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The LibrarianSomewhere between the covers of hard-bound books, lost among the individual pages and all those trodden over stories, are the remnants of a forest that has been mulched and shredded and processed until nothing of the past remains. Though, if all those books stacked five, six shelves high, were comprised of a once-upon-a-time tree, then the library, in essence, could still be thought of as a forest unto itself. Every weekday morning the librarian walked up the steps to this library, unlocked the front door, and entered the once upon a forest. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Summer SpellsWalk your bike up a hill only to ride down, open-mouthed. Your voice sounds like it used to when you and your cousins would sing into a fan, cackling at the simple magic trick. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The SpiderBy DS Maolalai QuailBellMagazine.com I don't wait. I watch the window. it looks out into a little yard, north facing, and doesn't give any view of the street. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
PrettyBy Chris Bedell QuailBellMagazine.com Lexi could’ve killed Georgina. And she wasn’t being dramatic. Her back hairs couldn’t help rising while she barreled down the street. Because she loved visiting a house across the street from a sanitarium. And her opinion wasn’t because most of the sanitarium’s white exterior was replaced by a penny color due to erosion, or the metal gate creaking while the wind swooshed. Bad things just didn’t happen to Lexi Brady. In fact, she had never even experienced a pet dying—her 15-year-old Yellow Lab still wagged her tail and ran around Lexi’s property as if she were an eight-week-old puppy. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Chips and CakeBy Aekta Khubchandani QuailBellMagazine.com She would sit in that cold corner of the kitchen during days of their school times. She escaped afternoon naps. She remembered her childhood as the days she spent stuffing the walls of her mouth, eating her emotions out with chips and chips and more chips. She imagined peeled potatoes dancing, being sliced to jump in a pool of hot oil. Crispy, salt-flavored, oil-glazed potato chips. Its smell and taste took her dreams to potato farms and chip factories. She would lay there with pillows of potatoes for long hours.
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CoffeeIn my grandmother’s kitchen where the smudged window above the sink filtered the ochre backyard light, a pot of coffee was always on, The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Esme's PianoBy Blaise Ramsay QuailBellMagazine.com "Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet." ― Plato I’m not sure when all of the madness started. The day I stepped off of the small plane bound for Washington to start a new duty station as a ranger seemed like any other day. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
MissionaryThe missionary woman offers us
A handful of instruments she calls potato peelers, Beaming, a child with a fistful of pebbles Or leaves, treasure to her alone. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
TuesdaysOn a hot Tuesday afternoon as I walk along the edge of the road a white car with loud music take centerstage and takes my expelled breath away in the wind of its feckless hurry: perhaps it takes it to a city I do not recognize, perhaps it takes it to a piece of rubble from the monolithic past I broke down The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Growing up By Katie Lewington QuailBellMagazine.com as a child the fridge was menacing so much taller than i now an adult i pull out Cola, always rationed then |