That Which Is Not Said By Chitra Gopalakrishnan 977 words, fiction, original and unpublished Akhila, a midwife, in her small village of Pugalur in Tamil Nadu, knows of the promiscuity of making, animated, animalistic, noisy, agonizing and even violent sometimes as it is, just as she knows of the assaults of unmaking, of its unspeakable
An Instance Of Karma It was a hot August night. Jill was working hard at the local convenience store, and her husband, Jarvis, was working hard also—busily digging her grave in the back yard. He just knew she had been cheating on him. Not that he had any proof. It was the way she smiled
“African Insomnia” by Mark Blickley I’m tired and I hate the daylight. This strange sun reflecting off the white djellabas irritates me. It lights up a city of men tugging at their genitals, smiling toothless smiles. It shows dogs and children, bones pressing against skin, begging for relief. The sun releases the warm smell of
“Do you wanna go?”, Yevgeny enthusiastically asked. He didn’t have to specify where and she didn’t need to ask. He had asked her many times before. “Not now”, Yael responded in one of her various ways that wasn’t quite a yes, yet preserved hope by never being a definitive no. This wasn’t a technique of
Moonlight With Tom Thomson Tom Thomson winked as Marla tucked a daisy into the open paint-box on his lap. She did a double-take and stepped back. There was a discordant crash behind them, and Marla flinched and looked over her shoulder. Her family was banging on the rainbow-painted piano in the middle of the patio
A bitter, stupid wind blows over the ridge and down through the pines surrounding our cabin. It is purposeless. The snow has already been scoured from the frozen soil, and the temperature is dramatically below freezing so we’re not going outside, anyway. This wind doesn’t even whistle through the boughs; it just creates a
Now that I’m white-haired I don’t hate my mother for naming me for the time of year I was born. She was of that generation who thought it cool to name a kid after a season. I know five Summers, three Autumns, and two Springs, although the latter get wisecracks about being loose. Winter,
Eliza Jane pressed the down button for the elevator and waited patiently as the cables began drawing the small cab up the shaft to the second floor of the old house. As the doors opened, she stepped inside and pressed the button marked “B” (she’d always called the underground floor the “cellar,” but no matter).