“Ideology as a Way of Life” Women like me, yes have been added over the years to overshadow what preceded us that is mostly not in line with our agenda. The accepted wording is not what will satisfy our desires – Desires? Ours? Well then, I write in the female first person plural so as not to sound as one who sins with pretension as an individual woman, however I do not have many female friends for this journey and those who have already passed through a station or two according to the fixed rules of society A woman like me tries to stay free from society and at the same time to be in it with boycotts in double-digit ages until the arrival of the adolescence age and beyond I bear this bitter insult…
“Virtual Math,” A Short Story by David Rogers
I meditated on this lost and perhaps mythical labyrinth . . . on the secret summit of some mountain . . . I imagined it infinite, . . . a sinuous, ever-growing maze which would take in both past and future and would somehow involve the stars. —Jorge Luis Borges, “The Garden of Forking Paths” “I did it,” Professor Radiant announced. “I’ve solved the problem of faster-than-light travel.” Radiant was the most senior member of La Mancha University’s Department of Mathematics, but no one listened to him. He was well known for his quixotic quests to solve problems like the Riemann hypothesis or to show Pi did, in fact, have a last digit. Of course these efforts never ended well. Thus, not until Professor Radiant made his claim about the secret of FTL travel…
“Depth Perception,” A Short Story by David Patten
Depth Perception
“Lend Your Ears,” Poetry by Tapeshwar Prasad
Lend your ears I have other ways To enamour your heart Hark! My calligraphy Lending your ears On the wings of a butterfly – One flower to the next ** Colour of my grief I puff up the earth A little more, from Under my grave To see you blooming Colour of my grief – The blood of my poppies Rooting the nerves, inside ** Scarecrow of the night You have been So easy upon me Like a butterfly of my dreams Yet, the reality; outside was maintaining an eerie silence in this turbulent night I settled down With an imagery of the fore Cozy in my sleep Yet the evil spirit of the night Was hell bent over frightening me, with its Scarecrow imagery ** Trollybag I was all seeing – You, that were…
“Pain of the Poet,” Assamese Poetry by Guna Moran
PAIN OF THE POET Original: Assamese: Guna Moran Translation: Bibekananda Choudhury Creator means poet So many innumerable poems did my mother write In the fresh leaf of the heart From the date she conceived me in her womb Who has bothered about the silent poet? I don’t know how much help I could be Having now understood the value of labour of the creator At least I could discover my sangfroid brother As I write My mother lovingly serves a cup of tea And says, looking at me From the corner of her eyes “Poem is one only Only writer is different But the pain of all the poets are All the same” The sun is burning to light others— Fuel cannot give light to others Without burning itself Don’t write much My darling I…