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Invention
From the front porch, Pa could see the stagecoach charging toward the farmhouse. He was getting out of his rocking chair when I opened the screened door. He walked to the front steps and spat, then looked over our orchard and back in the direction of the approaching coach. The sun hovered straight over our heads.
A few moments later, I followed Pa into the yard. An old man on top of a stagecoach yelled, “Whoa!” and brought his team to a halt. Beside him sat a man, but he was much smaller than the older one. The little person nodded and waved while the the old man carefully climbed down and shook my father's hand. He had crooked teeth. One was broken and his face was covered in wrinkles. His hair was tangled strands of black and gray, hanging over his ears and eyes. His nose was flat and large for his face and his eyes were too far apart. He wore an unbuttoned black coat with tails and a ruffled shirt. I crossed my arms as he began, “Why, hello to you! Both of you,” in a thick rasp that made me think his throat was lined with sandpaper. He continued, “I am Fernando Ramos, one of the greatest inventors in all the world.” Fernando extended his arms to the sky and twisted back and forth. Pa didn't respond for a moment, and Fernando finally said, “And, how are you today, my good sir?” “I'm fine,” Pa said. “How can I help you?” Pa's hands were on his hips. He had a such wad of chewing tobacco under his lip that his mouth looked like it might spring a leak. “No, no,” said Fernando. “We are here to help you. Are we not, Sampson?” The old man looked over his shoulder at the little person on top of his stagecoach. Sampson stood and cried, “We are here to help!” Fernando turned and made a slight bow. Pa nodded to himself and looked at me. I moved closer to him and was within arm's reach, when I looked at the horses at the front of Fernando's stagecoach. They were tan with long legs and long silky manes. When Fernando looked at me, he began to dust off his sleeves. Then he made an extravagant show of his empty hands. He clapped twice and produced a flower from the sleeve of his black jacket. He handed it to me and began, “For you, my little one.” It wasn't a real flower. It was made of some kind of fabric. It made me like him even less because I didn't like magic. As I twisted the flower between my fingers, I looked at our orchard while Pa and the magician spoke. Our hands—the few that we had—were busy. They were picking apples, climbing the trees, sometimes using ladders and sometimes not. They filled their baskets and produced bushels. After some time, Fernando repeated that he was an inventor. Pa paused for a moment, spat again, and said, “I'm not sure I have any need for an inventor.” “But of course you do!” cried Fernando as he laughed. The aged man bowed, again. “I invented the Sun, so that when I say there should be light there is. More sun for your crop, for example. More apples. What is your present yield, my friend?” Pa looked the old man over and began to explain things I'd only heard him discuss with other men in town. Fernando was smiling in an inexplicably jovial way. He turned and said, “Will there be light, Sampson?” I also didn't like the way Fernando lingered on the letter 's' until he sounded serpentine. The little person on the stagecoach jumped to his feet and yelled, “There will be light, Fernando!” He stood on the seat and motioned over the orchard. When I asked my mother about the short man, she referred to him as a dwarf. I'd never seen anyone like him. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Sewer Kid 
They asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, so I asked if I could be a rat, black and damp, feasting on the rotten fruit of alleyways. You'll need an education. To be a rat? To grow up. You'll need an occupation. To be a rat? To grow up. You'll need determination! To be a rat? To grow up. Well, at least I have a vocation! Lawyer? Banker? Doctor? No, a rat, just a rat. Let me be a rat. Small, flea-bitten, hungry for grime, I am nobody's favorite (certainly hated), and I find sewers simply sublime with all their many passageways, a dirty, disgusting labyrinth, all mine, all mine, all mine. Just let me be a rat. #Rat #Dreams #WhenIGrowUp #Poetry #Photography
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VA Hospital CourtyardBy Ryan Carson QuailBellMagazine.com 
sitting in a lavish garden lingering in the yelp of passing existential, bombastic jargon. immaculately constructed cities of sound amassing lingering in the yelp of passing mere existence is remarkable, immaculately constructed cities of sound amassing syllables quaking in a mind, unavailable mere existence is remarkable sonics shaking cells to the point of disbanding syllables quaking in a mind unavailable. chords exploding nerve endings sonics shaking cells to the point of disbanding reverberations cracking in stillness chords exploding nerve endings body crumbling trying to will this reverberations cracking in stillness sitting in a lavish garden body crumbling trying to will this: existential, bombastic jargon. #Poem #Poetry #CreativeWriting #Garden #Hospital #Noise
