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Sixty-eight

Flash·June 11, 2024

Sixty-eight written by: Flash I sit and sip and ponder Just what will I do today Another...

Poetry English

·1 min read

Turtle Season

Clive Grewcock·April 10, 2024

Turtle Season written by: Clive Grewcock I see turtle season has begun. The elderly amphibians winding down...

Poetry English

·1 min read

Give Me Your Best Shot

Roy Eisenstein·February 20, 2024

Give Me Your Best Shot written by: Roy Eisenstein @eyezenmedia Stick and knuckle kisses raised me hard...

Poetry English

·2 mins read

Halloween

Liam Flanagan·October 21, 2023

Halloween written by: Liam Flanagan @LFlanaga The night of the living dead Where souls wander between this...

English Poetry Halloween

·1 min read

Clues

Dusk Butterfly·October 5, 2023

Clues written by: Dusk Butterfly the whittled line that is the ocean meeting the sky hypnotizes. the...

English Poetry

·1 min read

Suman Pokhrel is a Nepali poet, lyricist, playwright, translator, and artist. He debuted in 1999 with a poetry collection and has since published works, including translations of Shakespeare and global poets. His poems are translated into many languages and taught across South Asia. A two-time SAARC Literary Awardee, he also received Asia’s Inspiring Poet Award and was named Author of the Month by Spillwords in June 2023. Beyond literature, he works as a freelance consultant in socio-economic research, rural development, entrepreneurial development and creative writing. He began his career in Nepal’s civil service and later worked with international NGOs. He holds degrees in Science, Law, Business Administration, and Economics.

Condoms by Seán Óg Ó Murchú

They all laughed at me. All the dinner ladies. It started with your one, I’m after forgetting her name now… Smelly Nelly’s ma. A wet little tear trickled toward her tattooed cheekbone. She was roaring red. Her harsh, wheezing laughter sounded like a black taxi tackling the Whiterock Road, her throat destroyed from all the fegs she used to be hoofing into her. She called over the other dinner ladies then, an army of them. Or maybe it was the curiosity of her horrid laughing that brought them over… I can’t remember.
“Tell the girls what you’re only after asking me there ni wee mawn.”
I looked between herself and the girls. Jesus Christ, I said in my own mind, Mental Mick is after stealing all my crayons that I’d been hoarding for myself there before the break...

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wander

Sixty-eight

Give Me Your Best Shot

Halloween

Clues

When The Jehovahs Knock

Taps on The Ceiling

This Man’s War

Song

Love

The Art of Peeling an Egg

To Go Back

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