By: Yogesh Upadhyaya The left side of his forehead throbbed with pain. He was alternately yawning and belching. Belches that brought a sour taste in his mouth. It was only four in the afternoon and surely they were only a…

By: Deva Shore I hear his voice, this priest who speaks of you,Strong, controlled, all eyes are riveted to him,He gives your eulogy, an acclamation of your lifeAs he understands it.He boasts your beautiful smile,And of that he speaks the truth….

Commonwealth Writers has announced its short story competition and International Radio Play Writing competition. First: The 2014 Commonwealth Short Story Prize was launched at Marlborough House in London last night, inviting writers across the Commonwealth to submit entries for the…

By: Kousik Adhikari After your speech I shall laugh I have taken this inevitable oath. To remain silent, Extreme, impossible, cruel, The annoyed eyes of the fish Starves the whole night for moon, When gentle breeze blows It sleeps aside at…

By: Kousik Adhikari The poisoned words of my heart, Play like my foster children, Till without memory, just sprouted teeth, They always seeks a true cover After escaping easy childhood… youth, I notice their rustling youth With bitter eyes, Now the…

By: Kousik Adhikari Nowadays I feel Accustomed with life-glorified life! Always dangling over head And yet sword’s magic shining! Moon-drops oozing on rain Sea caressing sands- Truly romance walks in ant’s legs Through spine! Till one hungry cock calls Till monarchs…

By: Raymond Greiner At the river daily I see the Heron wading. Classified as an aquatic bird; the Heron is equally reliant on land. The riverbank offers access to food sources, building its nest in a high tree relying on its…

By: Sozou-Kyrkou Konstantina The Greek coffee froths and as he tries to grab the pot away from the primus stove the coffee spills and puts out the fire. He’s a real slowcoach these days. Everything seems to overtake him. A crust…

By: Sai Diwan Readers of Oscar Wilde know better than to believe that the mirror projects the image of the self. As Dorian Gray caressed impressions of the past instead of facing the reality of his wilted self, his creator…

By: Robyn Segal I have not received a birthday card, letter or note from my father in years. I suppose the mail stopped when the emails began. Maybe the mail stopped when I was too old to get a birthday card….