Wolves hunt for the moon-touched lovers,
dazzled by the dark, with stars in their eyes
that mask the gleam of hungry teeth, and claws
trailing closer,
closer.
Wolves encircle bright young bodies
dizzied in orbit, their newly burst hearts
left open; nebulous scent drifting
into a vast
(and greedy)
night.
A recovering pessimist’s letter to Tom Hanks regarding his literary career by B. A. Varghese
Dear Tom Hanks,
It’s been a few years now that the events I will describe to you have occurred, and I think I have enough emotional distance to convey my story without any bouts of bewilderment. This all came about a few months before the release of your short story collection in October of 2017. It’s just a case of mistaken identity. Well, my mistake of your identity.
The Book That Helped Me Look Within by Shilpa Gupte
“Wholehearted living is about engaging in our lives from a place of worthiness. It means cultivating the courage, compassion and connection to wake up in the morning and think, ‘No matter what gets done and how much is left undone, I am enough.’
The words jumped out at me from the page of the book, Daring Greatly, by Brene Brown. A friend visiting India had gifted it to me three years ago, but I couldn’t proceed beyond the first chapter and so put it away. Non-fiction not being my cup of tea, I let the book lie in a cozy corner of my bookcase. I thought I would wait for the book to prompt me to read it.
Headlights by Daragh Fleming
I couldn’t see the water. The waves crashed on the shore in a slow intention melody. I could hear them crashing as they tried to seduce the coastline. The waves always seemed to me to be a good metaphor for hard work, for grinding it out. A slow, almost unnoticeable effort to wear down the land they lapped at. Years of agonising Sisyphean toil that appears for all intents to amount to nothing through the lens of daily life. Yet when you step back and really look, when you see how the land was before and how the land is now, you see that the waves have managed to move the land entirely, to shape it and change its appearance. The waves have always reminded me that with enough work and persistence, you could move anything or anyone.
Yellow Light Hue by Brandon Cole
It’s a quarter to twelve and I’m staring at this yellow light
Not sure if I’m looking for food or something to think about
I’m not hungry, but I’m certainly not full
A midnight snack fool with yellow light hue
The greens that occupy my bottom two shelves
Beach Boys asking about my favourite vegetable
Its aubergine if you must know, brain at quarter to twelve
But greens aren’t what I’m after, I’m in need of something else
Dust by Aldas Kruminis
Old dusts settle in your shadow, left behind
they set and stretch into the darkness of your past.
The wind against your face coaxes the dust off your hair
and all the grime floats away, settling on your trailing footsteps.
A Rain to End All Droughts by Avra Margariti
It’s not the hottest summer of their red-nosed lives, but it is a close call. The Verona apartment complex becomes a desert oasis, wavering at the edges. The pavement burns and bubbles as cats mew irritably from their windowsill perches. Clotheslines criss-cross taut between balconies; the garments hanging from them–once colorful, patched flags–are now bleached bone.
“This isn’t a normal drought,” neighbors whisper to one another between balconies, licking the desiccated insides of their mouths.
Bijou by Darcy L. Wood
Biological reproduction was passé.
Elma, a wide-eyed brunette, and June, a knockout blonde, waited for their little package. Their surroundings were white and clinical, conveying a sense of purity. Beyond the glass was a sea of cots, each with a blue or pink pupa tucked inside. It was the age of human synthesis, but the imitation of cultural conventions — the gendered colours of the blankets and the hospital aesthetic — were designed to provide comfort for visitors.
Jail, Institutions, or Death by Shannon Frost Greenstein
“I miss my mother,” I admit aloud, nearly in tears.
I am in jail again.
In NA, they say you have three possible futures on heroin: Jails, institutions, or death. But I quit going to NA after ninety days, once my court-ordered ninety meetings were up. I quit after I was free to go, but before I learned how to avoid those three possibilities.
Idle Ink 