The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Disappearance of Celestine Frost
i.
Whatever she was, I’ll never know. But to me, she was a bird— no, more like the ocean or the breeze that swept from it and wrapped itself around you in that calm, providing hug that said to you, "I’m here now. It’s ok." Like the dust shone from her hair I could never grasp her fully— you couldn’t hold on to her, she was fallen into disappearance, unable to focus fully and even more so it became after the accident. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Wormhole Consuming Our Brains
A silkworm burrows through the building,
creating narrow passages for the many to follow. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Teacup Dress
Jayna wasn’t a bad person; she just liked to explore when no one was home. This wouldn’t be a problem if she was exploring her own home, but that was not the case. She reasoned that if people gave her a key or a code then she had permission. And she did, to an extent. She had permission to come over and let the dogs out when Mr. and Mrs. Hammond had to stay late at work. She had permission to go in and water the African violets in Mrs. Goldblum’s front window when she flew south like the birds to Florida for the winter. She did not, however, have permission to climb over the fence into Old Mrs. Maynard’s backyard after school when she heard the car pull out of the driveway, take the key from under the mat where she once saw the lady hide it, sneak in, give the fat calico cat a scratch, and pad around inside the orange brick split-level ranch, but that didn’t stop her; orange brick split-level ranch, but that didn’t stop her.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Before We Fly to Nieve-Nieve Land
By Colleen Foster
QuailBellMagazine.com
It may be safe, but there is no
easy way through Safeway because every green screen screamed of white. So to escape some Donner Party scenario we pile our buggies high in Oregon Trail mode with The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Stardust
By Kayli Wren
QuailBellMagazine.com
Tomorrow is composed of leaving:
I’ll pack my things and look into corners to make sure, make prolonged and silent eye contact, hug someone, and not say goodbye The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Writer's Block
I throw them down on
Pristine white foundation. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
We Raised Flames
By Kayli Wren
QuailBellMagazine.com
We were masters of sand creations
No cheating with that plastic-bucket-mold crap – We were original Handfuls of thick sand mud plopped through our fingers Rising turrets and twisting spirals composed of hundreds of tiny sand dollops Decorations of seaweed strands and smooth shells that looked almost purple under water The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
But Poetry Makes Nothing Happen
I always find it easier
to dissect my depraved soul into desperate, discrete parts labelled 'Despair', 'Disillusion' 'dying,' and of course, 'Destruction' while holding each dumb shard of my helplessly hopeless heart for some depressing (I)ntrospection. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Brownie
By Nels Hanson
QuailBellMagazine.com
Angie was feeling shaky and low. She’d just been dropped by a married man named Dick Spencer, a bigwig lawyer in Fresno—so I went over to cheer the two of us up.
I’d met Angie at the Miracle Spa on Blackstone. She was lots of fun, with a figure as good as mine, short blonde hair, and a real pretty face. She had a heart of gold. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Circus
It didn’t bother me that the wetness was coming through my shirt. It felt good in fact. They had probably watered the lawn recently. I was on my back in the soft, damp grass. It was cool and comforting. Looking up I could see patches of blue through the sprawling limbs of the oak tree. I had to blink a couple of times. Was it a Black Oak? Was it a Live Oak? I wasn’t sure. It had been a difficult week, and I was beat. I wanted to close my eyes for a few minutes, but it seemed important that I keep them open.
The sponge-like lawn in front of the Spanish style clubhouse was enormous. It was ideal for a sprawling and luxurious game of croquet. Smiling players dressed in all white drinking gin and tonic while politely knocking each other’s balls as far away as possible. |