The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Ode to a Parallel Universe in Which I am a Thief Say I need the lock pick
under your heart. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Poem That Will Never Be Turned into a Summer Blockbuster Insert: American kestrels fluttering
like small kachinas of sky, diving into roadside seas of green wheat. They rise and hover, crucified on air, flashy auburn flares afloat in the folklore sun. Man drives van. Teenage daughters not speaking to him. Reckless moods make him surrender his Saturday to take his oldest girl (riding shotgun) and her friends to summer camp in the hills of Swan Valley. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Rick BlaineGrudged
By the only care I ever had, The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
LeftoversBy Alyssa Murphy QuailBellMagazine.com Every weekday at half past five, the sad-eyed young woman comes to the café and orders a plain bagel and a cup of tea. Every weekday, she sits alone at a particular table, eating her snack and staring out the window. And every weekday, Cameron watches her from behind the counter, wondering what ghosts lurk behind her practiced half-smile.
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JumpBy Valentina Steiner QuailBellMagazine.com My body ached but it’s here
I finally reached the waterfall and felt intimidated by its grace and the beauty it portrayed. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Paper Boats are a Child’s DreamI.
my nose pressed to the cold pane, my fingers run down the misted glass leaving trails that soon disappear, into oblivion or nothing; the thundering rain causes a din that tenses me-- will the sky finally break now? you are not beside me, sharing my worries, you are on the bed, tearing paper into perfect squares, you say it is not the rain that you like but what comes after you say paper boats are a child’s dream we watch them sail down the muddy stream, fingers crossed it doesn’t get lost or worse. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Shard Of Past LivesSoul wearied
from the bodies worn. Past lives, past flesh, shed through the centuries in a search for belonging. Sitting in caves by fires burning low, beasts painted onto the walls by hands slashed and scarred. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Shard Of What Was Not To BeFrom my flesh I pluck splinters, dried and once forgotten. Hands, long numb from the pricks left from my mistakes, grasp at the shed slivers. One kiss, reminded, and now my revived pulse throbs me awake. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Pulitzer Prize Reporter Interviews Survivors at 146th Annual Gettysburg ReenactmentBy Fred Skolnik QuailBellMagazine.com That summer I decided to drive up to Gettysburg and do a piece on the annual reenactment. I’d been to Antietam a few years back, so I knew most of the principals. Of course, McClellan was gone and Jackson was dead, but I looked forward to seeing Bobbie E. and the other good old boys. They’d come up through the Valley and parked themselves west of the town. Meade was fanned out to the south and east. I had a reservation at the Cashtown Inn, about ten miles away. As I got in late, I decided to skip the first day’s fighting. I watched the news on CNN and took a nap.
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Big Yellow EyeIn Lake Willastein,
a planet lay basking in the cold of winter's sleep. Seemingly unafraid of evil lurking in the underbrush, it trusted coyotes' howls at a moon now fallen. |