Evan Quinlan

Archive for 2017|Yearly archive page

Allegory In Bronze

In Drabbles, Fiction, Short Stories on December 17, 2017 at 3:14 pm

She read about the brazen bull, an ancient Greek torture device that transformed screams into music, and her neck hairs stood on end. People could be so horrible to each other. That night, though she often slept badly due to chronic pains and anxieties, she fell deeply into a dream: Greek soldiers forced her into the brazen bull, but instead of a bronze enclosure heated by coals, the bull contained the entire world.

In the morning, though her body ached, she sang in the shower. She would follow the example of the brazen bull and transform her pain into song.

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The Golem’s Nature

In Haiku on December 17, 2017 at 2:57 pm

Though its limbs are stone
Its will to live is greater
Than the weight of them

Skyward Circle

In Drabbles, Fiction, Short Stories on November 6, 2017 at 10:05 pm

Each night she waits for me in the vineyard, her face in starlight.

I’m in pain, she explains.

I know, I say, and I uncork the bottle.

We don’t often drink the wine we produce—that would be a vicious circle! Instead, we drink other people’s wine, stomp drunkenly on our own grapes until they become wine, then sell that to afford even more wine.

Tell us it’s wrong. Go ahead, try! We’ll taunt you from our viny hideaway, jeering, giggling and crying in unison.

We’ll remain unkempt. We’ll dance away merrily and howl at the moon.

This is love.

Crossroads

In Base Twelve Drabbles, Fiction, Short Stories on October 31, 2017 at 5:12 pm

On Halloween night I left my dormitory and walked to the northwest edge of campus, where the forest grew thickly around a narrow, inward path. Having no light, I followed it in total darkness, having promised myself to persist until the first crossroads. My imagination painted horrors on a black canvas; fear pounded at my breast, but I pushed on, for my self-sacrifice to this October evening could not be rescinded. When at last I found another dark path running perpendicular to my own, I hesitated in spite of myself. What, I supposed, could be more frightening than retreat? What possible malevolence could await to justify cowardice when I had already endured so much? And so, with a nod to the demons lurking out of sight, and bidding the crossroads a pleasant All Hallow’s Eve, I followed that road deeper into the inky wood.