convert gelatinous bodies into fluttering, gossamer, black velvet wings, and sunlight will find a fractured path down the clear, jade run once again. There will be no more blood, no more sinew and muscle folding over sand and rock—just bones, camouflaged within the rocky banks of crusted clay and lime. * * * “Green Lady?” The Lady of the Forest lifted her head from a corner of foliage. “Yes?” It was Little Fawn again. So new to and unsure of his world, she thought. She nestled her head back under a fern and counted the striated rows of spores that laced the edges. “There is a ruckus of a flock down at the Dead River.” Flock meant only one thing—Raven and her clan. “Did Raven send for me?” Little Fawn nibbled on tender shoots of wild yarrow stretching from a blanket of rot. “No, but the girl did.” “Girl?” The Lady’s brow creased into a blade of grass. “Yes, down at the Dead River.” The Lady of the Forest stood, tuning her senses past a symphony of June bugs that snapped like summer fire in the hollowed-out trunks of cedar and pine. There, in the soft emerald of the hills, a whisper drifted. Why had she not heard it until now? She heard every call, knew of every misplaced spirit, answered to all cries as do the elephants of the prairie. Little Fawn sensed her thoughts. “It is difficult to concentrate with so many requests, Lady of the Forest.” “No, Little Fawn. It is something else, another reason.” The Lady of the Forest slid from a bed of liverwort and traveled through the dark of the forest toward the Dead River. Little Fawn skipped and bounded close behind her, stumbling across slippery logs and earth-covered boulders. Brush rustled of foxes and chipmunks, and beneath the needles, the night crawlers slithered, foraging organics from sodden dirt. Like the first crisp chill of dawn, the Lady of the Forest sensed a season of change. Fall was afoot, but it went deeper than that. There was an ebbing of her spirit, not so much a weakening as it was a turning inward, a need for dormancy. She felt it in the rigidity of her step and the languor of her reflections, but to question if her disconnection might be to blame for the girl’s lost spirit, settled shadows across her soul. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
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ShadowsBy Alexander C. Kafka QuailBellMagazine.com Shadows stalk me still. Never get their fill. How could you delight in the morning's light if the nighttime had no will? When the evening comes, our contents under pressure, antiseptic, screwed on tight, strictly contained-- will you meet my eyes and read their urgent message and confront your demons when I call your name? Rock me tender, rock me slow. There's still time till you must go. Even if it's just one night, kiss me long and hold me tight. Rock me tender, rock me slow. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
WEILEWAY! The QB Crew would like to express our sincerest apologies for NOT updating the website yesterday, December 7th. Unfortunately, our web management system was down. You know we wouldn't neglect you otherwise. As an expression of our regret, here's a little giftie: |