I.

A long-term friend posted a deeply-misogynistic, harmful, hurtful status. 
With a flick of a finger, I unfriended.

by Ranya Rahim

II.

"So what is this machine? Or should I call it a gadget? " 
I said looking at a red box with wires hanging out from it and rejoining again. There was a small handle that could be pushed from one end to another. 
"It's called a memoirbox. The person who flicks the handle gets to see the flashbacks of the fondest memories that they hold dearest to their heart. Try it, it's on."
Flick
And the smell of my grandma's ator filled the room.
Flick
The day my english teacher told me she loved my story, I could become a good writer. She stands in front of me, smiling, fading.
Flick 
Our village, our house we will never return to, our old dog running towards me wagging her tail. I embrace her and the light particles that she was made of scatters around me,exploding. 
Flick
My grandfather serving me the khichuri he cooked for me a day before he was murdered, he smiles and tells me about the day he bunked school.
Flick 
My mother and I on a roller coaster in fantasy kingdom. Clutching my hand with her hair on the wind, she was the happiest that day.
Flick 
A watermelon date. A sunset and sunflowers. 
Flick 
A promise that was broken but letting go felt like relief.
Flick

Everything is dark again. I'm standing in a room, completely baffled with my friend. The tears falling down from my cheek are cold.I break down sobbing. It's a stormy tuesday.

by Samira Rahman

III.

Down the street with all the old houses, take a left turn to the alley along the mosque and keep walking until you reach the end. An old man runs a stationary store there. It smells of dust and the absence of human touch, no one has been there in weeks, but it seems to not run out of love— the place is brimming with it.
There is an old man who lives in a small house right behind the store. He plants flowers and looks like shy lilacs when anyone comes to him. You are the only visitor this month, he tells you, and he goes back to tending to the flowering pots around the store.
No one comes by here, and there isn't enough sunlight, but the flowers, in full bloom, seem to hum with him whenever he hums and when you ask what song he's singing he smiles and rubs the back of his neck. "I forgot the name so long ago, my wife used to sing it to me" he says, and then you know all there is to know about him.

You head inside and find an old sketchbook, filled with crayon and colored pencil drawings of flowers— all of which bloom and sing right outside the gates. You ask if it's for sale, and he hands it to you for free. At night, you flick through the pages and tell yourself you know what this life means because it's all here in these flowers.

by Raian Abedin