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Unbound By Kristin Garth QuailBellMagazine.com Redemption in black opal eyes, ribald, in rags yet recognized: her chestnut curls and pearlescent thighs. Story, scars and barbs anthologized before she was a girl. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Wind Goddess Above clouds of fog pillowed in faraway hills heaven's light pierced its way through and fell upon a lonely road I never knew. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Off & OnDarling, all night I have been flickering, off, on, off, on (after Sylvia Plath’s “Fever 103”) Neon in the blood, old drunks shelter in my collarbone. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Bus Ride and the Certain DoomI hate the fact of not having my bus-fare in bills. It’s an annoying gamble to me, in using only coins when riding the bus. The reasons for this are simple: for one, there’s always the potential that when you approach the slot to insert the coins that your hands will fumble, thus forcing you to drop the coin to the ground and then frantically search for it. This potential is made even worse in the event of having people standing behind you to board the bus, who have to wait until I can find the missing coins which fell from my hand. Or, an even rarer occasion, I will insert a coin and hear the automated machine respond, “Coin Not Accepted.” After three attempts of inserting the coin I realize that the coin I kept inserting was in fact a Canadian Quarter. How the hell I had one, beats me. Of course I was able to dig out another coin from my wallet, but by the time it is all said and done, ten minutes went by just to get on the bus. This is made worse by the fact that the bus was already ten minutes late. Of course, as with any other bus ride, the confusion and loathing wouldn’t simply end with me sitting down. No, something else always has to happen. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
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The Girl: Minimum RageThe girl stands at a train station, a campaign whistle stop, the crowd surrounding for the FDR speech, waves of hope lapping as if they are standing near a shore. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Two Faced BitchI run my hands over my curves And marvel. I turn about in front of the mirror, Smiling and arching my neck Totally convinced that I’m divine. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Miraculous we
gather around a single wooden casket our tears hitting the musky cemetery grounds The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Low RollerBy Harlan Yarbrough QuailBellMagazine.com Brad borrowed a pickup with a homemade camper—nice, smelled like cedar, but weighed a ton by itself—from a former lover. He thought about making the trip in his old Econoline, but he wasn't sure the van could make it there and back. Penny had joined the Army—otherwise he'd've prob'ly still been with her—and left the old pickup at his place. She’d said he could use it whenever he wanted to, but this was the first time he’d driven it since she reported for military duty six months earlier. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Violin MakerIn a small town, Cremona, in the northern Italy, a boy was born. They named him Paolo. He was born deaf. |