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The Bad Feels So Bad Makes The Good So Goodeleven o’clock on a Monday night isn’t a time you’d want a child to be awake, unless it was a special occasion, we’re talking an eight-year-old on the sidewalk, but this is the U.S. zip code with the highest rate of child poverty, and I can’t tell from my car if I know this little boy, but heartbreak doesn’t need to be on a firstname basis. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
In Bloom By Lydia A. Cyrus QuailBellMagazine.com A sand colored plywood box rests beds of paper, delicate morning glories painted: the white of infancy and acclaim. They vine-- The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
DefloweredBy Kristin Garth QuailBellMagazine.com (Ode to a seedpod) Dark bud that blossoms not at noon, transfixed, ‘til twilight, tulip moon. Embouchure of petals pursed, compact, blue-hour bewitched bloom, cursed, contracts to sleep in sun; conjured The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Don't Ask Me If I’m Okay, Please Ask Me If I’m Okay By James Diaz QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: Title taken from a line in Sarah Sample’s song A Day Without You.
All things being equal I am most certainly not The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Letter to a Paper Doll Another broken toy Better left on the shelf Straight out the box The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Mouth Of MourningBy Kelsey May QuailBellMagazine.com
an erasure of miike snow’s first self-titled album There was a time when I stopped to fill up with something But I’m still a hole The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Tear Collector I am a collector of tears, each one kept in a crystal bottle so they never come back, touching the faces of children and the elderly dying slowly in their beds. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
SummonedWhen she was a plump but attractive lass of forty-eight, she and her daughter took a cruise on the Mediterranean Sea. The water was as smooth as marble. Maura loved nothing better than having a glass of sherry and looking overboard at the water where Napoleon and Alexander the Great had once sailed. She and Michele went their own ways. Her daughter was working on her third poetry book, “Messenger of the Gods.” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Rules for the ContestBefore I bare my soul, it’s important for me to disclose, UP front, that I'm not easily scared, don't believe in ghosts and pray I had enough hair on my head to raise. But don't. A lover of Arctic haute couture, I might be haunted by my favorite penguin-nun, if I didn't confess, however, that waddling 1, 2, 3…25 steps across the Michigan Avenue Bridge over the Chicago River, like metronoming to a telling Grateful Dead CD, leaves me really breathless, and fretting about Social Security always leaves me trembling and aghast. Will kids be telling my story around campfires for years to come? How do I know? What I can tell you is that the rules for "The Great Chicago Ghost Story Contest" may, I said may, have put to rest a haunting question for at least this aging kid. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Genealogy
The most difficult project I have ever undertaken in my life is attempting to discover my roots. I began my project in my college years, and like most people fantasize, I had hoped for some connection to royalty in Scotland, England, Ireland or Wales, but I would have settled for a link to a knight or warrior, even if they weren’t the kindest of people. |