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Welcome, MarylandBy Christine Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com La Plata, Port Tobacco—places of Southern Maryland legend I have no legends, only memories of a lit-up tree by the creek where old-school crab pots promised Christmas crustaceans and we gathered in prayer over dozens of buttery ham biscuits and somehow we always ended up on the porch for sunset The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Ms. DogIllustration of the poet Anne Sexton
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The Ghost of Christmas PresentThe Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Reading the Biography of ArchimedesThe Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
In the Midst of LifeThe pebbles emerged at different times of day - on the hour that marked a person’s birth. Daniel got his around noon; Anna in the morning; Tom always at night, before they were delivered to a new dawn. The process was always the same - even if the duration differed: nausea as the seconds and minutes and hours churned in the gut, the pebble taking a rough and unrefined shape; discomfort as it rolled up the esophagus, the spasms and contractions sanding and smoothing its edges; relief when it came to rest on the tongue, ready to be placed in a jar alongside the other days that sat as testaments to their lives.
Most people accepted the process as a matter of course, according it no more thought than they did any other bodily function. They went about their days and nights freely, barely concerned with the sensations, the discomfort. They didn’t think of it as a physical reminder of time passing, as a mechanism taking them that much closer to death. Most people didn’t care about the jars either, the jars that held all that pebbled time - as if the expelling of the stones wasn’t reminder enough. But Tom wasn’t most people. The persistent knocking woke them all. One by one. Each in their own way. Daniel came awake slowly, laboriously, like a patient just out of surgery. Blinking and squinting against the sunlight while the knocking carried on. No way it was for him. No way. He flipped over to his stomach and covered his head with a pillow. Anna was faster to wake and put up less of a fight. She stretched and yawned. Her movements long and languid, she tossed one bent knee over the other and twisted to face the opposite direction, holding the pose for several beats, just like the instructor had taught her. Whoever was at the door could wait. There was time still for little meditations. The knocking grew more persistent. Tom awoke at once—bolt upright, at attention—at the first knock. No yawning for him, no stretching either. He was attuned and wired to any knocks that landed on the door of the house they shared. Whether packages arrived in the morning, during the afternoon, or anytime in between, Tom was fully aware of it. And his reaction was always the same. Perfect attention, minimal movement, drumming heart taking over his senses. Logically he knew that rushing to the door would lessen the pain, but he was never able to spring out of bed the way his mind demanded; and he was left to suffer these little agonies of inaction each and every time a knock sounded. When the paralysis passed, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and ran for the door. Now he was all action, all movement, and he could not fly down the stairs or through the house fast enough. He pulled the door open so hard it rebounded off the wall and smacked into him, the edge landing squarely against his funny bone and sending a jolt of electricity up his arm. He let out a yelp of pain and cradled his elbow in hand as his eyes fell on the doorstep. It was a large, yellow package. The fourth ones were always wrapped in yellow paper, and a bubble of joy came up Tom’s throat. He picked it up, heartbeat slowing, as his mouth quirked into a smile. Holding the package close, he turned it over and read the label pasted to the bottom. The air shot out of his lungs, like a deflating balloon, and he bit out a gruff curse. “What is it?” He turned as Anna glided off the last step in that effortless way of hers. Like she didn’t move through matter that pushed back against her. Like she wasn’t subject to the physical laws everyone else labored under. Like it was all far, far too easy for her. And then she was at his side, more specter than reality, peering at the box in his hands. “This came for you,” he replied, pushing it into her arms. Now that he knew who it was meant for, he suddenly could not hold it for one more moment. It was a cruelty he was finding very difficult to accept. “Oh,” she said, pale eyes cloaked in sympathy. But Tom chose to see it as pity and turned away from her, shutting the front door and heading for the kitchen. She followed him. She made no noise—her feet were too delicate for that—but Tom knew she followed. Her concern trailed after him like vapor seeking a vent. It had a scent, distinct and sharp, that found him at the onset of one of his episodes and clung to him long after. “Maybe it isn’t—” “Don’t do that,” he interrupted, frowning at her while turning on the coffeemaker. “It’s yellow. Just open it.” She perched on a stool at the counter, the box nestled in her lap. “Later.” “No,” he countered, getting out three mugs and the sugar. “Now.” