A bird crosses the sky the way a sad feeling
walks through this poem.

By Purbasha Roy
Essays    Reportage    Marginalia    Interviews    Poetry    Fiction    Videos    Everything   
Fiction

I’m actually really sick.

Fiction

“How did you call me? Where am I? And what year is it?”

Fiction

It was easier to care for the animals in the Thessaloniki Zoo when they were dead.

Fiction

The faceless child took shape in the darkness.

Fiction

She never forgave Maa for being the woman my father loved.

Fiction

In the silence, his forfeit festered.

Fiction

Do we need a man? I want to ask her, but her eyes are bright like poppies in summer heat.

Fiction

before she could contemplate doing something for herself with her time

Fiction

She didn’t mind amusing them—humor was part of her intent

Fiction

We resented her white knuckles, darting eyes.

Fiction

The little lamb doesn’t know how to contain his beating heart anymore.

Fiction

Monthly remittance from wife
₱136,110

Fiction

“You remind me of that woman I killed,” says Kenny, in one of his inspired lies.

Fiction

Men love anything that shines.

Fiction

Song Từ Thức vốn tính hay rượu, thích đàn, ham thơ, mến cảnh. |
His passions: music, poetry, and beautiful landscapes.

Fiction

All plugged up with wood, I feel like a bastardized Pinocchio.

Fiction

With a bottle full of chicken blood, she bathed the Lieutenant in red, from head to toe.

Fiction

twelve new years

Fiction

This made for juicy morsels of gossip for the goûter at four o’clock

Fiction

I wrack my brain for ways of describing this pain but nothing original comes to mind.

Fiction

I’m actually really sick.

Fiction

The little lamb doesn’t know how to contain his beating heart anymore.

Fiction

“How did you call me? Where am I? And what year is it?”

Fiction

Monthly remittance from wife
₱136,110

Fiction

It was easier to care for the animals in the Thessaloniki Zoo when they were dead.

Fiction

“You remind me of that woman I killed,” says Kenny, in one of his inspired lies.

Fiction

The faceless child took shape in the darkness.

Fiction

Men love anything that shines.

Fiction

She never forgave Maa for being the woman my father loved.

Fiction

Song Từ Thức vốn tính hay rượu, thích đàn, ham thơ, mến cảnh. |
His passions: music, poetry, and beautiful landscapes.

Fiction

In the silence, his forfeit festered.

Fiction

All plugged up with wood, I feel like a bastardized Pinocchio.

Fiction

Do we need a man? I want to ask her, but her eyes are bright like poppies in summer heat.

Fiction

With a bottle full of chicken blood, she bathed the Lieutenant in red, from head to toe.

Fiction

before she could contemplate doing something for herself with her time

Fiction

twelve new years

Fiction

She didn’t mind amusing them—humor was part of her intent

Fiction

This made for juicy morsels of gossip for the goûter at four o’clock

Fiction

We resented her white knuckles, darting eyes.

Fiction

I wrack my brain for ways of describing this pain but nothing original comes to mind.