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Ghost in the Nightshe stands
beside her headstone a ghost in the night The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Faint-like, numb sleep; out of the ordinary dreamWords by Laszlo Aranyi Image by Gretchen Gales QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: Translated by Johanna Semsei
Under the cracked chitin shield the size of many. Continets there lies the smoldering pile of landfill. On its habitual heavenly route dragging its damaged abdomen the overpopulated Earth. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
AperterifBy Alan Britt QuailBellMagazine.com 61º feels like a female cardinal igniting dawn’s brass eyelid. 61º smokes organic sweet death. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Sea HorseWords by Lynn White Image by Christine Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com *Editor's Note: This poem was first published in Visual Verse, June 2017.
It was on the first day of our seaside holiday that I found him washed up, stranded, spat out by the sea and swimming alone in the rock pool. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Confessions Of A DescendantBy Alan Britt QuailBellMagazine.com I'm a descendant. That's a fact, knowing full well that facts don't exist. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Bac SaiIt’s been a long day and I retire to the front porch of my home with a panoramic view of the turquoise Pacific Ocean. It's late evening and I sip a cognac which helps to steady my trembling hand. The Parkinson’s disease prevents me from performing surgery but I’m happy to serve as a general practitioner for the island’s inhabitants. The cognac and site of my daughter Aiyana and granddaughter Catie playing in the moonlit surf of French Polynesia warm my heart. A refreshing trade wind brushes the palm trees and abruptly opens the tattered journal which has recorded my life. The notebook pages I filled over the many years are a reminder of the long, twisting, and unpredictable path leading me to this paradise. I’m thankful for my journey. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
LiarBy Jared Pearce QuailBellMagazine.com She says she killed the roach in the tub, Smashed her shoe against its oblong Bowl, splashing the globby mustard Of its life, her young sons amazed The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Owasco LakeMuffled buzz of female hummingbird follows a red-bellied bullied by her ruby-throated mate zigzagging bullets into a geometric pattern designed to pry redbelly from hanging sugar-water bowl. Chestnut fingertips that loiter the shores of Owasco smear eyelids with a pinch of smoke. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Art for We I like to make art with you at night in our bed when we're cold and one finds the way to warm the other I like to make art with you when I'm alone in my head After a long day of typing And thinking I make art with you when teeth grind and Doors slam and neighbors hear. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Hungry BowlThere was a kitchen that sat in a house at the end of Plenty Street. The house was small, the kitchen was large. The kitchen had a wooden table, near the gas oven, and under this table rested a metal bowl. It was the White Dog’s bowl, which had been empty for many days. “Surely my master will return for me” the dog says to himself. “Surely he knows how hungry I am?” |