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Roses
By Zack Foley
QuailBellMagazine.com And them South Side sisters sure look pretty The cripple on the corner cries out "Nickels for your pity" And them downtown boys they sure talk gritty It's so hard to be a saint in the city. -Bruce Springsteen When I was a little girl, my dad read me the story of Saint Elizabeth, who took bread to the poor and kept it secret from her husband. One day he caught her with her bundle and opened it, and as he did, she silently prayed to God to help her, and when he opened the bundle, it was full of roses. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Journey
A woman is alone in the forest, with no one but the wind to accompany her on her way.
“Why do you keep going?” the wind asks the woman. “Why do you keep pushing through, even when it seems that there is no point?” “Because I am like the lotus,” the woman answers the wind. “Even when everything around me appears to be lost, to be covered in the decay and disease of desire and drama, I know that something good will emerge from the thick mud of it all. I know that I will emerge, bright and beautiful like the lotus, from all that has passed before.”
The wind follows the woman, as she continues on her way.
“Why do you keep going?” the wind asks again. “Why do your feet keep moving across the Earth’s surface, even when you feel so tired you might collapse?” “Because I have no choice,” the woman says, as her feet lightly tread on the forest path. “I’m always looking forward, not dwelling in the past. I cannot change what was, I can only change what will be.”
“Why do you keep going? Even when the way is shrouded from sight, and all you can do is try to find your way by touch, on your hands and knees?”
“Because I know it’s only me,” the woman answers the wind, her body moving effortlessly on the misty path, though she cannot see a thing. “I know that if I try, I can let myself truly see.”
#Unreal #Photo #Prose #Nature #Photography #PhotoTale
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Before Fidel Became a Bad Guy
By Gary Beck
QuailBellMagazine.com My closest friend Randy and I were recruited by a radical organization at Yale to smuggle guns to a young revolutionary in Cuba, Fidel Castro, in 1958. The plan was to take a sailboat from Miami to Cuba. We hitchhiked from New Haven to Florida and somewhere around Daytona Beach we got separated. By the time I finally got to the Brown Pelican Marina in Miami, it was after midnight. There was no 'Lolling Lady' to be found. I double checked every boat and finally went to the dockmaster's office and knocked until a light went on. A sleepy, disheveled old cuss wearing an army trench coat over his pajamas opened the door. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
He is the man
By addison
QuailBellMagazine.com
He is the man,
yet nothing other than this can be said of him for the man is the self, yet nothing other than this can be said of it for the self is the boundary between worlds, yet nothing other than this can be said of it; men have men, selves have selves, worlds have worlds, yet boundaries have no boundaries, this, he is.
#Unreal #Poetry #Self #Human #Essence #Conscious
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Running From the LawProlonged anxiety has a tendency to make me sleepy, and I was in the midst of a troubled mid-afternoon nap when I heard the doorbell ring. I stumbled off my futon, which rested on the floor underneath a mound of blankets. As I staggered to my feet, the doorbell rang twice more, sharply, like the report of a shotgun. I lived in Chicago in an apartment building that a group of sadistic urban planners had erected directly beside a busy el station. To compensate for this disadvantage, and to encourage the occupancy of responsible renters, the building's owner had remodeled the apartment to within an inch of its life-including track lighting, two huge and fully functional stone fireplaces, and an island kitchen that faced the tracks. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
First Night on the Job
By Kiki Stamatiou
QuailBellMagazine.com
The storm cleared by the time Thomas James got out of work at The Southfield Kitchen, but the ground was still wet and filled with puddles. Moisture in the air cleared his senses and filled his heart with a musicality of hope that lifts a dying soul out of the river of darkness, and moves him forth into the moonlight.
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Bustle
Words and Image by Gretchen Gales
QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: First appeared on Typewrite Lit Mag July 31st, 2015.
Flirting is like when I used to teach
Lessons at a music studio and served as secretary. Filing papers with only the sound of cheap fluorescent light bulbs. Everything is cool, calm, collected… Until they walk in. I look up, and they’re standing there with shining guitars, miniature violins, Crumpled sheet music from last week’s lesson. Too many people and thoughts pile in. Shuffling around in a panic, searching for the right-- Paperwork. Sitting there, staring back, silence. Last name, phone number? I search my mind for the pre-written words All while recalling all of the voicemails left by prospective Customers. I forgot to call them back. So, when’s most convenient for you, sir?
#Unreal #WhatIsFlirtingAnyway? #MiniatureInstruments #ClusteredThoughts
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Sight Which Sees
Sight which Sees
but cannot see itself or other’s, touch, feel itself or other’s, taste, taste itself or other’s, hearing, hear itself or other’s, smell, smell itself or other’s, thoughts, think themselves or other’s; phantoms rumor this the real world, they claim weights and measures but only plans and figures. I am cutting into nap time now, cuddle up, cuddles.
#Unreal #TheSenses #NapTime #Cuddling #Poetry #SightWhichSees
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