Rustle
A quiet rustle of leaves reached into his pocket and took out a dollar. It was a simple theft, not soon discovered, if ever. It could feed her and nourish her wooded home. She could plant some flowers. Oh, but she would enchant a black-capped chickadee to carry her to market, and she would find her true love nestled amongst the parsley. It had been foretold. Lost in the glow of that vision, she didn’t notice the wind carrying the dollar away into the forest of barren trees.
by Daniel Ribar
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Qarrtsiluni (2005-2013) was a groundbreaking online literary magazine, one of the first to fully exploit blog software. Though we never quite realized our dream of creating a print-on-demand option for each issue, being online does mean that our back issues remain accessible indefinitely, so there's that. And we published some damn fine stuff — check it out.
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This strange story has stayed with me since I first read it, Daniel. Intriguing, odd, with a kind of fairy-tale quality in a modern setting. Great to have your work here.
Between the rustle of leaves and the barren woods, it does seem as if some kind of illicit transaction takes place each summer and fall. A lot of people look at trees and see money; it takes a real gift to look at money and see a forest. Thanks.
(o)