story
FICTION / The graveyard in the desert of void
The voices–the wails that had called me here–were emanating from these very graves.
Facing the nightmare of darkness
Lighting struck everywhere. Amidst the enchanted woods, the howls of wolves echoed with a joyous "Awoo!".
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.
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.
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 / 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".
Fable Factory / Storytellers
“It was where people crafted stories, my boy!”
Fable Factory / Chander Buri and an insomniac’s drivel
I’d never felt sadder at the prospect of not being a part of someone else’s story.
Death of a novelist
The infallible whiteness of the walls, the omnipresent smell of disinfectants, and the fields of artificial grass come back to me. Swimming before me are visions of smiling children and the legions of overworked childcare professionals constantly at their service. Every blink threatens to permanently relocate me to their world of ceaseless laughter.
The graveyard in the desert of void
The voices–the wails that had called me here–were emanating from these very graves.
Facing the nightmare of darkness
Lighting struck everywhere. Amidst the enchanted woods, the howls of wolves echoed with a joyous "Awoo!".
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.
Vinayeki
Oh that angelic call, yet I cannot respond. I cannot open my mouth in fear of the burning pain overpowering my senses.
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.
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".
Storytellers
“It was where people crafted stories, my boy!”
Chander Buri and an insomniac’s drivel
I’d never felt sadder at the prospect of not being a part of someone else’s story.
Death of a novelist
The infallible whiteness of the walls, the omnipresent smell of disinfectants, and the fields of artificial grass come back to me. Swimming before me are visions of smiling children and the legions of overworked childcare professionals constantly at their service. Every blink threatens to permanently relocate me to their world of ceaseless laughter.
Delirium
The wish itself was pretty mediocre and commonplace, a mundane fantasy to escape the mundane.
