short story
FICTION / The pond
She walked, entranced, into the water until it reached her chin, the wing of her little pink butterfly stuck out like a shark fin.
CREATIVE NONFICTION / Vinayeki
Oh that angelic call, yet I cannot respond. I cannot open my mouth in fear of the burning pain overpowering my senses.
The Screaming Shorts / Hunt
Talespeople presents The Screaming Shorts, partnered with Daily Star Books and Star Literature.
Fiction / The poem
Ratan Da walked away, waddling the way he came from, whispering, “Don’t let it go to waste, don’t let it go to waste.”
Fiction / The odyssey of a man
A story of an ordinary man and his very ordinary journey.
FICTION / Saints of gold
It was another early sunset on a rainy day in Dhaka. Alamin was walking with a polythene bag of groceries back to his small, rented apartment.
FICTION / A night at Hotel Kaalipara
An uncomfortable stillness emanated in the air around Rajpath road. I stood there with my suitcase in my hand, the hair on the back of my neck standing on edge. Glancing left then right, I crossed the road and entered the premises of Hotel Kaalipara.
Fiction / Miles away
Back at home, food used to narrate stories. Here, food does not travel far to the nooks and crannies of Velutha’s heart; it only reaches his stomach well enough to leave him looking healthy and strong.
FICTION / My London: An Immigrant Story
You Are a Rickshawallah
The pond
She walked, entranced, into the water until it reached her chin, the wing of her little pink butterfly stuck out like a shark fin.
Vinayeki
Oh that angelic call, yet I cannot respond. I cannot open my mouth in fear of the burning pain overpowering my senses.
Hunt
Talespeople presents The Screaming Shorts, partnered with Daily Star Books and Star Literature.
The poem
Ratan Da walked away, waddling the way he came from, whispering, “Don’t let it go to waste, don’t let it go to waste.”
The odyssey of a man
A story of an ordinary man and his very ordinary journey.
A night at Hotel Kaalipara
An uncomfortable stillness emanated in the air around Rajpath road. I stood there with my suitcase in my hand, the hair on the back of my neck standing on edge. Glancing left then right, I crossed the road and entered the premises of Hotel Kaalipara.
Saints of gold
It was another early sunset on a rainy day in Dhaka. Alamin was walking with a polythene bag of groceries back to his small, rented apartment.
Miles away
Back at home, food used to narrate stories. Here, food does not travel far to the nooks and crannies of Velutha’s heart; it only reaches his stomach well enough to leave him looking healthy and strong.
My London: An Immigrant Story
You Are a Rickshawallah
It’s a Love Story, baby just say yes
Sameer’s mother looked at her husband before quickly stepping in and attempting to defuse the situation. “You know it’s just a heritage thing. We’re not really Biharis".
