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OriginBy David P. Rogers QuailBellMagazine.com The originality of things confounds fractions and decimals but fractals are equal to the task Light could go a little faster The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
OMG By Elisabeth Horan QuailBellMagazine.com I ripped the shit out of my meniscus dancing drunk one slut-eyed dawn dipped my partner = crunch, it was over The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Hunting Season, By Elisabeth Horan QuailBellMagazine.com is the time I have the most nightmares; like when I ran a 5k with an arrow in my spleen. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
LakeBy David P. Rogers QuailBellMagazine.com
Large bodies of water attract you because their immensity confirms the suspicions regarding your own relative size: horizons are never straight lines since The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Coast of TimeIn the pink and white golden words Of the day outside the garden of gods Is the hometown of thy soul. Far before the world was born The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
This is What She was Like Aunt Lina was a working mother when most weren’t. Leaving home, she pushed her children and me outside. In winter, we shoveled; in autumn, raked; in spring, swept. In summer, she finger-cleaned the ice cream scoop, licking the melt. She wore heels, always, beneath stunning legs and a waistline soft from seven pregnancies. She decorated our young mouths with her lipsticks, our cheeks with her rouge. She drank too much at parties, pouring generously and toasting effusively. She was famous for certain colorful sayings, teasing ways to describe the shortcomings of others. Happiness made her clutch our wrists, squeezing hard. She crackled like an electric shock. This is what she was like. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Exile and ButterfliesBy Cristina Bresser De Campos QuailBellMagazine.com Exile me inside myself. So comfortable, I no longer want to get out of here. Difficult endeavor. At the table next to mine, young beautiful ladies. Fluttering butterflies, newly outputs from the cocoon. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Perfumer of Brownsville By Mosarrap H Khan QuailBellMagazine.com The body bent, the arms outstretched picking each bottle and arranging them on a makeshift table. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
GrasslandsBy Keith Moul QuailBellMagazine.com (“Take the hand that’s offered” Is the counsel of prairie history) Seldom do undulations of slim stalks cease, as wind will not. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Dogs of NightTheir baying grows loud as the night smothers all their shapes in its dark shroud and they begin to disappear one by one into that dark realm all dogs fear. |