readers submission
POETRY / Saree
The yard in this noontime is buzzing with/ The white aroma of the guava flower
POETRY / Cyan is my name when I talk about you
I'm tired of living with this nagging thought that we'll cross paths someday, /You and I
POETRY / A Desire or death eats away at my corpse. You are basking in the sun
Do you want my hands/ Will they be enough to keep you warm
POETRY / Sleepy ghost flight
You have made ice out of my heart;/ we were once nothing–you brutalise me
FICTION / The smell
“Stop mocking me, Atif! I am telling you there is something here.”
POETRY / To the Newton of Gaza
Words were never my greatest strength/ But the arsonist's child will read them
FICTION / The last crime against humanity
The only way they chose to do this was probably written or imprinted in our genes–a wild frenzy of carnal expressions filled their faces.
POETRY / My Parents’ Window
Years later, when I would no longer live in my parents' room and grow to have my own,/ I would disregard all the hours I had spent by the window staring at beetles hiding.
FICTION / Interim
That was the first time in my life I’d smelled charred meat. I could tell it was different from the kind you’re supposed to eat, and my mother had to hold me as I threw up violently on the side of the street.
Saree
The yard in this noontime is buzzing with/ The white aroma of the guava flower
Cyan is my name when I talk about you
I'm tired of living with this nagging thought that we'll cross paths someday, /You and I
A Desire or death eats away at my corpse. You are basking in the sun
Do you want my hands/ Will they be enough to keep you warm
Sleepy ghost flight
You have made ice out of my heart;/ we were once nothing–you brutalise me
The smell
“Stop mocking me, Atif! I am telling you there is something here.”
To the Newton of Gaza
Words were never my greatest strength/ But the arsonist's child will read them
The last crime against humanity
The only way they chose to do this was probably written or imprinted in our genes–a wild frenzy of carnal expressions filled their faces.
My Parents’ Window
Years later, when I would no longer live in my parents' room and grow to have my own,/ I would disregard all the hours I had spent by the window staring at beetles hiding.
Interim
That was the first time in my life I’d smelled charred meat. I could tell it was different from the kind you’re supposed to eat, and my mother had to hold me as I threw up violently on the side of the street.
Love is a law
For once, can love look like a Sunday morning; filled with warmth, calmness and motionless?
