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The Headphone
By Anna Nova
QuailBellMagazine.com
I bought my first headphones at the age of 15. Nothing special, just a normal black ones made from plastic with something that look like foam material.
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Our Cocoon By Colleen Foster QuailBellMagazine.com You know what? I avoided you because I missed you, in some misguided attempt to avoid the missing. The potential poignancy stung too much so the numbness and I would snuggle in my red Snuggie some Friday nights on the hardwood floor; it tenderly wiped crumbs off my chin with a fleece wing. But it never could stroke my hand the way your soft, warm thumb does when we watch clattering DVDs on your rickety laptop like the gooey-eyed teenagers once were. We scratch the disc to confuse past, present, and future tense. We make the movie skip and flutter. #Unreal #Poem #Missing #Memories #ScratchTheDisc Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Dog's Own Tale
By Paul Sohar
QuailBellMagazine.com
The world is full of mysteries to a growing child until life solves them all one by one, and then the world simply becomes reality. However, I grew up with one mystery that still retains its special fascination for me: the Stroll brothers’ house in my old hometown in Lower Carpathia. On my rare visits home, I cannot resist the attractive horror the Stroll House exerts over me, and I stop by the place, but only as far as the next street corner, and from that vantage point I make sure that house is real; therefore, the strange thing that happened to me inside once long ago also had to be real.
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Rats
A large rat with shiny fur, breakfasts on the remains of a Cheese Danish and tea with milk in front of a gallery in Soho. As he walks by, a man in a grey suit, carrying a briefcase, says to Mo, "Look at the rat waiting for the gallery to open!"
Mo lowers her pink, cotton panties and is about to sit on the toilet, when she hears a swoosh. A rat is swimming in the bowl. Mo violently slams the lid and flushes, flushes and flushes. She runs to the super's apartment, uses his bathroom and begs him to come up right away. "There's no rat here," says the super, carefully opening the lid and standing back. In the evening, the tenants downstairs complain of a stopped up toilet. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Beyond the reachmy morning my nostalgia my tears filled with pathetic longing morning dew on a rose petal my fragrant pathos my delightful haplessness all in you all in you… #Unreal #Poetry #Poem #morningdew #nature #rosepetals Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Within Frames
By Christopher Woods
QuailBellMagazine.com He arrives in the dream already begun. Before, many times. He takes his place. On a beach, in Italy or Spain. He is unsure about this, no matter he has dreamed it before. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
White to the Bone
Believe it or not, my life used to be a pleasant place. Like a neighborhood of white picket fences, where dogs were friendly and neighbors courteous. Turning right on the gas station you'd get to "Proposal Park". A statue of me, down on one knee popping the question to a gorgeous Sophia on a warm summer's night. Drive past the bridge and you'll get to "Date Night Lane", rows of coffee shops, restaurants and blues clubs. If you peek through the clubs' windows you'll even see us both, deliriously dancing the nights away in what might seem a succession of similar stills.
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CommitmentBy Archita Mittra QuailBellMagazine.com Her car races across the lonely highway, her heart a speedometer about to fuse. The river below and the sky above are a single blue-black thing. The car halts beside an ancient streetlamp. In the flickering amber light, she sees a girl, in a white dress, standing uncertainly at the edge, eyes on the dark water. The girl jumps. Someone screams. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Poem From the HeartBy Katherine Rooney I’ve only known you for three weeks
And yet I love you. I love your passion and your energy; I love your respect and your honor. |