By: Pijush Kanti Deb How long is the tape of longings? Unlimited- the prompt hereditary answer Revealing One of the childish ideas We conceive and feel proud of While Counting stops itself very soon in measuring The limited means of…

By: Gaither Stewart Her two roommates, Piera and Paola, reconstructed that Priscilla had been missing since noon on December 31. To the police agents twenty-four hours did not sound like a long absence but for Piera and Paola it was…

By:: Gaither Stewart The parable is told of the boiling of a frog. If you put it in boiling water the frog will jump out as soon as it feels the heat. But if you put it in cold water…

By: Janna Vought When I hit the windshield, I think about laundry in the dryer, chicken for dinner thawing on the counter—my daughters. I land in the space between the nothing, tangled up in my headphone wires. My body shatters, pieces…

By: Janna Vought Elizabeth Báthory, 1560-1614, history’s most prolific serial killer, accused of torturing and killing hundreds of young women, then bathing in her victim’s blood. I’m shadow, a symbol cast to paper. I’m myth ravaged by hungry heat, bloated with…

By: William Ogden Haynes Today I found my father’s old wristwatch. The battery was finally dead, although it probably lasted about a year longer than he did, dependably counting the minutes in case someone wanted to glance at the correct time….

By: William Ogden Haynes I was a young professor with a newly-minted doctorate driving south from Ohio to work at Auburn University. I pulled my old Chevy into a used car dealership and before I could get out of the car,…

By: Sasheera Gounden I I was sitting in the waiting room with fear soaking my armpits leaving a trail of odour behind. The many eyes surrounding my retina were repugnant. People tend to judge you if you’re a bit strange. I,…

By: Ruth Asch The trees in silhouette, laid flat by grey light: old keepsakes, dry and frail, pressed on a page of sky. Only one blot – twigs knotted, lodged aslant; a reckless crafting, proffered to the winds or hungry eye….

By: Ruth Asch They are rebuilding proud Palmyra from kebab-sticks, (the pride of peoples, razed to dust.) One can no longer sit by a temple wall to write of doubt, from ramparts satirize the world of power; party, or paint a…