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Usher
Words by Jon Michael Kelley
Image by Alexander Clark QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: First published in Storylandia 5 by Wapshott Press February 12th, 2012.
Upon wakening, it is quite customary for the dream to leave one befuddled; some confusion whilst realities adjust accordingly and find their respective corners. Just for a moment or two. But it was becoming exceedingly difficult in those waning seconds to find myself back where I had begun, for the identity of the woman staring down at me remained elusive, hiding behind an intensely somber expression; one I instantly likened to a new mother who is huddled over a crib occupied by her exceedingly quiet and unmoving infant.
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Wolf Spirit
The bush plane’s skis touched down on a frozen lake in Northern Ontario; from her co-pilot’s seat Amanda scanned the bleak winter landscape in the receding light. The fishing camp was closed, boarded up for winter. They taxied to the landing dock hurriedly disembarking. Veteran Canadian bush pilot Hubert Hallihan and Amanda Clark from Montana unloaded two light packs, put on snowshoes and began walking a trail leading away from the camp, Amanda moving quickly ahead in the half-light. The mile trail led to a small cabin nestled among a grove of hemlocks. The cabin door was unlocked, and within minutes Hubert started a fire in the woodstove and started the generator. Amanda took off her parka and heavy boots. The cabin was in perfect order; shelves filled with books and canned goods with an ample supply of firewood stacked near the stove. Hubert began preparing food. Amanda sat at the desk and turned on the computer, she immediately began opening files and searching titles, then found what she was looking for: Morris Jamison’s Journal.
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no oasis for the lovelorn
By Archita Mittra
@archita_mittra QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: Previously published in Glo Mag. and then, on one strange melancholy morning the trembling river you’d sit beside and soak your love-crushed feet in, will run dry of longing and turn into a helpless infant puddle that even the desperate monsoon rain howling like a drunken demented mother can’t kiss back to life. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Poets Anonymous
By Inara Lalani
QuailBellMagazine.com
Today I nurse your blood-stained heart to sleep for the last time.
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The Village Idiot
Do not mock him
the village idiot who runs naked through the church of our beliefs, our prejudices, arrogant convictions, unyielding demands and placid acceptances. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Finding Level
Words by Raymond Greiner
Image by Gretchen Gales @GGalesQuailBell QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: This piece was originally published in Literary Yard Journal.
My name is Howard Woodward. I have lived in this city for twenty years, have a good paying job, and live in an up scale apartment. During formative years I dreamed of city life, a busy place with bright lights and ceaseless activity forming a cast of social classes mixing with urban sounds and smells. Those youthful fantasies have since waned. The city has changed character; white flight caused inner city decay as crime escalated. The air is polluted from the incessant rumble of traffic. Two blocks from my apartment is a waste incinerator spewing its nightly stench. After work I visit a popular lounge as a source of mental tempering. Cities are connected to alcohol, with consumption ranging from wandering homeless to perceived gentry.
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Filmovana Reality
Dismal image
of my own imprint in time that’s real inside the vision that isn’t, is desperately in search for her! The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Chinese With My Brother-In-Law
By Billie Pritchett
QuailBellMagazine.com
I would have preferred to be studying for my Modern Middle East exam, but my brother-in-law had just gotten back from Iraq, and so my sister asked if I'd come meet them and my nephew and grandfather at Chinese Buffet.
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