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Cool Down, MerrifieldBy The Sparrow Goddess QuailBellMagazine.com That was the long leg of Route 29 you did not climb like a tick hungry for the throbbing vein of easy thrills. You scuttled through the grass and fed on Tysons Corner, where hotels were high and bars bright like star beams. Sinny sin sin, sinny sin sin, sinners in K Street suits, running tabs they'd pay when they landed the next federal contract. Back then, Merrifield was merry with loan sharks and auto body shops, with the unfortunate sounding Gallows Road the main corridor. (Fairfax Underground buzzes with the origin of that name.) Nobody knew Angelika back then but now she's the coolest girl on the block. Can you afford $2,650 a month? The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
ArlandriaBy M. Alouette QuailBellMagazine.com 2011, WaPo said Foo Fighters gave us an anthem,
not that we ever listened to the Foos, anyway My sweet Virginia, I'm the same as I was in your arms No mention of St. Rita's, with all its bells and smells No mention of the Waffle Shop with just one 'f' No mention of that crook of Edison Street straight out of WWII Or the Four Mile Run farmers market that accepts SNAP No Arlandria I know, no, no, no The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
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GALATEARejecting what hands
had not made his ivory and my hands having made nothing to bring to life this poem and how long the stone eluded him before skin warm it turned a young girl being wanted. In its becoming, did it adopt that which he hated about women? Never mind my feminist notions. Being awakened The act of awakening A state of awake not being a conjuring Her finding his tools, mallet as birth as trauma of personal truth. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Driving for a DinerBy Paisley Hibou QuailBellMagazine.com All we wanted was a waffle drenched in powdered sugar and fake syrup,
or a burger sitting in a puddle of grease on a '70s ceramic plate with frogs. We weren't looking for high-class platters, just “Redneck Woman” grub. No, I can't swig that sweet Champagne, I'd rather drink beer all night. But Great Falls is not the land of midnight meals and five-dollar deals, so we hopped into the car and tricked ourselves into a trip to Tysons. Some people look down on me, but I don't give a rip. We didn't want a Silver Diner-IHOP-Denny's-mass-produced diner. We wanted the diners of Route 1, where waitresses wear hairpieces and paint on moles, calling you names like “biscuit sunshine baby doll pie” like that's a real thing, as they pour you more sweet tea or dishwater coffee. We wanted beaten-up booths where hookers give truckers blowjobs before the hushpuppies get too cold, and sticky floors with ugly tiles and bathrooms with broken mirrors and crass writing on the wall. Well, you might think I'm trashy, a little too hardcore/ But in my neck of the woods I'm just the girl next door We drove all the way to Leesburg, these two hungry girls, disappointed to see that everything was closed, except for the McD's in Sterling where a woman lived in her car. Maybe she was waiting for a late-night diner to open and she wasn't going to leave her car 'til one did. It'll be a long wait still, lady, but at least you're saving on NOVA rent. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Royal StreetBy Christine Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com A Colonial dining ritual at the “finest public house in America”--
the Argand lamp burning bright with colza as the prime rib cools sterling silver clinking and clanking, sleeve cuffs nearing gravy heads bowed like monks; noiseless tongues, lips, and mouths-- all whilst the snowflakes hitch a ride with the wind before falling on Porsches parked outside the Pilates class, and two blocks away women eye designer clothes, and a busking clown cries on the dock, exhausted from his day of twisting balloons, now left out in the cold, for night has fallen and, though it is Yule, the night will still be long, and Gadsby's Tavern is now a museum, and the artist needs a warm bed, but all the warm beds to be had are in million-dollar restored row houses whose residents work for Booz and send their children to Bishop Ireton. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Dogwood DreamA scent of dogwood drifts on dawn air. I waken with tears in my eyes. When I was a little girl we walked from Tennessee into Northern Alabama. It was April of 1933. My uncle had a farm near Athens. We planned to stay with him until times got better. We walked on back roads and paths through the woods. My father and mother carried our belongings on their backs. My job was to keep track of Dan my little brother. He was four and jumpy as a cricket. Toward the end of our third walking day, my parents lowered their gunnysacks and slumped down on fragrant grass to rest. Like most little boys, Dan wouldn't stop moving until he couldn't. He hopped off into the trees as soon as my parents put down their sacks. I trotted after him. My father called after me, "Don't go too far, Mary Lou. Call if you need me." I waved to him as I passed from sunlight into cool shade. After a few steps, I slowed and called, "Dan?" but he didn't answer me. I walked some way into the trees. There was a rustle behind me. I turned and Dan's grin popped out at me. "Boo!" he shouted. A huge black man, shoulders round like a bear's, leaned out from a tree behind Dan. "Boo, yourself!" We screamed and clutched each other. The big man laughed like a booming drum. "Easy, children, easy. I'm Henry Jefferson and I mean you no harm." Dan and I looked at him. He was far darker than my mother and father. He seemed tall as a barn door and at least that wide. His arms were thick as young trees. He grinned at us and dangled a dead hen by her legs. "I got a chicken? Your momma got a pot?" Henry Falstaff Jefferson sat beside our campfire and plucked his chicken. He threw the feathers into the flames. They made an awful stink. My mother wrinkled her nose, but she didn't say anything. She was thankful that chicken came along for us. After supper, we sat happy and full beside the fire. Chicken-hominy stew and cornbread ease many troubles. Cool, springtime dusk grew around us. Henry Jefferson warmed his hands over the fire, opened his eyes wide and grinned. "'Bout dark enough to tell a story, you think?" Dan and I nodded. Henry leaned closer to the flames. "Do you children believe in ghosts?" Of course we did. Men on horses woke us in the morning. The men wore white shirts, brown pants and long boots. Their hats had wide brims and their faces were in shadow. One man shouted, "Smell that campfire smoke? There's thieving niggers in these woods. Caleb, take your boys around to the other side. We'll drive 'em in your direction." Well, we ran. The big horses blew and snorted behind us. We dodged between trees and around boulders. I remember thinking it might be best to hide under a trunk when some roots grabbed my foot and jerked me down. Red Alabama earth smacked the breath out of me. I lost Dan's hand. When I could breathe again, a horse taller than a mountain was standing over me. Its rider reached down and gripped my arm. He hauled me out of those woods like a sack of potatoes and dumped me on the grass beside my mother. I looked up and saw Henry hanging from a tree limb. His feet were still twitching, but I knew they wouldn't much longer. I told my mother we ought to tell the men that my father didn't steal their chicken. She put her hand over my mouth and whispered, "Hush." The men hanged my father alongside Henry. They dangled together like ripe peaches, two of those strange fruit Billie Holiday sang about. Dogwood blossoms are white, not like snow, but warm like a biscuit. We found Dan near an April dogwood tree. Its blossoms fell on him, covered him with their creamy silk. A horse had stepped on his chest. He was still alive, but he was broken. I spent the longest hour I lived on this earth listening to Dan try to breathe. He died before noon. We buried him there beneath that dogwood. I dreamed of dogwood blossoms again last night. Robert Walton is a writer living in King City, California. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
This ebook could change a kid's life.Your purchase of The Children of Jackson Ward, a poetry and photography collection by Christine Stoddard and Kristen Rebelo, will go toward the Quail Bell Scholarship for Creative Promise. Learn more about the book and the scholarship here. Happy holidays!
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When You Give A Family CrayonsBy Kristen Rebelo (and family) QuailBellMagazine.com QB art director Kristen Rebelo asked her family to show her what they thought Santa looked like. Here's how they responded: Print out the diverse Santa coloring page here and send us your favorites!
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Rudolph See more of Christa's work here.
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