By: Hayden Hart For eight hours per day, five days a week, for around two-hundred and sixty days per year, I generated spreadsheets for AutoFlash, the third largest Jeep auto parts distributer on the east coast. Every day I walked…
By: Mehreen Ahmed “What a strange name? Mowgli’s mother,” Brenda Braidy said. “Yes, very strange, ” said her friend Frieda Jane. “But do you know what?” Brenda asked. “What?” “What’s even stranger, is that no one really knows, who she…
By: Rex Chilcote The Betrayal It is inevitable that life will betray you. The betrayal is as certain as the rising and setting sun. There are many types of betrayal: There is the physical; as time goes on the decomposition…
By: Aashika Suresh I Am Running Out of Places to Clean My cupboard is arranged by pants, shorts, skirts, shirts, tees, formal wear, semi-formal wear, informal wear, indoor, outdoor, forest, beach, blues, blacks (mostly), whites and the rainbow. My bedside…
By: Hardeep Sabharwal Room and Heart While vacating a room Someone who goes Covers all the necessary things And leaves Waste things Scattered here and there In the room, In the same way When someone goes out of the heart…
By: Yan Yin Phoi The Blind Storm You hear it before you see The skies morph into darkness. Its roar cracks through your soul. Plop plop plop. They fall heavy, swift, as expected. People run and rush for shelter. They…
By: Kashiana Singh Compare and contrast She lived a flower arrangement routine Details, twines, pin holder perfection I box flowers in confused bursts tiger lily’s unabashedly preen peony’s skip in affection embarrassing edges wilt with thirst She taught with…
By: Harrison Abbott To wake, so many times under the canopy of non-sleep; Dreams held in bizarre crossroads, lashed piers, burnt woodlands, Wherein the clowns reside and horsebacked men tap their pistols. Dreams rocked by ladies’ words from their reptile…
By: Vivek Nath Mishra When I was fifteen, I fell in love with a girl named Shashi and started writing poems for her. She had boy-cut hairstyle and she wore round glasses, large to her face. I sneaked glances at…
By: Tamra Scott-Hunt Nearly every Sunday in 1993, I had dinner at a mafia boss’s mansion. I was friends with a bona fide gangster — the real deal. I’ll call him “Jay” so as not to ruffle any feathers. Though…