The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
PossessionI often wondered if Isis could hear me when I called to her.
She was never good at answering. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
You Who Will NeverBy Anna Kelly QuailBellMagazine.com I still think of you standing in the wings straight-backed in a loose dress, waiting. The air around pungent with your hunger. Sweetheart—clear ghost of my sightline, I mourn you most of all. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
SeafoamAn atypical weekend by the seaside, drenched in sun and frivolity, in froth and foam, a destination rarely explored by one who prefers moonlight and mist. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Fallen HeavenI know how a year grows in a day, but I continue toiling, smoking, having my share of another week—unidentifiable. I sample a book, about something called man—horrible, a bit like slush. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Pudding ManBy Kristin Garth QuailBellMagazine.com He gives it to you in your drink, a cup of coffee, black to brink. He holds it out. “Too close to bed.” A cola smile corrupts instead. A daddy you could never doubt. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Recollections on What Would Have Been Grandma's 108th BirthdayGrandma brought my brother and me on afternoon walks through a silent sunlit cemetery– not to pay any respects, just to stroll, crushing limp, papery leaves, twigs with gnarled hangnails of bark, and communities of tiny estival critters as we wandered. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
RacismBy Julian Drury QuailBellMagazine.com I was born a pig in a muddy sty, While you were born a sheep in a field of grass. Sheep are taught to look down on pigs, like me, Scorned and heckled for our position on the farm. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
CopenhagenIt is not April in Paris But Summer in Copenhagen All the old buildings act As your guardians The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Small Towns are BeautifulMy name is Joan Marks, and I am proud to say I was born and raised in Beaverbrook. Having lived in this Northwestern Ontario town all my life, I still regard the sordid affair as a local scandal of the worst kind. One city-bred doctor, a valued community member and a young mother, abandoned her husband and fled our community. After a run-in with his citified wife and the police, another doctor eventually divorced and later remarried, exchanging vows at a strange ceremony with a local girl. In the midst of the chaos and its aftermath, I prayed for a peaceful, happy resolution and a return to the normal state of affairs. I wished everyone lived happily ever after in my beautiful hometown—and I do believe small towns are beautiful—but I’m not certain the storybook ending happened.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Losing LukaCoy-wolves Taunting me Howl every night since he left To release him to the hills would have been a death sentence |