Author
(or the invisible link between a game of Solitaire and Freytag’s pyramid...) Exposition: You start your day with a game of Spider Solitaire, betting on a wish — win, and it comes true. There’s always something to wish for, but mostly you wish for a story you’ve sent out to get long listed, even make… Continue reading Winning happens!
If his gaze were fingers, I would feel them dancing on my body every time he said I was born to Tango. But I’d rather his gaze were rain. Cool, gentle rain on my forehead, teardrops into the lake of my eyes, sweet melon juice on my parched lips, a tongue-lick of breeze above my… Continue reading Tanguera
You’ve crossed the globe to be here, yet you can’t take the last few steps. Stone fences speckled with age, salute your long shadow. The smell — musty slate roofs, moist dirt — stretches an arm and waits for you to take it. You remain motionless. Houses outlive us, you think, the paved streets too, those… Continue reading A two-beat waltz
Chen and Milo were inseparable. They slept in the same bed, had breakfast together, and watched videos when Mother allowed. Milo wasn’t good at sitting or rolling over. His best trick was lying on top of the piano for hours — all morning, the afternoon and even at night — and listening while Chen practised.… Continue reading Fantasie Impromptu
A poem shared between my languages. Над два различни свята хвърлям сянка разделена:покълнах във единият, но в него не живея.във другият живея, но не му принадлежа. Above two different worlds, I cast divided shadow:the one I first took root in, but where I live no longer,the other — where I live, but where I don’t… Continue reading Between two worlds: Между два свята
“We show the world before we’re ready for their reaction, and like a negative prematurely exposed to the light, our ideas and confidence can fade away in front of our eyes.And then the writer gives up or gets blocked and doesn’t know why.The biggest mistake writers make is not knowing which stage of the writing… Continue reading Flight lessons at Muriwai
Inspired by the music of Be Water My Friend, Rob Luft Transistor-thin sounds skittle through my brain. Jingly, looping — like the last message from a satellite rolling through the void, pulsing from a gap between realities where I’m alone with the ghosts of dead friendships. Something shifts. A shiver, a ripple through dimensions. Music… Continue reading The Lighthouse
The car stops just as I think I’ll never catch a ride. Take me as far as you can, I say, and sit next to a girl in a child seat. Starting work tomorrow, I lie, school’s over. Not a word about the handful of money in my backpack or what it is for. Behind… Continue reading In my mother’s shoes
She’s sitting alone at the second to last row of empty chairs in the dim foyer where the poetry readings are. I wonder where I’ve seen her — is she a doctor, a nurse, one of James’s therapists? Her sneakers, like the white paws of a black cat, are the single diversion from her black… Continue reading The Bard’s Wife
She sits at the bus station, still as the moment between two breaths. What do you do with yourself the morning after that single night, she thinks. What do you feel — hope, hate, regret? A crumb of leftover love? Her hands are fragile and spent. He said they were beautiful, her hands. He kissed… Continue reading a.m. story
Rostislava Pankova-Karadjova 