The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Satan's SamhainSatan’s Samhain is now here,
when shadows grow and ghosts appear. Take your soul to the next level: Make a dark pact with the devil. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Sounds at Night, Oboe A 440 To Full PerformanceBy Dan A. Cardoza QuailBellMagazine.com At an old cabin near Fortuna, Ca. and the Eel River The damp smacks its lips at the chipped window sill, made of color chiseled from teal trees so pure, the earth never sews them anymore. I am trying to sleep, but this insistent orchestra transitions from Oboe A 440 to full performance, baton to harmony. Somewhere between earth, cello, sky & harp, The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Wish I Could FlyBy Shrey Gaur QuailBellMagazine.com The feathers are frozen, with the last night's mist Being fed on nothing, the body's turned heavy I rattle my syrinx exertingly, to chirp; For the survivors of the flock to hear and levy. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Oh Friend
I am a banshee wailer I am small details the rain makes blurs of each important little word The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Seal, the Sea, & the CircusBy Dan A. Cardoza QuailBellMagazine.com Inspired while walking along a beach named Irish Beach. The Irish River is the tributary to this beach. Of spinning spout in wave of––I see you now, you don’t–– with sails for flippers rudder of clown of circus In the sea. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
InevitabilityBy Edward Lee QuailBellMagazine.com
The leaves bleed red in the still river, while birds cease singing as they take scattering wing, eluding the coming wind that carries the hint of death in its invisible fingers. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Lost Strophe Of AndromacheWe searched and worried about foes from the front. I sat still swathed in black taffeta for Hector. Then the Greeks rolled that gold carnival float uphill. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Kingdom NocturnalBy Adam Nagy QuailBellMagazine.com The caged warm body, a stillborn nomad Warping like carrion Held prisoner by unmerciful hallucinations Toothless and dancing Counting sheep and slipping the noose while the veil of melancholia emancipates the void. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
In a Stark LightBy Jillian Oliver QuailBellMagazine.com A ghost called Stephen made an appearance in our family life a few months after our father died in a truck accident. Mom grieved more over Dad’s death than even I did at the age of twelve, though my fifteen-year-old sister, Kat, had taken to crying heavily in the days and weeks that followed the tragedy. Perhaps their grief invaded so much space in our 19th century home in Pennsylvania that I didn’t see any room for my own. It didn’t help that the shock served as Mom’s breaking point.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Pet"Meow", she says The only way she knows with words And then stare at me Not at my face But right through me Through the centre of my chest With those piercing eyes. |