By: Alex Dzhoganov At the beginning of The Name of the Rose, William of Baskerville does something that looks almost like a magic trick. The monastery servants are looking for a runaway horse, and William, who has never seen it,…

By: ALI Hasnain The elevator in the Marlowe Building had buttons for twenty-three floors and one blank brass circle beneath them. Nobody mentioned the circle during Adrian’s first week at the records office. By his second week, he had learned…

By: Snigdha Agrawal An old vendor, half-lungi tied,settles beneaththe Gulmohar’s shade,his cart heapedwith chusni mangoes. As evening leans in,they come, as they always do;children who have missed a meal,unleashing laughterlike birds erupting from a leafy tree They are happy enoughwith…

By: Sreelekha Chatterjee I’m sitting in a bus, set off to College Street, the Boi Para or the books’ lane, stocking all college and university books—rarest of the rare ones. A handful of passengers. All part of an unknown motion….

By: Jim Bates Afternoon heatQuiet backyardSuddenlyBuzzingBuzzing, buzzing, buzzingCicadas callingEmerging from years undergroundInto the warm soilMales serenading femalesA true delight of summerThe old man sets aside his bookHe listensEntrancedA summer melodyUnlike any otherA singular symphonyHe smilesHeart warmedBy the buzzingBarrage.

By: Tim Law Lazy Sunday Sleep inBreakfast in bedNothing to doBut spend time with you Maybe watch a movieOr catch up on some restLazy Sundays with nothing plannedThese are the days I love the best I turn to me and…

By: Prin Sairungsri The house had forty-two boys that term. They were loud in the afternoon and quiet at night. Study hall at seven. Lights out at eleven. The proctor walked with a flashlight and checked the knobs of the…

By: Jim Bates Hot summer morningAn old couple stand quietlyLooking out the screen doorInto the front yard gardenSuddenly like magicA hummingbird appearsIridescent green feathersShining in the golden sunShe darts here and thereFeeding on purple coneflowersYellow rudbeckiaAnd candy colored phloxShe is…

By: James Aitchison (in 1928) George Orwell had a dream:one day he’d write a book! So first he went to Paris,like every writer did. Hemingway wrote well there,Scott Fitzgerald too. George found a rundown roomin the street of The Iron…

By: Kathryn Holeton Echoing Water Frogs croaking away,A cacophony of gold,Echoing water. Waving Singing cattails stand,their roots entrenched in thick mud-waving in water. Natural Spotlight Sunlight beaming down,down on common people-natural spotlight. River Under a Red Sun A sea of…