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Why My Daughter Loves Harry StylesBy Michael Seeger QuailBellMagazine.com I am my mother’s son. She liked music. And she loved Frank Sinatra. Always did. I grew up to the sound of Sinatra’s Voice. Her music I heard. When I listen I am her. And when I become obsessed She is me. Now I’m my daughter’s father The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Final RorschachBy Nate Maxson QuailBellMagazine.com When I say “blue” free of context, Whose sky do you assume? I mean When I say please Who do you think I’m asking? The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
I am a YoyoI am a yoyo - I know how to walk the dog. Roll him alongside - he heels like a servant; my tools take hold - I am your alpha bitch, baby. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Who's telling MadonnaWho’s telling Madonna she's too old for a thong? Who's telling me I'm too old for babies? We are never free from the curtain of expectations - the size enumerations. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Tour of the MultiverseIf there truly is a multiverse, as you explained to me late on the night we met, paging through Wikipedia and a short story by Murakami, then there is a version of me and you, a separate universe, for every choice I could have made The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Miss PassMy first best friend was Susan. We were inseparable. Soon we would be starting school. Starting at the same school. It shouldn’t be a problem. But Susan was three months older and this was a problem. She must start earlier and we would be parted. Unthinkable!! The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
GreenBy Tess Walsh QuailBellMagazine.com Maura and I lived alone in the white cottage after her parents died. It was tiny, situated on a rocky hill that discouraged visitors and invited wind. We painted it white every summer to mask the salt deposits that welled up around the windowpanes, and, when Maura was feeling whimsical, she would fashion wind chimes out of glass bottles and loose change, dangle them from the eaves and rattle the whole northern side of the island with hollow wailing. She said it was the ocean’s instrument. The others said it was the haunting of the drowned. We let them believe what they liked.
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The Low PassionsWords by Anders Carlson-Wee Image by Gretchen Gales @GGalesQuailBell QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: This was previously published in Ninth Letter. The Lord came down because God wasn’t enough. He lies on sodden cardboard behind bushes in the churchyard. Wrapped in faded red. A sleeping bag he found or traded for. Dark stains like clouds before a downpour. The stone wall beside him rising, always rising, the edges of stone going blunt where the choirboy climbs. He opens his mouth, but nothing goes in and nothing comes out. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Driving InstructorBy Lynn White QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: This was first published in Silver Birch Press, Learning To Drive Series, May 2016 I needed rather a lot of driving lessons. My lack of a sense of direction didn’t help. Nor, did my occasional confusion between right and left. But, coming up to my test, my new instructor was sympathetic. We could go for a Sunday drive, he said. I could have a free lesson and maybe a drink after. Well, why not? He told me a story over the drink. He’d been in the war in Singapore. Such horror. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
McDonald’sWords by Anders Carlson-Wee Image by Gretchen Gales @GGalesQuailBell QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: This was previously published in Blue Mesa Review. You walk all night and into the next day to survive the sudden October snow. You have no money or hope of money. Your backpack is a cloth sack with ducttape straps and safety pins in place of zippers. Your gloves have no thumbs, just holes, just unraveling half fingers. You've come inside for the heat, |