by J. Caleb Thomas For as long as I can remember, Mother rang a silver bell every morning at six. It was small enough to fit in her palm but loud enough to wake the dead. Even when she was bedridden and pale with fever, she kept it on the…
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American Geisha
by The Poet Darkling As quiet as is quaint, my fingers tickle their spines on shelves of pine fresh painted. Fat drops of cloudburst freckle the glass of windows ceiling high. I choose one. Only one. It’s old and precious, its leaves wicking wisdom from the Bard himself. I imagine…