By: James Diaz this thing I called my life constant driftwood every winter something essential was lost my heart beat slower I showed you once the place where my skin trailed off trauma curled signatures and the blue frost digging in…

Do you remember the last time you hid a book under the school table and flipped through the pages to play book cricket? For all the cricket enthusiasts out there, your favorite book publisher Penguin Random House India gives you…

By: Denny E. Marshall on DNA strands climbing the spiral ladder yet so far to go water from fountain after brief exploration parachutes back home his parents have some serious burns mostly college degree when Edgar Allen as child playing tag…

By: Gaither Stewart A strutting and swaggering couple they are, Fascism and the entrenched class of war. Their distorted visions of gallantry and nation come so naturally to both. The spick and span generals, employers of mercenaries and killers, chin…

By: Samuel Cole Riding high on cardio endorphins, I spot Bryan with a Y standing tall at the top of the stairs, sporting the crimson-colored basketball shorts and the gray All For One t-shirt I bought for him during a…

By: Linda M Crate slain of their innocence the children stand in the blood of memories not their own crowned orphans by the hatred of men who have never met them but do not want their existence they are the…

By: Linda M Crate stop staring a picture would last longer, but don’t expect me to pose; your entire existence annoys me when you feel the necessity to be rude i try not to be cruel sometimes my tongue is…

By: Linda M Crate i feel exhausted of this place hangs heavy on my bones, and i’m exasperated of this job doesn’t do anything more than pay the bills; i just want to write, write, and write to be lost…

By: Raymond Greiner Horace Willingham epitomized success, a Harvard business school honors graduate working as an investment banker for thirty years. He has accumulated a personal net worth of ten million dollars and resigned from investment banking to direct time…

By: M S Pallister The kettle whistled. Virginia looked at her I-heart-NY cup, sitting lonely on the worktop, and for the second time that morning broke down in tears. Rage tears. What about the allotment I had planned? All the rhubarb,…