By: Zach Murphy Sierra liked to eat ice cream during blizzards. She’d make snow angels and draw funny faces on them. In the Spring, she liked to bask in the grass for hours and hours, as if the insects were…
By: Stephen Kingsnorth Meeting Delhi We drop suddenly,overtaking the ox ploughingbeside the tarmac. Heat-hit,little mascara boyswrest the bags from usbefore, bewildered and affronted,we grab them back. We overload Ambassadors,unsuited cases and rucksacksbulging, over-flowingthe gaping jaws of convoy boots. Soon, undergraduating,…
By: Miss Sasheera Mehrani Gounden Nearly four centuries ago, a Muslim traveller named Baba Budan brought back seven coffee seeds from Yemen to India. He planted these seeds near a mountain, commonly known today as “The Cradle of Indian Coffee.”…
By: Lynn White Against The Tide Will we wait for the tide to turn.to carry us awaywave after wavegathering up the debriswhich surrounds ussucking it up like so much dustgetting rid of it all,everything goingwith the flowsinkingbeneath the waters.Everything.But not…
By: Elena Mordovina The thing that surprises me in this pictureis the cat painting exactly my portrait(you need to put your glasses on to see) –The one you shot then, ten years ago, on the balcony.Don’t worry, I’m quite happy…
By: Ken W. Simpson To understand why so much money was wasted – and so much time spent investigating nothing – we have to go back to the Obama administration – when both Obama and Hillary Clinton were using private…
By: Ken W. Simpson Demons are founddining greedilyabove groundon ghoulish soupfresh flesh fingerssanctimonious syrupboiled bigotfresh flesh fingerspedophile pigstuffed hypocrisywith promiscuityas the devil’sdessert.with I scream.
By: Annapurani Vaidyanathan Hope likes to slither away into the shadows. It loves to sleep beneath greying clouds until a ray of sunshine knocks its socks off and floods the sky with rainbows. It needs you to dot the i’s…
By: Andrew Campbell The following was written as I stood on a hidden hill off the Natchez Trace Parkway, about four miles into an overgrown trail. It remains, and will always remain, as it was when I scribbled it on…
By: Ed Nichols I still remember the last words my mother said to me. “Horace, get out of the rain! Get your butt up on this porch and…” she grabbed her throat, let out a low groan, and just dropped…