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Milan Carl Liskart The CoalmanWhen the bounteous and splendidly round Kamilla Liskart died, her husband dove into a clumsy silence. Without his wife, five years dead, and then with his son suddenly off to World War II out in the vast Pacific noise, our coalman Milan Carl Liskart began plowing through his days as if he were unconscious or barely breathing, coal delivery becoming, as if it were, his life.
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Mothers, you and IBy Clara Burghelea QuailBellMagazine.com
A world so minute lives up the arcs of your shoulder blades, behind the simple dress tracing the breath toward the scapular bone, feeling its way into the dip of your neck, the noise of blood blooming into the quiet veins as you reach for the bare clothesline unpinning my gaze and folding my longing into the laundry basket. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Neon BrujaShe was always there. You always knew she was there. She never left. In dark times, she is easier to find. We find ourselves in the darkest of times. It’s all downhill from here. When I first saw her, she was wrought iron. She was crying tears of blood on a sunny day. No one saw it but me. The horse head. The dead eyes. You know she probably wants to eat you. The neon trees drip like acid. Stormy skies in a parallel universe. Upsidedown darkness. Glaring in my mirror. What the hell is this. It’s like a fuge. Why is this death’s head stuck on my very much alive head? You are all the bad things. Darkness. Darkness. Darkness. Far as the eye can see. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Family PhotographTheir eyes met radiating happiness, warmth in his arms holding her right. Grey long hair, cherry cheeks on pale skin, my grandparents smiled. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Student of More1. There will be black magic, spells, forces of the aether. 2. The tales are mine, ones made up and warmed for tomorrow. This is not all. I am flying, happy. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
In the Dark, ReachingI fell flat on my face you know this trick I think The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Gazing At A BookBy Alan Britt QuailBellMagazine.com Curled fairytales. Federico dangling Franco puppets with entrails exploding party favors from the barrels of German Mausers. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
NovocaineThe summer was a painful cavity; the British girl broke me while I was breathing The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Last MissiveIn my mind, questions are staging an official investigation of wisdom. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Myrna's StoryWords by Raymond Grenier Image by J. Ray Paradiso QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: Originally published at Literary Yard Journal. Myrna Davis was born in 1950, and raised in an American mid western town. A beautiful child genetically influenced from her mother, which combined with her quick and agile mind. Myrna was chosen homecoming queen during her high school senior year savoring this prominent event. Myrna’s formative years bore the hallmark of a living Victorian Valentine.
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