Advice: My Love Has Left Me, What Do I Do?

Today is the day that our very own advice columnist, Word Witch Rebecca Cook, offers up advice for your lovely little heart. This is our first installment. If you need advice, you can email her  (lunawordwitch @ gmail.com)

---

Dear Word Witch,

My love has left me. What must I do?
Please help,
Lonesome

Dear Lonesome,

You must buy many lime-green and purple umbrellas and go out into the rain. And walk. And slap through puddles. You must wear shiny red rubbery slick boots and you must listen to whichever wind calls to you. You must stand facing to the east in the evening and the west in the morning and you must cry out for your lover. But you must whisper. And you must wear white gloves with tiny buttons all the way to your elbows. And nothing but lemon water must pass your lips for forty days. And you must lie down and press your mouth against the throat of the sky and kiss her, kiss her, and your love will return to you.

The Books That Lied

BY NICOLA PRENTIS

As an adult, I read when I can steal a moment back from my day. A book can take months to finish. The bookmark has always fallen out and sometimes I read several pages before realising I'm covering old ground. Books are entertainment, inspiration, education, the best of them might make me cry but they rarely get my full attention now that attention is divided between so many more duties. But the books I read as a teenager, when I could spend an entire weekend curled around one on the sofa, shaped me. From treasured volumes to throw away instalments of teen serials, Judy Blume, LM Montgomery, Francine Pascal and the authors of countless historical romances taught me about myself, boys and sex. 

They lied.

From age 13, I was at the library every Saturday to take out the 6 books my card allowed. I often went with friends so we could maximise the loan number by swapping books between us, queueing up together to borrow the book the second the other girl returned it. At school we had to keep a reading log, a chore for most of the class but a badge of honour to those of us getting through two or three books a week. By age 15, my teen and historical romance reading list had expanded to include horror, Stephen King and Graham Masterton, and bonkbusters, Jackie Collins and Jilly Cooper, but none of those led to the damage the more age-appropriate books did. 

The walk to the library, like any walk into town, brought the honking of cars if I wore a skirt. They slowed down to allow craning necks, maybe a shouted comment, even though, at 13, I was probably with my mother. She still looked good, but we both knew that it was my blondish hair and shapely calves that drew their attention. I revelled in it. I was Jessica Wakefield of Sweet Valley High – less sun-kissed, less kissed, but I too wore denim miniskirts 'teamed with' high-heeled 'pumps.' When bad boy Bruce Patman tried to untie the top of the sexy bikini Jessica had picked out, she playfully swatted his hand away. Jessica was a sassy 16-year-old and boys did her bidding. When two boys pinned me to the floor at a friend's house-party and pulled up the sexy, short, tight dress I was wearing, I only escaped more than a groping because someone intervened. 

At 17, an older boy, Sean*, was finally mine after I'd longed for him throughout a year of glimpses around town. He looked just like teen heartthrob Jason Priestly of Beverly Hills 90210. I was the same age as Katherine in Forever when she started going out with Michael. Katherine decided to seal their love by having sex for the first time. Michael was patient and understanding and so was Ralph, his penis.  The Jason Priestly lookalike's penis was less patient. Every time we were alone together, I felt I had to go that bit further even though I'd stopped being comfortable (slightly post-Jessica's limit) when he had my top off. I eventually gave in because it seemed easier than saying no – again. Where Michael gave Katherine an orgasm just by moving slowly inside her, Sean's Ralph hurt too much to carry on. In fact, I realised years later when I managed to banish the memory enough to lose my virginity, it hadn't even been fully in. Afterwards, Katherine asked Michael to show her what to do for him. I just wanted to be somewhere else. Sean wanted to try again. I asked, "Do we have to?"

At university, in the first two weeks, I met Andy. He brought me a mug of tomato soup in bed when I had flu and then kissed me for the first time, even though I'd told him I was so bunged up I could hardly breathe. I kissed him back long enough, I hoped, to be polite and say thanks for the soup. While Anne of Green Gables rebuffed Gilbert Blythe over and over, he remained her admirer through school, college and beyond. Andy would leave my room so sexually frustrated, he said, that he was bouncing off the walls. We were together six weeks until he dumped me. I told myself, if only I had been able to have sex with him, we would have lasted. 

I went through university with a gaggle of Wonderbra-enhanced, short-skirted and flirtatious friends, the modern-dressed versions of the heroines in historical novels. Corseted, breasts pushed up, vying for the attention of a Lord or King, they held out long enough to gain titles and wealth and only then succumbed to his lusts.  We got in free to the Student Union 80s night on Tuesdays, Club Tropicana. The bouncers got a quick flash of hoisted up flesh and we saved £2.50. I think we even skipped the line. I once got so drunk that when a male friend took me home at the end of the night, I came to my senses on top of him and didn't know who he was. We never mentioned it afterwards.

