Among the myriad ways that storytellers and novelists have invented to narrate their tales, stream of consciousness is perhaps the only tool that has caught everyone’s fancy. While it sounds fascinating and surreal, it has not been everyone’s cup of…
By: April Mae M. Berza I ask for the galaxy in your eyes, each constellation dancing as we waltz in the Milky Way of deepest desire. The maiden moon playing jazz, the stars welcoming us in a night of hopes and…
By: April Mae M. Berza I buried Cupid’s arrows in my dreams and awoke thirsty of fires and desires. When I drank an ocean, zephyr sings a heavy dirge to reconcile the fears with my tears slowly battling like soldiers fighting…
By: Rimli Bhattacharya It is during my visit to Unakoti hills of Tripura that I got the opportunity of meeting Meena. Wearing a Rignai covering the lower half of her body and Risa and Rikutu covering the upper half of her torso,…
By Andrew Pence “Where are you going?” Carl asked, knowing the answer. “Out,” Emily answered without elaboration, putting the finishing touches on her makeup. “Again, Christ. That’s three times this week and it ain’t even Friday.” “So? You can go…
By: Marc Carver The Seagul I want to be like one of those old seagulls who knows he is close to death. No goodbyes no farewells They just go out to sea and keep flying they fly until they die….
By: Daniel de Culla Being naked to bed From the bedside table Where my father kept condoms And historical naked stars Dreaming with them I took a big postcard That I thought was a chicken In a yard: It was…
By: Daniel de Culla Where are you going, James Hilton? Where are you going, sad about you? -I’m looking for my Lost Horizons On the great bluish mountain of the Karakal In Baskul, Afghanistan. -If Tomás Moro is already dead In…
By: Daniel de Culla Where are you going, James Hilton? Where are you going, sad about you? -I’m looking for my Lost Horizons On the great bluish mountain of the Karakal In Baskul, Afghanistan. -If Tomás Moro is already dead In…
By: Ram Govardhan The towering, ornate Nigerian teak door at the end of lane is usually closed and persistently watched over by very old Rasul Chacha, as if he is on a continued lookout for someone wicked. Because the lane…