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Forest Dweller
#Illustration #CathrynVirginia #ForestDweller #OrangeAndBlue #Fox #AnimalIllustration
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Virtual ScenesThe greater cat with golden eyes Stares out between the bars. —Victoria Sackville-West 
Walter called his wife at her sister’s in St. Paul to confirm that today was the one-year anniversary of the death of their beloved cat, Moses. “Yes, it was a year ago today, as a matter of fact,” answered Bella, thoughtfully. “Lord, it seems impossible that a year has gone by since he died.” “Okay, well I was looking out of my office window toward his grave just now, and...well, I don’t know how else to say this, but I saw him. I mean, I see him right now. He’s walking toward the house.” “C’mon, Walt, that’s not even funny.” “I’m not screwing around. I see him. Hold on, let me get a closer look out the window.” Walter pressed his nose against the glass and then stepped away catching his breath. “My God. It’s either him or his clone,” Walter gasped into the phone. “How could it be him, for heaven’s sake? He’s dead, Walter. Are you all right? Anything the matter? Is this just another of your foolish pranks?” As Walter peered out of his office window, the grey tabby moved closer. “No . . . no! I’m not joking. It totally looks like him. He’s just as huge, and he has that funny curlicue design next to his nose. But I know it can’t be him. I mean...He’s on the porch. Let me see if he comes inside like Moses did by pushing the screen door open. I’ll call you back.” Walter left his office and headed for the porch. But before he was halfway there, the cat he thought he might be imagining stood before him in the family room. “Holy crap! Hello there kitty,” muttered Walter, stooping to meet the mystery feline’s eyes. “Oh God, you look just like..." Without any hesitation the cat walked up to Walter and brushed affectionately against his leg. “You are... I mean, that’s impossible. Let me check your tag.” Walter took hold of the animal’s collar and nearly fainted when he saw the word ‘Moses’ on the blue medallion that his cat had worn for all of its 14 years. Mother of God. You can’t be Moses. Not possible. Just freaking not possible. But damn if you don’t look and act like him. Maybe I’m losing my mind. Let me call Bella back and let her see for herself, he thought and speed dialed her number. “Hello, again. Can you see me, Bella?” “Yes, I can. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. So, did our dead kitty come back from the grave?” snickered Bella. “He did. Look...” Walter directed his iPhone camera toward the cat standing between his legs. “Bet you can hear him purring, too.” “Are you kidding me?” “No, I’m not. Just look for yourself.” “Look at what? I don’t see anything but the floor.” Walter moved his cellphone camera to the cat’s collar and held the tag close to the lens for his wife to see. “There,” said Walter, confident that she must see it. “There, what? All I see are your feet.” “Now you’re the one joking. He’s right here. I can see him in the camera.” “Walter, I swear, I don’t see anything. Just your slippers. What’s the matter with you? You’re really acting very strange.” ”Me, strange? What about you? You really don’t see Moses? I mean, I don’t understand. He’s right here. It must be Moses. He looks identical, and there’s his tag.” “Did you take the pills the doctor gave you? Or did you take mine again by accident?” “Yes, I took my pills. I can feel him . . . his thick fur, Bella. So I’m not just seeing things.” “Well, I don’t know what to say. I can’t see him, and how could I? Moses died on this day exactly one year ago.” “But...” “Oh, wait...Oh my God! What is that enormous snake next to your right foot?” “Huh? What snake? I don’t see..." “Run, Walter! Get away from it before it attacks you.” At that moment, the doorbell rang, and Walter answered it. It was Frank Berg, his next-door neighbor “Hi, Walt. Just came over to...Whoa, so you got another cat that looks exactly like Moses?” said Frank. “Oh, you can see the cat, too?” asked Walter, greatly relieved. “Of course . . . and that’s great. But, man, why’d you get that python, too?” “Huh? What python?” Michael C. Keith teaches college and writes stories. #Fiction #ShortStory #VirtualScenes #Cat
