By Clark Zlotchew Plunged into darknessalleviated by flaming torcheson rough-hewn rock walls,damp walls of a cavern.Flickering flames cast shifting shadowson stone surface in disturbing dance.I plod and I trudge in slow motion. Before me suddenlya narrow tunnel appears.I squat in…
By: Jordan Zuniga Stirring, stirring, the pounding of the drum,Marching, marching, to collect the final sum,Where patience was once a virtue that surely stayed,A king’s messenger declared that death would no longer be delayed,The mustering of arms, the soldiers hosts…
By: Strider Marcus Jones WE MOVE THE WHEEL we move the wheelthat turns through each mistake,giving motionto the roles we chimeuntil both trickle out of timelike brittle steelthat rusts and breaksinto lapsed devotion. less, or more,you imagined it was suresharing…
By: Viator Remote Stations We are spacefirst of all—the intersticesbetween the polesof what is— so must bemostly of whatis not so primarilythat which isnothing, leaving us a little lightin the lowdownwhere we mightseek solacein the solid bedrock, lyingdown on the…
By: Shai Afsai Several years agoworking as a middle school librarianI took a group of studentson a field trip to Slater Millin Pawtucket, Rhode Island. I purchased a coffee mug at the gift shopand upon our returnpresented iton behalf of…
By: Md. Saber -E- Montaha The Bicameral Mind -Hush, stop that noise-It’s not me-Who’s it then?-It’s me, you, and it’s we-Tell it to stop then-It won’t listen to us-Stop it I say, I’ll kill it otherwise-It’ll only make the noise…
By: Vishakha Sen I am not in Love; Love is in me.I wish to turn into rust now, but it is my old ironsmith.My mother had instilled it in me.From womb to the world, it has chiseled me.I do not…
By: Kyle Singh What stood beyond the negatives were the damped reflections of my astigmatism.They spread upon the kitchen table between my mouth and a lighted candle.I spoke my piece and described my memories with automated reflexes. Curdled cottage cheese…
By: Ajay Kumar Nair Rama’s Exile maya stands by the banks of sarayu –the flesh on her feet only grains of sandthat waters of time lick & spit anewas she waits to hold again rama’s hand. what thought of his…
By: William Tubman On the outskirt of west africa;where flames of fire are more than hell,stood my land in the middle of nowhere. Citizens are caged with agony in their own land like a police celland the masses are not…