By: Neil Leadbeater Black plays first. They want to wipe each other out or lock their opponent into a position from which they cannot move. The old still harbour ambition – if they could just acquire the agility of youth…
By: Neil Leadbeater Wasp-waisted with black and gold among the citron bracts the guêpes maçonnes of Surinam swarmed about our heads so that when we tried to sweep them off mob rule ensued. What good could come of it, this high-handed…
By: Pijush Kanti Deb It’s my limpid liking that she must lilt with me and express her like-mindedness to my lonesome world where I always linear to the old lines drawn sometimes with the essence of fragrant flowers and sometimes…
By: Pijush Kanti Deb So pointed my tongue is that I can’t catch it now which is on its way to its prescribed destination which lies somewhere in the grip of her nosegay but for someone else or in the…
By: Pijush Kanti Deb As unabated have been my falling From the sky Down and down To the land of hell So unstopped have been your flying from our land up and up to the sky of heaven. Though…
By: Hanoch Guy Among the things I forget is that the living go on, diminished every day by eighths, fleeing from survivors in leaps and bounds. Getting farther and farther away from fathers, mothers and the divine, who abandoned them. They…
By: Hanoch Guy are helpless at the hands of the living, uprooting memory. The dead retaliate, invading dreams. Stand in line to demand their dues. Uri, with the satisfied smirk he wore when he beat me up with a split branch….
By: J.K. Durick It begins as an odd sensation, a feeling I remember From riding downhill on my bike as a kid, going Down Pearl Street, College Street, Main, almost falling, A pulling, pushing, a force beyond my control, faster…
By: J.K. Durick Misplaced first time, fresh from the garden center – Placement and the season are everything sometimes Too much sun, too little water, or drainage, of course The resilient native weeds and bugs contributed — Stunted, wilting, they had…
By: Jessica Goody The fierce din of the typing pool, thirty women battering the keys, their fingers flickering insect-quick on the glassy pebbles, stamping the white expanse with inky hieroglyphs. The rhythmic drumbeat of pounding fingers resembles the factory roar of…
