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FoxfireBy Raymond Greiner QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: Originally published at Yard Journal Magazine. Ivaloo Johnson was fifteen years old, and lived in a high hollow in the Virginia Highlands the only child of Arlie and Isabelle Johnson. Arlie and Isabelle homesteaded this land in 1800. Then both died in the winter of 1820 from unknown causes. Ivaloo’s parents were extraordinary, and built their hewn log cabin. Ivaloo buried her parents side by side near the cabin and carved their names and dates of death on wooden crosses she fashioned herself. She did not know their dates of birth, and living isolated had yet to tell anyone of their deaths. The nearest neighbor was twenty miles distance. Ivaloo was tall and slender appearing older than fifteen. Her parents were gardeners, and Arlie hunted game for food. Arlie and Isabelle taught Ivaloo all they knew during her formative years. She learned gardening and became an expert marksman astonishing her father by her natural ability for shooting. Ivaloo was now alone, and feeling anxiety. She loved her parents deeply and their absence seemed surreal as if they remained with her. The silent solitude caused worry and she thought. “What’s to become of me? Will I die alone at a young age? Can I find enough food to survive?” Although thin, Ivaloo was solid sinew from the homestead’s physical work. She was as tough as any man, with an iron will inherited from her parents.
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Living At OddsBy Sohini Chatterjee QuailBellMagazine.com Fingertips go hungry for a lover That went hungry for love Worth of oceans and did not turn back when hit by the Tsunami and other vices on the hundredth night ashore. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Mama
I think you’re safe now. I’ve raised a son in your absence, my roots have turned white and there is a breadth of a continent between us. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Circe’s fateBy R. Bremner QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: This poem was first published in The Violet Hour. Just wait. You’ll be back. I know you will. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
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Morning, Wrapped in Maple and PineImagine a conglomeration of women in black, most of them manifestations floating in deep shadows, bellies The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Christmas Candle (Done With You)Words by Brook Bhagat Image by Gretchen Gales @GGalesQuailBell QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: Previously published at Nowhere Poetry and Flash Fiction.
A Christmas candle caught my hair, Rode a light-speed flash Almost all the way. In the bathroom, As I washed out the black Saw the remains in the sink Smelled how my cells Had been transformed into air I remembered that I can go anytime. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Friction“So you are...twenty-eight years old.”
“Yup.” “And it says your birthday’s in April. Happy belated.” “Thanks.” “So, you’ve been sexually active for how long?” “Since I was sixteen.” “Have you been consistently active since?” “On and off.” “‘On and off.’ What do you mean by ‘on and off?’” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
InsideBy R. Bremner QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: This poem was first published in Poetry Breakfast. Outside, the rain pounced on the unwary. Inside, all sorts of time-honored and respectable games were going on: Tongues were rolled. Heads were met and questioned. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Cat Calls [Venus]By Madelynn Dickerson QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: Previously published in the author's first chapbook Apastron (Plan B Press). you little peeping toms with your mounted scopes and secretaries |