By: Prin Sairungsri The house had forty-two boys that term. They were loud in the afternoon and quiet at night. Study hall at seven. Lights out at eleven. The proctor walked with a flashlight and checked the knobs of the…
By: Jim Bates Hot summer morningAn old couple stand quietlyLooking out the screen doorInto the front yard gardenSuddenly like magicA hummingbird appearsIridescent green feathersShining in the golden sunShe darts here and thereFeeding on purple coneflowersYellow rudbeckiaAnd candy colored phloxShe is…
By: James Aitchison (in 1928) George Orwell had a dream:one day he’d write a book! So first he went to Paris,like every writer did. Hemingway wrote well there,Scott Fitzgerald too. George found a rundown roomin the street of The Iron…
By: Kathryn Holeton Echoing Water Frogs croaking away,A cacophony of gold,Echoing water. Waving Singing cattails stand,their roots entrenched in thick mud-waving in water. Natural Spotlight Sunlight beaming down,down on common people-natural spotlight. River Under a Red Sun A sea of…
By: Goutam Roy Old sunken worldbeneath the Java Sea—a vanished landscapewhere giant creatures once roamed,a realm of survival,mystery, and time.The shallow seabedbetween the islandsseemed empty at first;but beneath its silt,the buried past awakened—fossils of ancient creatures,sleeping for a million years,silent…
By: Christopher Johnson To Ulee Newman, his grandmother’s Victorian house was a place of comfort and safety and marvels and magic, all in one. Grandmother Hanson, her name was—his father’s mother, and she lived about a mile from his house—or,…
By: James Aitchison I hear a murderer singing, and varied croaks I hear:Those of mad goblins, each one singing his as it should be cracked and crazed,The carpenter singing as he measures his coffin wood,The madman singing in the depths…
By: Carl Papa Palmer They meet every morning, Chuck and Mac, 8am for coffee,twenty five cents a cup though everybody else pays a dollar. Dolly knows they’ll be here two hours. Each has their usual:grits, two eggs over easy, wheat…
By: Tamoghna Mukherjee Epiphany God is God because it reciprocates ourverbose prayers with silent oblivion.How closely we search for meaning inreminiscence, how assiduous our effortsare in eliciting metaphors from memory—but, you see, here, no action becomesmusic anymore, no scribbling incantation….
By: Ananya S Guha The hill town is nowA ‘ city ‘, screeching, honkingCars, upgrade it to a cityBut the hills remain indifferentWinter or summer, they areWitnesses to primordial timesThey are witnesses to thunderousRain claps, they are witnesses toDeserted roads,…