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Emily as I've Come to Get High
I spent six weeks in rehab for alcohol abuse & that taught me The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Write The Way You TalkBy Leah Mueller QuailBellMagazine.com
It's pride to say that you never regret anything but I'm sure if I ever went back I'd avoid certain actions, like the time I picked you up at a poetry reading the night before my mother's funeral, then followed you home to your room, filled with guitars, stuffed toys, and empty wine bottles. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Self Seduction: An Autosexual RomanceBy Chris Villka QuailBellMagazine.com The lights low, his glistening contours barely visible in the mirror. I step closer. So does he. My eyes slowly adjust to the near dark, and I see me, staring back. Blue green eyes drinking me in, a closed circuit of self lust. I step closer. Six feet of yoga teacher, six feet of swimmer, six feet of dirty mind wrapped in a perfect body. I tilt my head. A shaft of light slashes across a sculpted cheekbone. A lock of hair falls across his face. I turn my body. Muscled torso, honeyed shoulders, tight curve of peachy bottom. A tingle surges through my body, and probably his as well. I step closer. My fingertips touch the glass. My lover, trapped over there. I study his contours, every edible inch, my impossible twin. I lean in , lips parted, eyes open, and we kiss, deep and hard.
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MeteorBy Charles Rammelkamp QuailBellMagazine.com “What a silly thing to name a dog!”
Glowstick looked up from the novel she was reading at the two girls sitting together on the opposite side of the metro bus. She listened for more detail but the girls’ conversation moved on to something else. “Anyway, and besides the puppy her parents gave her a gift certificate to that ritzy store at the mall,” the girl by the window said. “I forget what it’s called?” “I wanted to go to the party,” her companion in the aisle seat lamented, “but we had to go see my grandma in the hospital. I think she’s dying. She has Alzheimer’s and I don’t think she even recognizes us, so why did I even have to go? It’s not like she was going to miss me.” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The FabulistBy Steve Slavin QuailBellMagazine.com 1
Remember the friends you had growing up who drifted away as you got older? Looking back, you’d wonder how you could have ever been so close to some of them? Harry and I became friendly in high school and maintained our friendship through college. I still laugh at how he often greeted me: “I have so many things to tell you, that I don’t even know where to begin.” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Unlovinglove wears down it does not break fall crumble it dissolves bit by bit by bit pieces chipping away love does not continue to taste of skies so high they could not touch us memories coated in the scent of not roses not mornings not seamless The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
SisterIt wasn’t until we crossed Deaf Smith’s County Line that it happened—how my eyes became chapped, how my lips swelled like two fat moons. Or was it the other way around? Maybe you can remember even though you may or may not have had a minor heat stroke on those railroad tracks posing for the camera’s lens. “Veritable cowgirl poet returns home with work dirty hands and chipped purple nail polish,” you said as the shutter opened and closed. You—captured by mirrors in one sixtieth of a second. I have it still, hidden away in a shoebox of photos under my bed, you in your boots, too tight jeans and cowgirl hat, your nipples nudging against the white cotton of your shirt. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Painter's DaughterOnce upon a time, when you and I were naught but pips in the core of the great cosmic apple, there lived a painter. You might chance to meet him still, wandering the shore line as the sun rises over the blushing surf, counting the grains of sand or shuffling the streets at dusk, studying the cracks in the paving stones, calling down and listening for a voice.
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Dreaming of Eyelashes SequenceSeagrass I will tell my daughter one day how all my eyelashes fell out, how one by one they washed away into the sea becoming a meadow of seagrass for the turtles she loves, each follicle turned root spreading under the sediment forming a fluorescent labyrinth, each dark lash turned shoot rising in search of sunlight. I will press white petals into her hand and say, “They bloomed only in this color and only for a day.” I will tell her how those petals floated upon the waves until they returned to me the night of the hurricane, each lash still smelling of salt. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Piggyback RideIt’s the piggyback ride That you never have consent for And it aches up each step And down every corridor |