By Anthony Paolucci Since I was a child, I had heard tales of the People. A group of nameless survivors who braved the desolate lands long after the sky was scorched. They were a myth to some. Others, the last…
By John RC Potter Readers of this new collection of 16 stories by Krin Van Tatenhove will discover that the title and subtitle offer clues to the fictional prose contained within, as is the case with many books. The collection…
By James Aitchison A few paces from Edinburgh’s famous Golden Mile, nestling in tiny Makars’ Court by Lady Stair’s Close, you will find the Scottish Writers’ Museum. Within its ancient walls are portraits, literary works and personal objects of Scotland’s…
By: James Aitchison (a dada pantoum) tristan tzara cut words from a newspaperdid he use a compass when he explored nothingnesspoems don’t need to have meaning he saidas he shuffled words in a paper bag did he use a compass…
By: Deen Sayeedin All the birds rest on one branch,in the soft light of joy,bringing little messages of happiness. They share their glow,their songs touch other souls—in the warmth of their patron’s love,they live, together, alive. They are not fireflies,but…
By: Duane L Herrmann MY SOUL CRIES On that trueand radiant morn,that momentof inception,I sobbed –knowingseparationwas approachingand I would forgetour oneness,only a longingfor unionwould remain.Agony. Agony!How could I endureseparationuntil Eternity?I still cry. NATURE TAKES ITS OWN Silence of the season:birds…
By: Paul Dickey Greed and Hate (Apology to Robert Frost) Some say that Trump will end in greed;Some say in hate.From what we’ve tasted his ego’s needI hold with those who favor greed.But if he runs again a candidate,I think…
The next time your drive takes you into the countryside, take a moment to look at the trees. Are you struck by the majestic presence of ancient, broad-canopied trees that stand like rooted historians? For millennia, trees have been a…
By Philip Graubart “Pickleball? You’re not going to Grandpa’s 90th birthday party because you have a pickleball tournament?” My mother was stacking boxes, her back to me. Dust mites tickled my nostrils. I was two weeks past my 35th…
By Goutam Roy Cry in a Haunted House Solitude consortswith whispered shadows,reigning in the cold, stale airof the deserted house,forsaken long agoby those who fled in terror. The cry of ill-fated souls,still echoing,weaves through the cracked walls—a tapestry of raw…