By: Joel Chace Her grandfather’s milkhouse. White:the cold; those painted concrete walls; what camefrom his cows as it swirls along silverytroughs; his hair; their breaths; air itself inthere, and in her The stone whizzes pasthis head before herealizes he’s dodged….
By: Carrie Farrar The Periphery It is not the unfurled highway we desire. It is what slips beside it— a red granary on a remote risealready gone before the eye can settle my hands hold the wheelbut not the motion…
By: KJ Hannah Greenberg Apposite Ever apt per circumstances, select acts prove themselves asNever ending reminders of moments when troubles, elsewiseStormed against personal citadels, nearly smash to smithereens. In relationship to squatted trucks as well as budding ramie plants,Binned dreams…
By: Ramlal Agarwal Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s One Hundred Years of Solitude brought him overnight success. It is the story of a primitive family, the Buendias, in the wild swamps of Colombia. The novel portrays the family’s inbreeding and its disastrous…
By: Harrison Abbott Robin had wanted to come here for a long time. He’d seen pictures of this little town many times. And so, as the bus passed the town’s Welcome To sign, which was clad in pretty sunlight, he…
By: Dee Artea I fell in love with a physicist. At first, I thought that maybe this was all a mistake. But, believe it or not, he really did charm me, with all he knew about the physical world. About…
(seen at rue Raynouard, Passy) By: James Aitchison It is small.It is plain.The literature shaped on its surfaceshaped its surface — see, it isworn concave in the centre by aweighty arm moving across it,back and forth, back and forth,writing, writing,…
By: Pradeep Trikha This essay critically examines the poetry of Kiriti Sengupta, situating his work within the broader evolutionary trajectory of his literary oeuvre. It argues that Sengupta occupies a highly specialised, singular niche in contemporary Indian English poetry by…
By: Anthony Ward Tom stood attentively in front of the mirror, his eyes racing over the image portrayed within. He looked sideways at his reflection from the right, then to the left, then centred his gaze as he stroked his…
By Shaik Asad This man who’s part of my secret, well, let’s not worry about his name. Not like I see any chance of you dropping in my village, whose name too I choose not to disclose, but a secret…