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A Hammered Dream
By Steven Joseph McCrystal
QuailBellMagazine.com
A blazing furnace was where I was born.
When delivered from that forge a hammer beat me; a hammer shaped me: pressure and time, pressure and time, and hammered twice again. Pressure, time, pressure, time, a pounded pulse . . . A rhythmed steel on anvil crafts my spark; crafts my life. A sword beaten upon this Crucible called fate. Crushed, and worked by divinity some say; some say yes: some say no, some say go but folded steel is stronger; so pound it faster, pound it swifter, pound it quicker, make it stronger. Make the truer steel; make it sublime. And make it mine to wield until eternity folds into back time.
#Unreal #Pressure #Crucible #Time #FoldedSteelIsStronger
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The Black Dog
*Author's Note: This story is a retelling of a New England folktale commonly known as "Hanging Hills."
Hanging Hills was named that because it was the location where those condemned to death were sent to be executed, usually by hanging. The town of Maiden maintained these killing grounds until about sixty years ago, yet the name remained the same. Of course, many ghost stories have sprouted from its bloody legacy. The real story, however, was the story of the Black Dog.
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Visit With The Psychiatrist
By Kiki Stamatiou
QuailBellMagazine.com
After a restless night, Thomas James got dressed, walked out the door of his apartment, and headed down to the mental health clinic to meet with a psychiatrist.
Upon his arrival, he approached the receptionist desk to check in. “Your date of birth, please.” “August 5th, 1978. And I have my insurance card, along with my I. D. right here,” he said as he laid his documentation onto the counter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Featured Artist: Randi Ward
*Editor's Note: The following photography series was taken in Helsingør, Denmark.
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Don't Let Us Get Sick
“So Mr. Magliacci,” Vic said, laying the photos down on his desk, “I feel like you should know, most of my experience is with insurance investigations, unfaithful partners, things of that nature. Pretty much all of it, if I’m being honest.”
“And?” said Mr. Magliacci, who had close-cropped battleship-gray hair and the bullet shape common to middle-aged men who were muscular in their youth. “Is that a no?” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Ways of Seeing/Loving
love,
a lonely enchanted garden; i, sunshine shimmering on dew-kissed ivy walls. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Accordians
By Richard Horton
QuailBellMagazine.com
Accordions!
Accordions on parade! Down Main street! Dancing as they play! One holds a flag! But they’re hungry! That’s not good! They enter a cafe! The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
White With The Hidden Sun
By Nick Wenzel
QuailBellMagazine.com
The cars rushed up and down the steep rain-slicked road, all in haste for Thanksgiving preparations. A group of children ascended the hill together. The sidewalks bordered numerous apartment complexes, each one separated by patches of grass and fences sloping downhill until it leveled out in a thick clump of woods. The children were on their way home from school and were about to turn into the next apartment complex on the right. All of them wore backpacks and puffy winter coats with hoods pulled up over their heads. And those that had no hoods wore wool hats.
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Poems by Amitabh Vikram Dwivedi
Burqa Since she refused to her daily suppression, That burqa couldn't witness her assassination. She only demanded little light and books. No sinful act actually she undertook. They singled her out as there was no forgiveness. And soon they bot back to their sinking business. They used theri guns and shot her in daylight. But things only happen what God decides. She passed her exam against that death; And proudly became a voice of other oppressed. Like a shining star for every wandering bark. She became a light for woman in the dark. No veil can now hide her face divine. Nor any burqa will ever shadow her shine. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Necessary Forms
I have always made them up as I go along.
Tracing each one until it takes shape, a poem about the last time I saw you, the way the light on your head stayed with me |