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A Journey Wrongly Traveled
By Kudzai Mahwite
QuailBellMagazine.com
She left them with a dream,
A dream that should have been hers Sadly they never did envisage The wrong ambitions that enveloped her sight. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Traveling Back Home
By Sophie Hwang
QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: This piece was first published in Home Issue of Thistle Magazine.
My home is empty. Everyone left, one by one as seasons changed, as fall accumulated rotten leaves on our front porch, and warmth swept the snow away from our roof. Nina wanted to find a new life, a world outside humble mornings of pancakes and syrups. Hana was sick of this house. ‘Smelly old town’ was what she called it. I kind of expected her to leave- she always kicked our mailbox and tore her buttered toasts with her fork rather aggressively. I beckon, what triggered their departure was Dad’s death. Our lives fell apart, snippet-by-snippet since then. Mom was gone when I woke up on one morning. She was the last to leave. I am all alone now.
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Memorias de la Tierra
The votive candles flickered with the light taken from a remembered dream. An image of the Virgin of Guadalupe sat atop the altar with her heavy gaze perpetually searching the earth for the son she had lost. There were other faces though, hidden amongst the blooming marigolds, photographic portraits all colored with the same somber grey. The outlines of their features—strong jaws, wide eyes, linear brow lines—seemed to be pulled by Time’s eroding fingertips.
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Utopia
Lead us to a place Where there is no leader, Where the grass is fresh But doesn’t itch. Sing to us with voices Tender but not soft. Slap us in the face When we get fresh. Don’t love me Unless I love you too. With full bellies and brains We’ll sleep together And cradle the world.
#UnReal #Poem #Utopia #Unrest #Love #Leaders #Dreams #PoliticalUnrest #StartingFresh #Paradise #UrbanFantasy
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Finding Life in Death
By Francesca Giordano
QuailBellMagazine.com She was drowning. All she could feel was the water covering her head as her arms seemed to move in slow motion throughout the water. It had been a difficult and intense year for Cara. Her mother had lost her life to a drunk driver, her father’s latest military base was over 3,000 miles away, and the boy she loved had decided he loved her no longer. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Heart of Icarus
By Elizza Mansfield
QuailBellMagazine.com Amelia wasn’t going to be another Icarus tale. She was a genius, not a fool. After all, only a fool would build wings out of wax. Hers would be bronze and run by gears; they would not melt, they would not fail. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Man on the Move
By Cliff Saunders
Quailbellmagazine.com POOL OF CANDLES Here comes Dennis again, rowing himself across his duck pond and breathing fire. Even when he wanders, he’s no schmo. He can play trombone, but he has amnesia and shakes his demons by reading bones. He’s that good. He’s a horse that must not be named. He’s the Mr. Ed of the marital bed. There he goes again, wooing the night away like a fast cat, like a man possessed. He’s the Lt. Colombo of love. He’s the patron saint of perpetual motion. Tonight he’ll know how to grieve, and he’ll invite whomever he wants into the pool of his own fragility. But can he blow out all those candles? The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Neoteric
An American City
The city slowly withers and dies. While the living flow angry in open streets. To a new renaissance. Floating down the river like a colorful leaf on splattered sunshine. * * * Chimera The sun cambered through the haze upon a lonely sentinel. Speechless propaganda, begotten sexless rapture, as the days begin and end with the phantasm of uninvited ghosts. * * * Transfigured Fatalistic clouds storm the soul. Attitude destruction drowns the weak. Azure remembrance of blossoming youth. Denial strengthens a new awakening. * * * Empty Surrender I surrendered a memory of an altered me. Long ago, an essence filled my writing. Now I have gone adrift. The echo of words never born. Invisible reflections, white paper can they form again? In blurred shapes of her and forgotten youth. * * * Neoteric Indigo searching for stars on new moon nights. Give a renaissance, an enlightenment, of the iridescent sky. Transfigured and alone time to transform in a different light. #Poetry #America #Revolution #Transfigured #Memory #Color #Creativity #Renaissance #Change #Transformation
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Protector
Sanjay stared in disbelief.
He was some distance away from his crew, hidden behind a large birch tree relieving himself when he absentmindedly gazed over his left shoulder. Then Sanjay saw it — the body of a young girl! Shocked, he nearly splattered himself. Sanjay was grateful he hadn’t, because he was about to go on air. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Gloria
By M.C St. John
QuailBellMagazine.com
She woke up to a great clattering downstairs in the kitchen. The frying pan led the parade by banging the soup pots. Spoons were tapping four-four time on the counters, hitting rim shots on the oven’s burner covers, bass on the butcher’s block, and crash cymbals on the salad bowls.
Old Gloria lay in bed, glaring at the ceiling. “All right, I’m up, I’m up!” The oven door didn’t believe her. It creaked open and slammed shut with a bone-shuddering thunk Gloria felt in her chest. |