Literary Yard

Search for meaning

News

The 2014 Nobel Prize for Literature goes to Patrick Modiano, a French Writer who is best known for his novels about memory and identity. Patrick has once again proved that French rule when it comes to literature. He is 11th…

Fiction

By: Muhammad Nasrullah Khan Ahmad rushed toward the newspaper office, trying to avoid the stinging, dust-filled wind that seemed getting stronger with every step. It was a brief walk from the parking lot. By the time he reached the office,…

Poetry

By: Christopher Wong Her heart, Like the sun, Pulses with light. Her blond hair, Flows so smoothly, Like the sun’s golden rays. Her embraces, Warm sad days, Like the sun after the rain. Whenever she cuddles Right beside me, It’s…

Poetry

By: Runaaz A Sharma  Heart pounding, mind numbing Fidgeting fingers, skimming through tome Eyes darting, ears perking On every able drone Ready! Silence descends All ascend Perching in nest Devoid of pandemonium Prayers are murmured Papers are shuffled Apprehension drowning my…

News

Ladies and Gentlemen, The Literary Yard has got the following announcement from the Commonwealth Writers regarding a short story competition. If it interests you, please mind the guidelines and deadline: Writers have until 15 November 2014 to enter their short…

Poetry

By: JD DeHart The lawn used to look bigger, and the tree over the hill was miles away I was going to grow up and marry a famous actress and have famous little babies with faces much nicer than mine…

Books Reviews

By: JD DeHart I suppose there is some object in space or some floating personality which governs us always and constantly so that we organize ourselves first by the concept of mother, father, brother then we begin to feel stirrings…

Fiction

By: Gaither Stewart Oh, no, it’s already beginning. As every morning the usual twisting and untangling myself to escape these capricious sheets. Already another day. I no sooner finally drop off to sleep than I’m waking and another long day…

Fiction

By: Adreyo Sen When I was a boy, my mother was the district magistrate of a tiny little corner of India. Magisterially disapproving of my tendency to disappear in my books and diaries, she’d take me with her on her week-long…

Fiction

By: Rency Philip “Hand me another mug. I’m still thirsty.” A hesitant mug comes your way across the counter. The karaoke hours were fast approaching and you want to scoot before they start. As you gulped down what was the…