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Preparing for the Downhill By Pat Anthony QuailBellMagazine.com In the back pasture below Bois d’Arc trees she rolls blackened hedge balls, pretends they are snow, heaps them into a fragile fortress and sits in the middle The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Fairy BridgeBy Kate Noble QuailBellMagazine.com It was a balmy evening, towards the end of a very hot, humid mid-summer’s day. The sun remained high enough to hazily influence all it fell upon, but its power was fading now along with the length of the day. There was an early evening heat-haze across the woodland, and branches bowed under its secret weight as air tried jostling itself to escape the pressing heat for a moment. A weary Jack made his way down the twisting rocky narrow path homeward, humming happily under his breath to himself and deftly avoiding each frond of bracken which lay across his way. He had labored the blistering day-light hours away, cutting wood in the shade of the trees, but was tired out from the heavy heat and anxious to be back in his own neighborhood; to quench his thirst, down a few ales, and chat away merry nothings amongst friends. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Far End of the EarthBy Susandale QuailBellMagazine.com
The clouds above him were moving in a melancholy way. And as the sun climbed the skies, the Cherokee son walked a path that took him to the top of a valley that dropped between two mountains. And while he was descending into the valley, he heard mountain hearts yet beating with the songs of creation. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Beastly Become He's a sacrifice. He's only a boy, but now he belongs to the enchanted castle for his father's sake. He knows a beast prowls around within, a tormented creature that demanded the sacrifice. He also knows there are flowers here in the dead of winter, so he's happy to see the black roses in full glittering bloom. What he did not know was how much touching the rose would hurt. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Marathon By Pat Anthony QuailBellMagazine.com Kinnell hides on the bottom shelf wedged against the ubiquitous Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam and someone remaindered The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Picasso and MonetBy David P. Rogers QuailBellMagazine.com Both could have painted pictures of UFOs but Monet's would have flown better in skies lurid with post-watercolor The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Giraffe on Fire Any man can sight momentous points in their lives marked by a marriage or the birth of a child. Other moments warrant note as well. The beginning of a career or one’s completion of higher learning. Life’s magic weaves in these colors. It is the smaller ones that take one by surprise. These seemingly minuscule acts do not present themselves as much in the beginning. So easily they blend as another bit of fodder in one’s ordinary life. Time tells you later that they were meaningful after you have lost the moment forever, helpless to rediscover it again. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Long WalkIt's been a long walk with no sign of escape. A long walk and a deep walk. Every step I sink deeper. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
BoyKeon was in 7th grade when he first snuck out of his parents’ house. It’d been weeks since he’d gotten more then three hours of sleep over the course of a night. He had an awful habit of kicking when he slept, so that in the middle of the night one of his feet would strike the windowsill endlessly until the pain woke him up. His feet were covered with blisters and bruises, a toe that bent precariously to the left. Chipped nails. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Nature’s Way
It was a beautiful spring morning. The kind of morning where soft balmy winds sweep everything up in gentle armfuls of well-beings across the whole of existence. The sun was warming the ground and the blossoms were starting to shed their covers of night, wriggling to gently peel back their outer layers; testing the warmth of the morning and revealing their hidden colors. Leaf edges started to unfurl from their dark-time states, and turn towards the tenderly increasing light of day, swaying almost imperceptibly in the warming breeze. The stream gurgled along, with a joy at being able to stretch and reach out to all its limits freely, without fear of hardening frost that it knew would come again later in the year, restricting its reach. |