By: Raymond Greiner The year is 1923 and the country is in the midst of the Roaring Twenties. Euphoria has not ceased since the end of The Great War. The alcohol flows like water unfolding a new era of drink, dance…
By: Debadrita Chakraborty The picture loomed at one end of the pastel hued wall. Deprived and lonesome. A face, alive and prominent amidst silhouetted men and women, greyed skyscrapers and a dilapidated blurry image of George Street. Eyes elegantly defined in…
A new forum bringing together publishers, agents, rights holders and literary content producers, has been launched by Teamwork Arts. The Jaipur BookMark born of huge interest shown by the international publishing industry in the Jaipur Literature Festival, will run in…
By: Brian Barbeito That sea took itself for a painting, and was different than the shores to the north. Up from there, especially in the storm season, the waters seemed to turn over more. This brought stings from jellyfish, and also…
By: Brian Barbeito In the before, yes, before he incarnated, the beings gathered round and said, Why? – Why do you want to go there and what do you want to do? He told them that he wanted to know what the real…
By: Tasneem. S. Pocketwala People about Around Surrounding her. Low and upset, she Seeks company. Out. Alone Now, sits in one place Awaits Beauty, tranquillity A little pity. – You arrive – Quells the word rising up her lips Tastes it,…
By: Tasneem. S. Pocketwala What if we could capture time? Like A moment of Being Apprehended In a photograph. My hand pulsates to hold time. *** I keep my pen down, now. There, rests ‘Sons and Lovers’. I pick it up,…
By: Matthew R Moore at the motel for the lost – if you should find yourself here there’s free admission and endless hours while tires seem to sleep in sideways heaps and bumpers corrode as thoughts unhinged cars wave with bags…
By: Matthew R Moore As the crow flies ass backward, As the bats scream in the belfry, As you beat a dead horse, You lost me. I know I don’t have a leg to stand on, The goose is cooked, so…
By JP Miller It was 1969 when my mother and I moved to Edisto Island. I had graduated from an insignificant high school in Charleston and we were suddenly poor. My father had left my mother for a younger…