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The castles of grief of those left behind, made light of and disguised.
… it is a story Mummy likes to tell again and again, and I think she will continue to tell it till time itself comes to an end.
Go out with your friends. Drink. Play billiards. Smoke a joint. Smoke many joints. In your newfound exuberance try ecstasy, acid, shrooms, whatever you can. What’s the harm?
A study of the howling, brazen dogs of Kerala, that walk on walls like stalking gargoyles, eyes reddened by dust, yellow-cornered, ridden with disease.
February is when jacarandas bloom in Bangalore, carpeting the edges of streets purple like an extravagance of confetti.
They didn’t let me see the body. My father dragged the crackling blue plastic through early November snow. My stomach knotted.
Who here amongst us is as we speak dying of a hair through the throat? I ask you, come forward with your stories.
The heady fermented smell of guava filled the room as Amalia’s mother turned off the blender, tasted the peachy-pink mixture, and added more sugar.
We will give the name chronotope (literally ‘time space’) to the intrinsic connectedness of temporal and spatial relationships that are artistically expressed in literature.
The orbital Care Home careens towards that great burning ball of hot that two-thirds of respondents associate with the words ‘holiday’ and ‘relax’.
“I’m no more your mother Than the cloud that distils a mirror to reflect its own slow Effacement at the wind’s hand. —Sylvia Plath, “Morning Song”
Light reflects and refracts along the mirrorball, strawberry laserbeams spilling into a smoke-machine sea, and as one fleshbug crests the next wave, our eyes fix….
The cafe owner handed over a slip of paper with all the names of the good spots, just like he promised me.
Two dreams, an ancestral voice, a swan dive that leaves the wind in its wake.
Feeling her press her body up against mine is better than lying on the kitchen floor alone.