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Mouth “…the singing there means: They dig.” – Paul Celan One blue crawl forward out from under sea, the sand-blown sky, would bring me to a place where foam sizzles at the shore and denotes a line between the known and the unseen: a beach of homes sloughed off or echoes of writhing bodies picked up and dropped. A cage, rusty mouthed, barnacle toothed and square jawed slaps a waltz on its hinges. I want to hide inside its strong-hold depths, its invisible gut where all my legs know the song-clank sound, but I burrow down, and down. Mud yawns open at my touch; I find worms, and smaller forms like me— leg-burdened, skeletal-bright-- living on their insides, scuttling in time with the mouth that digs for them. I dig, you dig, and so digs the worm. I dig for my mouth and the mouths I know. It feels like the swell that pulls before the crash, like the nights I am compelled to claw up and up, and move my blue body across dunes where the wind’s weight is light, where birds circling in white gyres descend. #Poetry #CreativeWriting #Literature #Mouth
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Lust
#Illustration #BrianaHertzog #Lust #Red #Flowers #Hummingbird
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The BoxBy Peter McMillan QuailBellMagazine.com  Nathalie walked in with a box. Said it was for me. Didn't say who it was from, just that it was left for me. I asked her to open it since my arthritis was acting up real bad and I was liable to drop it and break or scatter whatever was inside. She said she'd have to do it later, 'cause she had to go look after Miss Emily down the hall. Miss Emily had fallen again. Nathalie put the box on my bedside table, within sight but just out of reach in case I tried to get it and pushed it over by accident. It was a pretty good size box. Not a moving box or anything close to that size. More like a hat box, for women's hats. I never wore a hat, but my late wife, Lizzie, did. A hat box. Square. Two of them that size would have been a perfect cube. Seemed kinda old to me. Not that it was scratched or damaged in any way. It just looked old, like it couldn't be from today's stores. But then I'm not exactly up-to-date anymore. Something to think about...this box. I had to figure who could have sent it and what was inside it. Couldn't imagine. Hadn't seen or talked to any friends or family in I don't know how long. Course, most of our friends were on the West Coast and both Lizzie and me were only children and our two boys died young. Their wives remarried and we lost touch. What could be in there? Didn't look heavy when Nathalie moved it. Didn't rattle around either. Maybe a blanket, an afghan, or whatever they call them, donated by some organization or other in town. That would be nice. Thoughtful. It does get pretty chilly in here some nights and that would feel good on my legs. Nathalie was back. She started to take my vitals, and I shook my head with as much force as I could muster and said I had to know what was in the box. She asked if I'd been worrying about that all this time. I nodded. She moved the box close to my bedside and took off the lid. Inside was was a framed photograph of me and Lizzie—must have been in our twenties—and another of me and Lizzie and the boys at the Grand Canyon. There was a commencement program for our oldest who graduated first in his class in college. There were letters from our youngest from when he was overseas. His boyhood stamp collection was neatly tucked away. A copy of our first mortgage was in there, partly burned because we changed our minds and decided to stamp it "Paid in Full" and keep it as a souvenir. The dog tags from Tag, Sparky, Pal, and Roxie were carefully wrapped in a kerchief that Roxie used to wear on special occasions. Christmas cards from our closest friends and our grownup boys were carefully bundled. The pocket watch from her grandfather—on her mother's side—that got returned…twice. I stopped her. "Nathalie, take it away! Please! It's too much. Please take it away." She did. That evening I begged her for an extra pain killer or sedative or something...just for one night, I said. The next day I realized that Lizzie had sent the box, sort of. She had kept a box of memorabilia like that in our attic. I never looked in it. After Lizzie passed, I never thought about the box again, so it must have been sitting there until the new owners came across it and pieced together who it belonged to. That was real thoughtful of them. The author is a freelance writer and ESL instructor who lives on the northwest shore of Lake Ontario with his wife and two flat-coated retrievers. He has published two anthologies of his reprinted stories: Flash! Fiction and Flash! Fiction 2. #FlashFiction #Fiction #CreativeWriting #TheBox #Keepsakes #Memories
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Profile
#Illustration #Artist #VictoriaBorges #Profile #Portrait
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The Lonely Star Pony Finds Friends in DreamsBy Paisley Hibou QuailBellMagazine.com 
#Friendship #Ponies #Horses #Dreams #Photography
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