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By: Harrison Abbott
Robin had wanted to come here for a long time.
He’d seen pictures of this little town many times. And so, as the bus passed the town’s Welcome To sign, which was clad in pretty sunlight, he felt in good spirits – felt that this would be a good day.
Aside from the driver he was the only person on the bus. The t...
By: Dee Artea
I fell in love with a physicist. At first, I thought that maybe this was all a mistake. But, believe it or not, he really did charm me, with all he knew about the physical world. About how things move on the earth. And in the sky: such as the sun, moon, planets and stars – and other things up there.
You know how starry-eyed i...
(seen at rue Raynouard, Passy)
By: James Aitchison
It is small.
It is plain.
The literature shaped on its surface
shaped its surface — see, it is
worn concave in the centre by a
weighty arm moving across it,
back and forth, back and forth,
writing, writing, writing.
It is small.
It is p...
By: Pradeep Trikha
This essay critically examines the poetry of Kiriti Sengupta, situating his work within the broader evolutionary trajectory of his literary oeuvre. It argues that Sengupta occupies a highly specialised, singular niche in contemporary Indian English poetry by orchestrating a distinct synthesis of spiritual inquiry, cultural memory,...
By: Anthony Ward
Tom stood attentively in front of the mirror, his eyes racing over the image portrayed within. He looked sideways at his reflection from the right, then to the left, then centred his gaze as he stroked his hand from his cheeks to his chin. He gave himself a nod before walking towards the window to view what was happening ...