By: David Churack I remember that it was rubbish collection day when I died. The strongest emotion I felt over the whole day was bitter resentment at the metaphorical implications. Truth be told, though, I was ready to die. I was…
By: Sri Ram Looking at Vega walking briskly on the sands of the Sahara Pigo asked “Where do you go?” “I am gonna see God” Vega said without even turning his head towards Pigo. Pigo walked along with Vega. He…
By: Albert Hall J.G. Ballard, who died in April 2009, at the age of seventy eight, was one of the most brilliant and imaginative writers of modern times. His formative experience occurred in China. He was brought up in a…
By: emon.nc The water would recede, but the stench would linger on. A cold, damp, hopeless stench that Neharika hated so much. Every time the murky brown water rushed through the doors of blue moon hotel, Neharika would feel fretful….
By: William T. Hathaway Bracing against gusts of wind, I splash through puddles and crush red-orange-yellow leaves that splotch the sidewalk to the radiologist’s office. There I drink the barium cocktail and slide into the CAT scan ring; the machine…
By: Gaither Stewart His dark face projected toward the rain-blurred windshield, Ibrahim’s body was unusually stiff and erect. The powerful windshield wipers slashed relentlessly but ineffectively at the unyielding rain while the constant splash from the intense traffic on the…
By: Christiane Demack Armenia, c. 600 C.E. I paced back and forth inside my chamber, stopping only to look out the window anxiously before resuming my restless pacing. The sun was setting, an orange glint on the castle walls. The…
By: S.D. Lavender After breakfast, before she left for work, Doris went into the living room of her suburban St. Louis home where her husband Milton sat on the couch in his kimono eating a bowl of Captain Crunch. “Honey, listen…
By: Wylie Strout Frankie and his mom peer through the den window as they hear a van starting up the driveway with “Excalibur Magic” printed on its side in large letters which glitter wildly in the sun’s rays. Long, stiff, tuxedoed legs…
By: Ruth Deming My name is Hans Ulbrecht. At age eighty-nine I cry myself to sleep every night. I have never married. How could I? My kin would have the DNA of a once-despised Nazi assassin. When I was twenty-two,…