Durga’s heartbeats had wings. She discovered it the day she turned eighteen, when she was returning home after a bath in the river. On the way back, she came across Ravi, the zamindar’s son. He met her eyes and she blushed, and that was when it...
They say that our kind never forgets. Here are the things we remember. One year ago…. I remember the thunder of applause and the gasps of surprise that surrounded us when you first taught me to hold the brush and put the paint to canvas...
Let’s face it—he’s old. His howl no longer carries through the forest. His attempts at banging on tree trunks with rocks only results in nagging injuries. He’s losing his hair, and it’s not a good look. He’s tried to...
We held each other every night. All of us cold. All of us hungry. Sometimes the bigger ones would eat and pick at the flesh of the little ones. When the sun shone, We were scared. When the moon rose, We were scared. We were always scared. It was...
there should be a word for this something holy – sitting in the desert you never wanted to visit, the milky way open before you like a well-thumbed book never deciphered. in a thousand nights you’ll never see one like this, and the beauty dislodges...
We had expected thunder and lightning. Clouds had rolled up from the ocean and towered over us, bruised and purple as the sun slipped past the rim. Our parents let us stay up that night lighting candles while they rolled hurricane tape across the...
Nev travels to the Forgetting Place because she must remember.The land is harsh in summer. Dry grass crackles under her boots. Sun fills the sky. Trees are sparse, making shade a memory. The scar does not ache anymore—two lines embedded in her left...
I. She watched as the small vehicle pulled out of the driveway, and a hand, caught between a child and an adult waved out the window— the same hand that would hold dusty textbooks and injured blackbirds because she knew her daughter would fall in...
The best quilt the Faheys had, Tommy shivered under, on the couch in the brownstone’s living room, where he took too long to die—of “brutal kidneys,” they said. I can still see him, clutching the bird-bedizened quilt to his hoarse, veiny throat with...
When we returned, our language was broken. Had been broken. The verb should be active; this is not a thing that just happened like dust gathering on a mantel like snow gathering on a mantle. They pulled our syllables apart like meat from bone; they...
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