My teenage literary heroines lived in worlds penned by women who were living a romanticised story version of what I now know their real lives could never have been. They could never have met many real Michaels or Gilberts, would have been lucky to meet no-one more sinister than the easily caged Bruce, and I doubt any Kings had showered gifts in return for their virtue. As a teenager, I knew the stories weren't real but I still believed in the fiction. I thought you could tease boys and keep them under your playful control. I thought the first time would be special and on my terms. I thought saying "no" would inspire respect at least, if not my own manor house. The girlish books I inhabited taught me nothing about how to deal with male libido as it really is: unromantic, unyielding, always on the lookout for a weak moment. 

I wish I could tell the teenagers of the last few years that they're never going to meet a chastely respectful Edward Cullen or a lovesick Peeta Mallark, grateful for whatever bone they throw him. I wish I could warn them: the fiction isn't only the vampires and the Games. As a writer, perhaps I should be writing books for girls that teach them how different, how dark, men can be when they're hot for it. Or, maybe it would take a man to write an honest book for teenage girls. But I still want to make believe. I lie for myself with my charming heroes and my in-charge heroines, despite knowing I risk the next generation of girls falling for the lies like I did.

*name changed

---

Nicola Prentis has written for Salon, xojane, AlterNet and Refinery 29 and has had short fiction published. 

13 Aesthetically Beautiful Literary Journals To Submit To & Read

BY LISA MARIE BASILE

Great writing will always be the most important element for any journal, but being pretty also doesn't hurt. The below publishers have taken time to build an aesthetic world for their contributors and readers, making the read a much more meaningful and whole experience. Whether minimalist or colorfully elaborate, these sites are gorgeously bespoke, thoughtful and filled with talent.

ANTHROPOID
From the publisher: "We love the fundamental business of being humanesque. Issues of identity, culture, belonging or lack, vulnerability, collectivism, the body, ritual–anthropological subjects from a generalist’s view, or, cultural moments from a messy, personal perspective. Tightly snuggled with visuals for each feature, we publish in collected issues and individual articles: ethnography & essays, experiential narratives, fiction & poetry, visuals, conceptual work, and genre-bending, from voices in the literary field, the humanities, and the sciences."

We recommend reading: Aura Girl, by Shannon Elizabeth Hardwick

PAPERBAG
From the publisher: "Paperbag is interested in presenting larger bodies of visual art, poetry, sound, experiment, and collaboration from established and emerging writers and artists throughout the world."

We recommend reading: Everything Will Be Taken Away, by Morgan Parker

ROGUE AGENT
From the publisher: "If our bodies are oppressed by an outside force, we are "written over." Rogue Agent wants to retaliate. Rogue Agent wants reconciliation. Rogue Agent wants to share your stories about the poem that is the body. "

We recommend reading: Blow Her Up, by Juliet Cook
 

TARPAULIN SKY
From the publisher: "As with Tarpaulin Sky’s books, the magazine focuses on cross-genre / trans-genre / hybrid forms as well as innovative poetry and prose. The journal is not allied with any one style or school or network of writers; rather, we try to avoid some of the defects associated with dipping too often into the same literary gene pool, and the diversity of our contributors is evidence of our eclectic interests."

We recommend reading: A Mouth, A Maw, by Lital Khaikan

PITH
From the publisher: "Pith is an online journal that collects experimental bits. We define “experimental” as something akin to a deep breath of uncertainty; an inclination to remain lost when certainty is calling. Visual/written hybrids, multi-genre writing, erasures….that sort of thing."

We recommend reading: Deus Ex Machina/Rachel, by Jennifer Pilch

BAT CITY REVIEW
From the publisher: "Founded in 2004, Bat City Review is an annual literary journal run by graduate students at the University of Texas at Austin, supported by the English Department and the James A. Michener Center for Writers. We read thousands of submissions each year and publish only the best in poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, and visual art. "

We recommend reading: Afterwards, the boys stand in the kitchen, by Francine J. Harris

AMPERSAND REVIEW
From the publisher: "We are looking for creative work, but only good creative work. Give us God, give us man, give us people & make us laugh. If you can make us cry, do so, if you want to lament loss of pets & family, do not. We enjoy pleasant nonsense & the deeply profound, the sharp little crack of things we don’t speak of in polite company. We want to feel, & we want to want, & we don’t want Cheap Trick jokes inserted here, unless they are awesome. We are strict & unbiased; aesthetic & craft are Queen; we want to read a good piece as much as our readers, so write one before submitting."

We recommend reading: Illness as Matador, by Michael Klein

THE BOILER JOURNAL
From the publisher: "The Boiler began in 2011 by a group of writers at Sarah Lawrence College. We publish poetry, fiction, and nonfiction on a quarterly basis. We like work that turns up the heat, whistles, and stands up to pressure."

