I. 

Teachers never tire or retire, said a younger colleague to me just days before I retired after 40 years of teaching. He seemed pleased with the profundity of his aphorism but I wasn't too impressed. I had heard variations of the same tire/re-tire reiteration many before but I smiled back and nodded agreement. Now almost a decade after retirement I confess I tire easily. There are days when my COPD is so bad that I can barely walk two steps without getting tired. This is karma, the price you pay for years of smoking. But there are good days as well. Today for instance, I walked a little more than 7000 (my daily target) steps and felt I could walk a few hundred more with little effort. That is no mean achievement for a septuagenarian. And I solved the rubik's cube everyday for the last 45 days and never once got tired or bored.

by Shawkat Hussain

II. 

spilt coffee on my white shirt

might be karma

for leaving lipstick stains on every cup 

after cup after cup

i devour on the side of the road;

as you tirelessly call my name 

from across the border of our city.

i never felt so pretty–

never dared to bat an eye;

lash out on the men talking behind,

my back is tired

of carrying the weight of the observable universe;

observed only when i pull your gaze.

a lavender haze–

a tender kiss amiss

a mystery to us, a mystery to me

your mighty hands can't hold my frame;

so i explode into a thousand moths 

and come back to your fire–

only to leave the second i see fireworks.

i hope i don't tire you

of our endless tug of war.

your yearning keeps me calm;

and karma? i hope she understands

that i'm just a girl, just like her

and cosmic justice is nothing but a bluff.

by Tonima Zaman Zeba 

III. 

I carefully read the instructions from the Ouija board, scanning over the peculiar steps.

Reptile eggs? Check.

Fish bone? Done.

Even after all this, the ouija board didn't seem to work its magic. I read the rules again and repeated the process.

"Look in the fire and then chant his name."

"ANDREW"

Everything goes quiet, and the fire flickers.

"There is something wrong."

"Oh, can we try one more time?"

"I'll fix it and we can try again, tomorrow."

She sighed in despair. At this point, I am tired of these horror games.

"Trust me, you'll meet him tomorrow. Meanwhile, here's some apple cider to cheer you up."

I watch my new friend gulp down the entire drink at once. This was almost a drink of despair and  disappointment. I met her two months ago, and she lived right beside our new home.  

"Bro, it's high time you get over him. He's literally dead."

"So am I," she reminds me.

by Maisha Islam