Literary Yard

Search for meaning

Fiction

By: Amera Elwesef Her red curly hair has been buried under my grave. I tried my best to touch my bones with my fingers to make sure that what I see is so real. the red curly hair acted the…

Fiction

By J. Ross Archer I have had an insatiable urge to travel the back roads of the western United States, an urge I have longed to satisfy for a long time. I have no specific itinerary in mind, no particular…

Poetry

By: Michael Lee Johnson Cracker Jack Box Poem I don’t wear my pocket watch anymoreit reminds me of my age, 73, soon more,outdated gadget, time hanging wheremoving parts below don’t belong nor work anymore.I don’t like to think about endings….

Poetry

By: Anupama Mishra In my tranquil mind, I don’t know the reason For what my heart is happy And also do not know the cause of the sadness. The joy comes but doesn’t last long Alas,the sorrow is much familiar…

Fiction

By: Danielle Cralle “You ain’t gonna make it,” she said. Her high-pitched voice reverberated off the tree trunks. Sophie was 10 then. She stood awkwardly on the fat branch high up in the Oak tree as her heart beat so…

EssayTravel

By Mark D. Walker Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by,And that has made all the differenceRobert Frost During my stint as a Peace Corps Volunteer, I was smitten by and would marry…

Fiction

By: Gaither Stewart On their return home the Hartmanns did not expect to find the same Munich they had fled from two decades earlier. Nonetheless, they were surprised to find what seemed another city altogether. But then, they realized, they…

Fiction

By Gaither Stewart RAMON AND “OPERATION NIKU” CEAUSESCU I met Ramon on a bright October morning at the hour I like to watch the changing colors of the mountains. I was standing near what people in this Alpine village call…

Poetry

By: Anadi Naik My daughter goes to school Dangling her pony tails carefully meshing up her hair She picks up her books in her backpack And starts walking. She walks to the school. It is a ritual. Like many generations…

Poetry

By: Anupama Bhattacharya A Conversation Between Father and Son Son, we all are at war Some for finance Some for romance Most with Chance Between anima-animas. Papa, “Why do we battle?” Not for victory or prosperity, my son. But surely…