By: Harrison Abbott I’ve never liked Anna in all the years that she’s been my neighbour. Just don’t like her. But I also don’t want her to be murdered. She doesn’t like me either. That’s why I must be serious…

By: Amir Zadenemat 1. The Eroding Present We live in an era when the present feels porous, as if each moment dissolves before it fully arrives. This sensation is not sudden or catastrophic. It is slow, granular, the effect of…

By: Goutam Roy All creatures arecradled into existenceby the ancient lapof our Mother Earth.Every pulse of lifefound its first rhythmin her timeless touch. Rhythm bloomsin every heart,as she becomesa living cadence—harmonious and serenein every realmshe wanders through. Yet our axe…

By: Richard LeDue “The First Snow of Another Winter” Vivaldi’s mandolin still whispers to meabout those afternoonssitting alone in my parents’ living room,looking outside and only seeinginside myself,so sure no one was listeningthat I could never imaginewriting this poem years…

By: Jahnavi Gogoi Six am, all set for war, dressedin his running gear, he offersme a cup of tea. I accept. He knows I fear drip pots.The lingering ghosts of coffeegrounds. My recycled paper cup is lush with bergamot, as…

By: John Grey RESPECTS AS PAID By a grave, day pulls close the curtains.The air creaks, plays foul notes,like a violin unstrung.Grass is damp and unloved.Trees droop like mourners.Broken-winged angels, cold mausoleumnothing here speaks well of life. Expecting death at…

By: Pat Spencer Generally, I find public transportation to be hours of isolation, interrupted by a neighborly comment or two. So, when I boarded a repurposed school bus for the bone-jarring ride from Johannesburg to Zimbabwe, the last thing I…

By Tyler Marable For Joseph Harmon there was not a more exhilarating experience than lying with a young woman—especially one who wasn’t his wife.             Lexi laid sleep by his side. Her pink hair ran down her bare shoulders and…

By Pramod Rastogi Eternal Echoes of Time Money may buy much,But never the moments it cannot reclaim.Time moves in one direction only,Bearing me on its unbroken tide,A passage both merciless and profound. O passing breeze, why should I grieveFor missing…

By Munavvar Tlewbaeva It was autumn. A Friday. The cold crept slowly into my bones as the sun began to set. I had just finished my English course and was heading from the city back to my village — back…