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Mother
Two volunteers brought a sick woman to Hope Hospice. It was a gloomy and warm afternoon. Bill, the older volunteer, said to Vera that Liz was in Marsden Hospital for many months because she, as she said, had no money and no place to go, though she was, as it turned out, quite well-off until recently. With Liz came two half-knitted sweaters, one blue and one red, to Hope Hospice. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Stray I come across a stuffed ginger cat abandoned on the sidewalk, splayed like game hunt, its cotton hide soaking up rain off the pavement. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
RenovatioNovember 16, 2014 Monday - 5:17 AM Detectives Peak and Weston trudged through the overgrown front yard of John Aldo’s house, the lights from surrounding police vehicles highlighting their faces; they looked like sunken jack-o’-lanterns that had been forgotten and left on display a week longer than usual. A thin fog lingered annoyingly like a distant relative at a free meal. “Aldo have a younger daughter?” Peak asked in a raised voice, the morning traffic noisily trickling down the road on which the house resided, as he stepped over a discarded hand-me-down doll whose eyes were practically gouged out (to assume that they were simply missing would be too forgiving). Following Weston, Peak watched the detective flip through several pages of documentation on his clipboard, clicking his tongue as he skimmed for any Aldo relations. “Had one. Four-year-old. Sent to a foster home about a year ago,” Weston spoke. “Let me guess: bruising from gymnastics after school?” “Results of his ham-fisted disciplinary actions, apparently. Armed robbery five years ago. Violated parole, went back for ten months,” Weston said, his eyes scanning the pages. “This guy’s a real piece of work. Been out since August.” “I.D. the tipper?” The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Living in a Terrarium Our ways sometimes lead us astray. And we burrow deep, deep far away. We are close to where we need to be, and yet a chasm separates dawn from day, Paradise from its plumbing and wiring. And even with our little umbrellas we are lost for words but words leap anyway meaningless as if dissolved chalk, The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Wandering Jew Plays Baseball The Wandering Jew has done a lot of things during his eternal walkabout. No doubt. You’d have thought, considering that he’d know a little more about baseball than the average fan, that he’d have played at least once, but no, he’d only sat in the stands (watching Abner Doubleday, Ty Cobb, Christy Mathewson and the Babe) and never ventured down onto the grass. The Wandering Jew, however, knew no fear. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
ReachThe guy in the wheelchair located the book he wanted to buy and brought his chair all the way to the bookcase, until his footrests pushed up against the books on the lower shelves, but this frontal assault didn’t bring him close enough to bother reaching for it.
This section of the book store was lively but not crowded, so, working the joystick, he pulled straight back and made a U turn in reverse. Thumb and forefinger operating the control, he brought the wheelchair perpendicular to the shelf. He extended his arm, but the book was still too far. But closer. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
John Quinn Pays Court to the Shade of William Morris through his Daughter, MayWords by Benjamin Goluboff Image by Christine Stoddard QuailBellMagazine.com *Author's Note: John Quinn (1870-1924) was a patron and collector of modern art. Ezra Pound called Quinn Maecenas after the wealthy Roman who was patron to Horace and Virgil. Miss Morris had been given an introduction to Quinn by Esther Pissarro with whom the attorney was in correspondence about acquiring the luminous Vue d'Havre by Camille Pissarro, that is, pere not fils. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Stumbling on a Child Size Grave My foot stumbles on a child size grave, moss laden, here in the high grass where sharp autumn leaves pile. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Home to RoostBy Nancy Brewka-Clark QuailBellMagazine.com Marsha grabbed the dashboard. “Why’d you stop?” Trapped in the cone of light cast by the low beams, about a dozen wild turkeys formed a paralyzed barricade across the driveway. “If they’re too dumb to move, mow them down. ”
Joe kept his foot pressed down hard on the brake. “You can’t just kill them.” “Who says? I’m sick of the damn things strutting around like they own the place.” Marsha pushed the remote. “Drive.” A hundred feet away, the garage door rose silently. “Just do it.” |