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Death DogWhen the dog came to my door he looked pretty funny with Mom’s boot in his jaw. His body sagged in the snow, like a fur coat with legs. His eyes were dark holes and his bowels were a catacomb. That one shoe couldn’t sop up his slaver. He was The Death Dog. And he wanted my mom. I threw him a sandal and then shut the door. Mom had so little left. I rushed to her room. Where the sun hit chest, her ribs stopped—and I froze. Had the dog taken more than I knew? But Mom’s breath returned, and then mine did too. We became two bellows, alone in her room. I worried the dog might watch as he circled, scratching from outside the window. I turned from the glass towards Mom’s sweet-sour breath. I leaned in for a hug but her arms were shriveled balloons. So I just took her small hand and let her pulse meet my palm. That week I looted her room for new heels for the dog but when he came back he was growling for more. I hurried for Mom’s favorite coat as tissues spilled out. She’d stuffed them so full, even before she was sick. I held out her coat and the dog sniffed at the seams. When he chomped for the collar, I slammed the door. We had some time before he returned. Mom woke for a while and we watched Jane Austen. I sang for her, which I did for no one else, and she smiled even when I was off-pitch. Her face was bright but shrinking. I baked bread she couldn’t eat. It turned to clay in her mouth, but the scent was a thrill. She told me how she once dreamed of eating whatever she wanted and how it didn’t matter. The dream was not like this. I didn’t tell her about the dog but she still must have known. She gave me her recipe for turkey soup and told me to take her pink hat. She spoke of the grandchildren she’d never know, listing names like hers, then got very quiet and kissed my crown. I held her, her brittle bones and withered skin. I breathed with the pump of her pulse, ignoring the scratch of the dog at the window. That night The Death Dog came by mistake. I’d dropped a box of bulbs and their cracked shells sliced my heel. He came at the first splash of blood, mopping it up before he learned it was mine. Then he stomped out with his claws, slashing my best photo of Mom’s summer smile. I bandaged myself quickly and heated Mom’s dinner. She’d a rare craving for broth and I rushed it to her, but her lips mashed only one spoonful. The next day Mom slept more and her face sank back from her eyes. Her head slacked to one side and her throat only crackled. When her feet went cold, I leapt for a fleece. Yet when I returned, the window gaped wide. The Death Dog was there. He slurped at her toes as she gurgled in gasps. I met his dark eyes and dropped the blanket for fists. I wrestled him to where the window belched cold, but his legs were too strong, and he pounced for his feast. Mom’s eyes were closed when he perched at her breast. His jaws clamped down as he gouged out her heart. Her body slunk down and I swung at his teeth. I got back her heart and let it beat in my palm. I tried plunging it back into her chest, but the dog swallowed my hand down to the wrist. He guzzled the heart and left my hand numb. Then bounded outside leaving blood on the snow. In the bed was a slip where my mom used to be. I cradled her head and kissed the crown, tasting only the coldest salt. Julienne Grey was recently awarded the Slice Literary Writers’ Conference Scholarship and has done feature interviews for Slice Magazine. Her work has appeared in Pindeldyboz and theNewerYork, among others, and is forthcoming in Joyland, SmokeLong Quarterly, The Ink and Code, and Slice issue 16. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
ProcessRun a finger on a lateral line of a leg this is a program first the first and then the outer terms of an equation line of a knee and inner thigh Your hand moves to the collar of my jacket, unbuttons the first button, stays there a semicircle filling You’re doing what I like. Thank you. The present moment is a happening again in a different place to say I need one of you is to say the utility of the self A mirror with a soft chin I am perplexed with needing someone aside from the self I’ve created to help me. With your tongue in my mouth the inner terms last no longer than a lip between teeth. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Hymn to ApolloAt noon it is dry, it is silent, three rows
around a pool of fennel. Snake bellies have already kissed it. Brightplague tingles in your vein, fills it with an ichor of tender malice. Yesterday's mark dried and cracked on the door. Yes and we are trailing into the vacant past, ribbons and all. I counted. I uncounted. A train wails across the aorist divide, your lungs inflate in the shape of two islands paddling between freshwater and brine. I uncounted. Yes and if you do not want love or even hope, then what? I uncounted. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
GlobetrotterProducers/Stylists: Sidney Shuman, Shannon Minor, Amy Gatewood and Lindsay Story Photographer: Jasmine Thompson Model: Liz Urena Dress Designer: Amanda Campbell QuailBellMagazine.com Special Thanks to the Richmond International Airport.
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The Mime's StoryThe Mime's Story is a tale of unseen politicians who cruelly make laws that destroy lives. It is a metaphor for the gay rights crusade worldwide. In the creator's words: "I moved to Miami with CBS and the Wometco Theater Company, and I later founded my own independent production companies. Over the years in Miami and Los Angeles I directed full length documentary shows and segments for all major networks in the U.S., U.K., and Japan. Refreshing my college theater work, I wrote, staged, and directed original plays with the Writers and Directors Unit of the Actors Studio. I taught for UCLA Extension, the USC film school, the American Film Institute, and for the IAFT in Cebu, Philippines. Recently the CalArts Redcat theater at the Disney Hall downtown chose my stage play 'The Dream Lady' for workshop reading."
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