By Pat St. Pierre
Time well-traveled
By Emma Woodford They knew their lives were shattered when he couldn’t find the key. Now she cries at every turn, tears like grains of sadness on her face. We love her house and feel her pain seeing our future in those grains.
Birds at the Seashore
By Pat St. Pierre
Dreams
By Rajnish Mishra My father is a dreamer, has always been. Only now his dreams have enlarged spheres. Even then, back then, he dreamed a lot and talked of his dreams, of a suave move, a shrewd plan, a sure guide, ‘for dummies’ to the treasure at the end of the rainbow. Times … Continue reading Dreams
Endless Caves
By Pat St. Pierre
I Had a Dream
By Rajnish Mishra I had a dream, not a long time ago. It’s not the kind that I have anymore. In that dream I went back in time to a place that’s not there anymore. They were playing cricket there. I was playing my own age. So, I stood and watched them having all the … Continue reading I Had a Dream
Then I Left
By Rajnish Mishra, I come home after years and carry bribes along: bribes for minds to remember, to remind me the forgotten me. I carry chocolates for all. Death is of two kinds: permanent or temporary removal from a world. In my world of past I’m dead. I’m dead, nearly, for many. I’m dead … Continue reading Then I Left
Tricks Language Plays
By Rajnish Mishra My daughter, eight, looked at me with eyes: half-enquiring, half-afraid, eyes with faith, half, at least, and asked suddenly: Are we born again after death? I looked at my wife. Our eyes met. She smiled: that corners of the eyes, so-it-did-happen smile, and I knew it was not she who dropped a … Continue reading Tricks Language Plays
Post-Work Remains Left
I forgot the applewood bacon in the work fridge. My mother sleeps on the couch as infomercials promising or your money-back guarantee sins blast like music during a tumbling event. There isn't a single Z for shut-eye for me to borrow this evening, I sweated them out in eight-and-a-half hour aisle increments, but I'll get 'em back … Continue reading Post-Work Remains Left
Sunday Morning, At a Friend’s
By Alyssa Trivett Trains hopscotch over hangnail tracks, lollygagging into the next privileged horizon, the soundbites chewing up any ear-space we have left. Alyssa Trivett is a wandering soul. When not working two jobs, she listens to music and scrawls lines on the back of gas station receipts. Her work recently appeared at in Between … Continue reading Sunday Morning, At a Friend’s
Academy of the Heart And Mind 