Poetry
By: Kimberly Potter Kendrick she shuddered upon entering the room it was just like any other room not memorable at all not the color of the walls if there were pictures or knick-knacks what the furniture looked like which pieces…
Fiction
By: Christiane Demack Armenia, c. 600 C.E. I paced back and forth inside my chamber, stopping only to look out the window anxiously before resuming my restless pacing. The sun was setting, an orange glint on the castle walls. The…
Poetry
By: Satish Verma In suddenness, I will write a poem for you. You had stopped at the outset, like a black moon opening up perfervidly. Remote from the oneness of life, a flame leapt up to ignite the process of…
Poetry
By: Satish Verma Something to leave for you. Don’t pull the other end of the string. Dedicated to the invincible, I raise a toast for a theorist, for not calling me back. Shall I move away from the road overflowing with…
Poetry
By: Satish Verma The triangle― right-angled. Pythagorean I would never find the center. An absence gnaws at me. Standing in dark I start a talkathon with walls. Strically, I reverse the numbers. Fires start. I am still reading the page,…
Poetry
By: Sandeep Kumar Mishra My city has dazzling appearance Its days are sweating labours The nights are stiffly precarious Malls, palaces, shops, skyscrapers All things are but only a granite museum People came from unknown places Growing day by day like…
Poetry
By: Catherine McGuire Inside the Green Cross boutique, white walls, clean lines of an optometrist’s glass and steel you can’t afford us counters; soft, sleek lamps spotlight glass cylinders, discrete labels: Headband, Girl Scout Cookies, Blueberry Haze. Young budistas cheerfully advise….
Poetry
from a mis-read headline By: Catherine McGuire The portable dust-bunnies need no help. Snuggle-lint nests in corners of my flannel jacket; they feed off the lining. Don’t worry. The rain-dyed wooden clothespins like hobos seeking shelter are merely misdirected —…
EssayNon-FictionTravel
By: Chuck Orloski “Pretend that you owe me nothing, and all the world is green,” Tom Waits, from the L.P., “Blood Money.” In December 1989, two months married, I shared good news with my lovely bride Carol. After a job search…












