The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Between the Time
By Vatsal Surti
QuailBellMagazine.com
Opening Images. The city. The streets. Crowds. Objects that look like caught moments between time, like in Cartier-Bresson pictures. An existential aloneness.
The cab drives alone. We don’t see the driver. We see his hands. Close. Moving. The scenes moving behind. Silence. The cab stops. Two people enter in. They are going somewhere. She has a suitcase she puts at the back with the driver’s help. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
There is Always More Work to be Done
Myra Ailing knows it’s him even before she sees his worn leather boots pointing up from behind the dumpster: the pint-sized Mexican the other bums refer to as Jose. It’s eleven in the a.m.—minutes before the Friday lunch hour rush. Myra’s husband, Ben, is on the phone arguing with their accountant. Her three full-grown boys—Will, Jerry and Ben, Jr.—are gallivanting about town, late for work. Once again the task of clearing the riff-raff from the El Sombrero’s alley has fallen upon her shoulders.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Promised Long Ago
Shadows of the night
Silently fade away In the dawning light Of a bright new day. Somewhere near A bird starts to sing And in its joyful song In hear the sound of Spring. Leaves are on the trees, Green grass everywhere, Flowers are in bloom, Spring is in the air. Spring is a new beginning Promised long ago By the One who promised? —by His Son—to make it so.
#Unreal #ShadowsToSpring #Rebirth #Renewal #PromisesKept #Religious
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.
New York Spell
By Gregg Dotoli
QuailBellMagazine.com
like that forgotten song
that's reheard , sweeter and richer sounding when leaving NY, the spell goes too as Manhattan patient and regal rests like a lady-in-waiting on return, the awe and freedom falls on the spirit the breezy island whispers stay this is the only place to be
#Unreal #NewYork #Manhattan #LadyInWaiting #FreedomFalls
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.
Seeds
These chestnut brown seeds
being planted for cool shade Green leaves for the eyes Of each New generation Strong branches hold round nests For the doves of our future
#Unreal #Green #LeavesForEyes #Poetry #NewGeneration
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.
2:36
Forty-seven seconds into the video, the dead girl spirals out of sight. The video plays on for its full relentless 2:36. Marcia knows this, as she knows that there are many other people, on the many far sides of the Internet, watching the girl's last seconds pulse brutally by again and again. Marcia is anything but alone. The video passed a million hits in one day. While the girl was in a coma, viewings held steady. When she died, after three days on life support, the numbers soared. When she died, twenty-one hours ago. Not even a day, and thousands of thousands more people have viewed the footage. Some of them knew the girl, some must know her killers, some are police, some are simple thrill-seekers. Or not so simple.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Green Death
By Susan Bloch
QuailBellMagazine.com
A large scarlet ball rose above the Mumbai horizon and chased away the darkness. For a few minutes, its reflection stroked the khaki-colored Indian Ocean. Then the early morning smog darkened its bright face.
Rebecca stood on the balcony of her apartment and listened to the raucous crows. They hopped along the road pecking the cracks in the tarmac scrounging for popcorn, coconut shells and banana peels left over from the evening’s street vendors. Three-wheeler rickshaws, known as “tuk tuks,” chugged along the road. A bus driver honked loudly and incessantly. The shoreline of Bandstand, a posh Mumbai suburb was coming to life. On the newly finished sidewalk the first few walkers appeared. Men in small groups wearing white long shirts, known as “kurtas,” strode purposefully along the busy road waving their hands. Rebecca could hear their raised voices debating the latest political issues. “What to do that George Bush is always supporting Pakistan?!” a tall man with a shaggy beard shouted angrily. “Is he not realizing that it’s we who are a democracy?” |