Poetry
By: Yucheng Tao Kiss Under obsidian clouds,Flowers kiss bees.Bees gaze at the soil—Who will kiss it? Purple Yesterday, today, tomorrow — all purple.Yesterday, today, I can’t sleep.Tomorrow’s test is hard and purple.My emotions are purple,even the exam paper is purple.Purple…
EssayBooks Reviews
By: Ramlal Agarwal V.S. Naipaul had a curious relationship with India. It was a country of his ancestors who settled in Trinidad as indentured labourers. He had grown up in Trinidad among a sizeable community of Indians who practised Hindu…
Global Politics
By James Aitchison The New York Times masthead proclaims: “All the news that’s fit to print.” The newspaper’s mission is clear: “We seek the truth and help people understand the world. This mission is rooted in our belief that great journalism has…
Poetry
By: Michelle Murray Standing On the Edge Standing on the edgeTeeteringTotteringTrying not to fall offIt’s a balancing actStep rightThen step leftSoftlySlowlySo as not to slipSwinging my arms to balanceLike a circus actTrying to stay onTrying not to fallTo fall would…
Poetry
By: John Muro Abiding I’ve come to this stretch of shorelinewith an uncertain purpose, watchingthe early autumn light pinking the hill-sides and the small swells that risethen pause in dramatic fashion, seemingto hold back time and allowing me todraw in…
Poetry
By: Stephen Mead Gingham This is geometrical, this stitchedcross-hatching of order in squares & rectanglesso often seeming to flow even if ironed, hemmed,the plaid weave of kilts given to cotton – this dress,that Italian restaurant’s tablecloth, though the word’s originis…
Fiction
By: Kenneth M. Kapp Hype for the fight started six months out. Tom B. Topus and Will T. Snod were in the top ten of heavyweights. Both had impressive records, winning more than 70% of their fights by knockouts. People…
Fiction
By: William Kitcher The February night was cold, windy, damp, and slushy. The plows hadn’t completely cleared the roads and the near-freezing temperature kept everything in a state of flux. The girl passed by the front of the subway station…
Poetry
By: Carl Papa Palmer I point at her Mommyand say she’s my MommyShe hugs Mommy and saysNo she’s my MommyI lub you Mommy I point at her GiGiand say she’s my GiGiShe hugs GiGi and saysNo she’s my GiGiI lub…