By Mark Salamon The soul, too, has its geometric center, and those wise enough not to search for it often find it all the same. The wound of initiation: at times something to conceal, at others an ornament, until one…
By: Don Tassone Ever since she was a little girl, Stella’s favorite movie was The Wizard of Oz. But her favorite part of that movie wasn’t the characters or costumes or special effects. It was its most famous line: …
By: Pramod Rastogi A lover of nature and its shifting shades,I climb the winding heights,Pausing now and thenTo speak with the mountains,Their faces clean and austereAs I rise along their slopes. They listen without judgment,Sinking to the roots of my…
By: Jun A. Alindogan Times have dramatically changed. Information is now disseminated at unprecedented speed, and all technological programs and innovations relate to communication. Transportation is no exception. While online transactions are intended to be convenient, this comfort can occasionally…
By: Jim Bates Brilliant day ending.Setting sun and dusty sky.Wondrous light transformed. Summertime gardenFlowers so bright and cheerfulRefreshing the soul. Early morning dewDelightfully dancing dropletsNature’s pure jewels. Deep blue turquoise skyBig white puffy clouds floatingSoothingly serene. Green rolling farmlandStretching to…
By: Daniel Acosta, Jr. Prologue “Danny, that’s great news you’re coming to KU for graduate school to study pharmacology and toxicology; perhaps we can share an apartment”, Carlos excitedly told me over the phone. “I’ll see you in a couple…
By: Andy Marin He feels like a fool as people walk by him and into the subway station. He bites his lip and swallows. He would light a cigarette but he doesn’t want to put off passersby who find smoking…
By: Peter J. Dellolio It Was A Matter Of Lust It was a matter oflust in spite of thosedapper fellows withoutthe electric chair sowe pleaded and were neededin spite of scarecrows wearingoxygen masks in Damascus. Nectarines Rubbed Nectarines rubbed nocturnal…
By: Ian C Smith I wanted to defeat time visiting the boyhood manor of my father, that remote relation, who fled the travails of his life by emigrating. Envisaging touring his biography that nobody would write I thought, so old,…
By: Snigdha Agrawal The little girl…now grown upsomewhere in her fortiesstill remembers Dadicrushing her favourite candywith a mortar and pestle,because her dentures,refused to stay fixedlike party switcherseager to please. Nothing could tempt hertowards “Fairaro”or those silver-foiled,foreign-returned dropsof “HisnHers”,Her son picked…