By James Aitchison Can your brain really reveal your personality by the way it controls the muscles of your hand? Can your handwriting express your innermost levels of intelligence, cognitive ability and talent? In the mid-twentieth century, so-called experts frequently…
By: Emily Authement The air in this room is thick,A dense, unmoving waterI have to push through just to stand.It is not fear, exactly,More of the architecture of what might be. My mind is a flickering screen,Showing futures that haven’t…
By: Jun A. Alindogan I did not expect such an event to happen, but I think it was inevitable. I was busy teaching, which took me to different locations in the city, while my elderly mom stayed with my younger…
By: Pramod Rastogi Echoes of Yesterday, Promises of Tomorrow As Santa glides inOn his reindeer chariot,Millions of hearts swell with joy,A collective cheer reverberatesAcross the vast expanse of the world.The year now nearing its twilight hourClings gently to its fleeting…
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…