By: Nikki Williams Joan took one last look at the sunlit ocean from her window seat. Blue, like the sprawling sky that filtered through foliage as she’d trekked into the dense woods. When she’d finally found the hut under the…
By: Don Tassone Five months after the end of a war that pitted brother against brother, still dressed in his blue uniform, Thomas Fenwick approached a brick house surrounded by oaks and maples with leaves of red and brown. White…
By: Mykyta Ryzhykh There’s a void inside of us that can’t be filled with porn moviesThere is an emptiness inside of us that needs to be filledA jug from the human body broken into fragments of timeThe clay from which…
By: April Mae M. Berza We march in the streetsof the historic Mendiola,mobilizing the massesto cry for justicefor the great Percy Lapid. His early deathrekindled the flameof a Filipino movementagainst tyrantsand oligarchs. I’m imprisonedinside the livid rageof a dying evening,trying…
By: Stephen Kingsnorth Trews Weir What true, which spun embroidered myth?I knew the weir, its timber trap. Long float log boat from Exmoor down,that salmon leap, where few flew by,and pool beneath by Ducks Marsh green,neither bog nor drake insight….
By: Josephine Rudolf She shut down her computer for the fifth time that day, the feeling of rejection drowned out whatever bit of hope she had left. The aspiring author avoided looking into the mirror, on her way to the…
By: Amber Pineda Dyeing Blue Rain Rust In the loud stillness of this barrenCover of cascading stars and mellow rainAre these red strings of restraint thatEmbrace learned destinyAs though it were beneath your skin. There is a sprinkle of porcelain…
In the acknowledgement note of his latest poetry collection ‘Water has Many Colors’, Kiriti Sengupta rues the absence of schools that can teach poetry in India. In my opinion, there is a reason behind this. And that is, you can…
By: Linda S Gunther I think about the fabric of my story. What does it feel like in terms of texture? How does it sound when I read it aloud? I know that what makes a story sing, whether memoir or fiction…
By: Ruth Deming When I awoke and removed the noisy CPAP machine from my nostrils, I remembered. Writing day! I peeked out my upstairs window. An enormously bright light grinned at me from the darkness across the street. The…