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June 12, 2013 / Keely

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April 23, 2012 / Keely

A Haunting

At the restaurant in Roy
The Depression era
trimmed the walls
with faded fruit pickers in stiff
overalls, Methodist church ladies,
and cowboys under
a threadbare Rodeo banner.

There we met the bald owner,
a passionate taxidermist,
who arranged his mountain goat,
weasels, and a moth eaten cougar
so glass eyes peered sideways
at guests on the way
to the bathroom.

We stayed to line dance in the cool
restaurant hall; (Fridays, Buffalo Kids
and Gulch Groovers).
When we left, half drunk,
our boots scuffed,
I vowed I saw Roy’s ghosts
standing behind,
where the littered woods
were sultry.

Written by Kristin Roedell

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April 19, 2012 / Keely

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April 16, 2012 / Keely

The Smile

Almost ten years had passed, and still she woke up with a smile on her face. She looked lovingly at his side of the bed, and seeing his shining teeth stare back, knew that he was just as peaceful and content as her.

Only at the end of the day, after the sun departed, leaving her alone with dreams and memories, she managed to step back and take a long look at the water glass, which held his teeth exactly where he’d left them. She cleaned its water every day, but not once did she hear him say her name.

Written by Debbi Antebi

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April 9, 2012 / Keely

My Ghost Part II

The ghost though she certainly cast the first stone, declared this was her lake, her heaven, her home.  I tried to explain my reason for being.  She laughed at the things that only she could be seeing.  Each time that we spoke I would die inside.  With each passing day did swell her pride.  I searched for her always, morning and night.  She spoke when only the setting was right.  I rowed to the middle and set down my anchor.  She steamed and she growled with frustration and anger.  I was not to be here it was only a dream.

Written by Daryl Langford

Read Part I

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April 9, 2012 / Keely


The rainiest May in recorded Irish weather history, the begging boy on the Ha’penny Bridge, barefoot in a torn, dirty tee-shirt and shorts can’t stand it any longer. He runs off, quickly returns in a shiny blue slicker and Wellingtons.
He plays his pennywhistle. The rain stops. He curses but manages to hide slicker and boots before a group of tourists reach him. They applaud, trade him money and candy bars for permission to take his photo. He nearly smiles. After they leave he gobbles a bar,  tosses wrapper into the Liffey and watches new rain sink it like boyhood.

Written by Thomas Michael McDade

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April 2, 2012 / Keely

Dissonant serenity

Sometimes a clattering cacophony
All football and bullets
Sometimes loping coolness
Offering tea and cookies
Who are you who
Makes noise in quiet sounds
Whose love measures in density
Who promises the moon and fifteen-million anythings
The rebuilding of doomed and pitiful cities…
Who are you who roams steel hallways
Whose fierce words threaten fiercer ears
Whose justice lands at random
Whose anxious moments
Disrupt placid surfaces…
Who are you for motion and stillness to argue
One quietly without rancor
One passionately kind…
Who are you, fire starter
To calm your mother
With a soothing cool touch to her forehead?

Written by Salma Ruth Bratt

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March 26, 2012 / Keely

My Ghost

It was cold and dark.  I was certain I was dreaming.  The clouds had settled on the lake as though it were steaming.  The ghost, she approached me from the south.  I tried to speak but nothing would come out.  She looked like someone that I had once known.  Perhaps from another life but how could I have known?  She spoke in a whisper I could hardly make out.  She told me things I could not live without.  As the fog lifted, her lost soul drifted into the sun.  I will return every day until we can be as one.

Written by Daryl Langford

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March 19, 2012 / Keely


I am.
Sorry but not saved.

It is time for me to leave; there is no love in this place. I hold my heart like a bouquet as I run home backwards.

Let me map this for you:

It begins with a road. Then there is a desert. Somehow at the end, there is a river.

Breaking down the rest is easy to do with a closed fist.

I learn that I must be strength, and untie the knots in my chest. My fingers are raw from the rope when the task is finished.

I am.
Love but not lost.

Written by Audrey Connor

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March 12, 2012 / Keely

Dr. Cluckencock

“I need the bathroom first.”
Once inside she opened the medicine cabinet. The usual man things and a bottle of doxycycline. She frowned. The toilet smelled like piss and the claw-foot bathtub had slime rings so thick you’d get stuck.
“What’s the doxy for?” she asked, coming out and kicking off her Danskos. The blue carpet gave her shivers to walk across.
The curtains were closed and he sat on the edge of his neatly made bed, hands folded in front of him. He looked up when she came in.
“We don’t know each other very well, do we?”

Written by AV Boyd

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