|
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Rubber Band Man Marcus Johnson watched in horror as his finger stretched and pulled. He heard a loud popping and snapping sound, and his finger flopped, hanging limply. Two of his other fingers were beginning to show some wear themselves. All over the city, the same symptoms had been reported: joints that flexed and stretched to great lengths, only to snap and break in two or remain loose and ungainly. Marcus Johnson and his colleagues had been in a state of high anxiety and great panic, traveling around the city to document the outbreaks—taking pictures, recording interviews, attempting to understand what was happening. Arms and legs were stretched out into long ribbons. Some limbs bounced back, some remained stretched out, some broke and were left dangling. People were understandably upset. Calls for action rang across the city. The mayor was involved. The news media had gone on a 24-hour news cycle to report the progression of the outbreak in real time. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Three-Ringer By Ben Wright QuailBell Magazine.com  The downbeat or the upbeat, Mississippi or Massachusetts—where are my roots? In this piece of fiction, I’ve planted a seed, a magical seed, a kind that springs to life and grows into a tree if only it is nourished with the tiniest droplet of water. The tree is my family tree. The story is about civil war. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Be Mine, Starry NightBy Zhuoyan Li QuailBell Magazine.com  Look up, she says. See? One by one, they disentangle themselves from the night: disorderly rows of glimmering commas that scoop up mischievous tangents stray far from home, back into the arms of a gentle sea spilling through the air. Five diamonds turn into fourteen, fourteen into thirty, no, fifty-seven, a tentative eighty. Finally, the two voices give up on numbers, and resolve on an uncountable infinity. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Heroes and Monsters Elvis Presley died when I was 10. I had been obsessed with The King since I was a toddler and now my hero was dead. Not just dead, but dead in an embarrassing, collapsed-on-the-toilet-ODed way. I needed a new hero.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Summer's Visit at Cheryl's Apartment 2 Hanging wire baskets, black. Hanging neon green sheep and white Christmas lights. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Metamorphosis At birth, a pudgy face, flushed red with heat and emotion, turns her cheek to her mother’s skin, Revealing three blights, mulled wine stains beneath the skin, a permanent mark of change. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Satan's Samhain Satan’s Samhain is now here,
when shadows grow and ghosts appear. Take your soul to the next level: Make a dark pact with the devil. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Sounds at Night, Oboe A 440 To Full PerformanceBy Dan A. Cardoza QuailBellMagazine.com  At an old cabin near Fortuna, Ca. and the Eel River The damp smacks its lips at the chipped window sill, made of color chiseled from teal trees so pure, the earth never sews them anymore. I am trying to sleep, but this insistent orchestra transitions from Oboe A 440 to full performance, baton to harmony. Somewhere between earth, cello, sky & harp, The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Wish I Could FlyBy Shrey Gaur QuailBellMagazine.com  The feathers are frozen, with the last night's mist Being fed on nothing, the body's turned heavy I rattle my syrinx exertingly, to chirp; For the survivors of the flock to hear and levy. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Oh Friend
I am a banshee wailer I am small details the rain makes blurs of each important little word |
© Quail Bell Press & Productions, 2024. Founded by Christine Stoddard. Based in Brooklyn. Contact us.
