By Paula Llorens Ortega Her veil was a shroud of mourning: a callous sobriety that bore too much weight but which the wisps of wind could carry. It hung loosely, swaying like a tendril of hazy mist.
By Roshan Tara Every morning, I sweep dust outside the tea stall. The school gate is right across. Kids laugh and run in, holding their mums’ and dads’ hands. They wear shiny shoes and smell like soap
By Roshan Tara I sat in my car, wanting to run. Or die. Work, family, my own skin crushed me. Then I looked up. An old man stood by the vegetable stall with a child. The vendor dumped scraps—spoiled,
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