There was once a boy who looked towards, The distant, frozen skies,

Grey uniform, Speaking gibberish.

Navid shivered. Drops of cold sweat trickled down his forehead. The marble bench felt colder than death. He agitatedly tapped his fingers on his knees. “How long have I been sitting here?” he wondered. He glanced at the bruise on his wrist where his watch used to be.

It had been more than a few weeks; Mana Walker had been receiving phone calls from an unknown user. Although a little annoyed, he was highly curious to know who his caller was. Interestingly, the person used to call with unmistakable precision, exactly at 2 am and never talked.

On your last breath you feel, His dark cloak fluttering with the wind. A cold whisper with satire, Grim Reaper says, “Finally we meet.”

My name's Julian Thomas. Strange name for a man, I always thought. Although, these are stranger circumstances under which I'm telling you this story. My hat is dripping wet and I can't even carry the weight of my drenched clothes any more. The finger yearns to make the final push. Yet still, I need to get this off my chest.

Mira delighted herself with dadu's poetry as she sat by the window of their hut. She glanced beyond the gold dusted harvest, reaching her hand out to the cotton candy clouds. “What are you doing?” Poorna giggled as she scrutinised her dearest friend's dazed face.

The wind will never whisper some stories, The stones will rather quietly bury them,

Mokbul always prided himself to be a level headed person, a little more intelligent than the rest of his fellow fishermen, especially those of his own crew. When the drought had cursed the river, he was the one to suggest taking up alternative ventures, like construction work for the land owners or the share business.

It was the 19th of May when we moved into this house. The previous owners had moved out because their second child, Anthony, was missing. I had a very bad feeling about moving in to this house at first, but when I told my parents they told me it was all about the way I was taking things.

The stars keep me up at night, It's me and my broken compass, sometimes.

“Please help him, mama,” I hear in Chottu's voice. I open my eyes even though it seems to take everything in me to do so. Chottu is begging with his hands joined in front of a stranger.

All my life they made me believe, I'll sit idle, watching them leave, All my life they've told, I'll get ashes, they'll get gold.

I, Shariful Siddique Shaheb, have witnessed rains like no other man. For over four months, I have stared at the sky while it sprayed all over my face.

It was an ordinary summer afternoon. It was one of those days in the middle of July when the sun's scorching heat burnt so brightly, everyone questioned how poet's ever came up with romantic poems about the season.

A mysterious set of stories, A part of something meaninglessly true,

A shameless, raw feeling, Looking over my shoulder, for a glimpse back.

Hot tears crept down my cheeks as I looked around with eyes red and swollen. The room seemed to be closing in on me. It was dark, almost spooky. Near the ceiling, a thin ray of sunlight was streaming in through a small slit that barely passed for a window.

She rolls the dice and it's a seven, In a game of chess, like an ace of spade. She counts all the daggers you throw at her, And repays them with a dazzling smile and fresh blood.

In a small building, underneath the bright red sky, a woman stood looking out the window. She wore a very tired expression on her face. Someone who had seen so much of the world at its worst times and felt like she had enough of it. But there was still one thing that acted as an anchor for her between this world and insanity.