We recommend reading: Poems by Sarah Ann Winn

PRICK OF THE SPINDLE
From the publisher: "We publish poetry, fiction (from flash to novella-length), drama, creative and academic nonfiction, articles, interviews, literary reviews, film, and visual art. Although we do not publish genre fiction, we are open to different forms. These may be more traditional, but infused with freshness and innovation; or experimental but not chaotic: if it is chaos in complete freedom of form you are aiming at, envelop it within some structure, even if only the structure of meaning. To submit, visit the submission guidelines page for the link to the submission manager."

We recommend reading: In Case of Infection, by Vicki Entreken

LANA TURNER
From the publisher: "The Lana Turner Blog is edited by David Lau. Currently seeking essays or reviews of recent books of poetry, albums, literary criticism, films, film theory, and accounts of contemporary political economy. Accepting proposals for various kinds of journalistic reports. Electronic submission should be sent in one file to dmlau@ucsc.edu. Submissions welcome all year."

We recommend reading: 3 poems from Trilce, by Cesar Vallejo

* Bonus points for publishing Vallejo

BERFROIS
From the publisher: "Berfrois is a literary-intellectual online magazine. It is edited by Russell Bennetts. The site is updated daily. Berfrois is published by Pendant Publishing in London, UK." 

We recommend reading: Doohickey: Vertigo's Elusive Homage, by B. Alexandra Szerlip

SPORKLET
From the publisher: "Sporklet (est’d. 2015) is published quasi-monthly, features poetry & fiction, and occasionally includes solicited art, music, film…"

We recommend reading: Seven poems, by Alyssa Morhardt-Goldstein

LA VAGUE
From the publisher: "La Vague publishes eight female poets and eight works by a female artist under a set theme twice a year in January and July. La Vague intends to show the close relationship between poetry and visual art and how certain themes resonate among the contributors."

We recommend reading: Start minting, Uninc, by Candance Wuelhe

Selections From Kim Vodicka's "Psychic Privates"

Editor's note: these poems originally appeared in the old/previous Luna Luna.

______________________________________________________

Kim Vodicka is the author of Aesthesia Balderdash (Trembling Pillow Press, 2012). A freelance writer and teacher by day, she moonlights as the spokesbitch of a degeneration. Her poems, art, and other projects have appeared in or are forthcoming from Shampoo, Spork, RealPoetik, Cloudheavy Zine, THEthe Poetry, Women Poets Wearing Sweatpants, Epiphany, Industrial Lunch, Moss Trill, Smoking Glue Gun, Paper Darts, The Volta, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, Makeout Creek, The Electric Gurlesque, Best American Experimental Writing (BAX) 2015, and many others. Her manuscript, Psychic Privates, was a 2015 Tarpaulin Sky Book Prize Finalist. Cruise more of her work at ih8kimvodicka.tumblr.com.

About the Woman by Josh Raab

BY JOSH RAAB

You are alone. You are not wearing any clothes. You touch the mole below your left breast. The left breast is a writer's worst cliché and your best characteristic. You think about how faceless you are. The way men have desecrated you. They've turned you into a poem so two dimensional that the wind cannot blow it. They have toiled to explain you. Your mole, moving from just below your ankle to the nape of your neck. The nape of the neck and the mole and the lips, all turned and twisted in flesh and in ink. The man's room, so small, his typewriter in need of oil, or ribbon, or whatever it is that typewriters need apart from your body.

Sometimes you feel the thoughts flowing through your belly button and up out your nose as you exhale. You feel someone writing about you, you feel yourself being wrong about yourself. You are mistaken about the placement of your own limbs. You are tired with yourself. You're tired of watching the color of your skin change from olive to porcelain. You're tired of that mole rubbing your skin dry and flaky as it is forced across your skin.

Sometimes, when you've got a new dress on, you wonder who paid for it, what did they want in return. What event were you meant to go to. They won’t let you look in the mirror unless it's to do make-up. They won’t let you breathe unless it's to sing. They won’t let you sing unless it's to praise or entertain. Sometimes you burst out in song and your parent's long table of friends laugh and clap and tell you you'll find a fine suitor with a voice like that. You feel each tendon picked through with rough fingers. Fingers rough from fields and soft from lotion.

You feel each strand of hair being plucked out one by one. You feel no pain, just the sharp prick of your hairs being taken away. Never in one direction, always in all directions. You can't tell if hair is being taken or added to your head, it all feels so wrong. And no one has ever placed the mole on your skull where it might look and feel best.

And your toes do not understand, your kneecap does not get it, your flank both flat and rolled are dumb and deaf, your teeth and their stains or their brilliance do not understand, your lips and your arms are stupid, your ears are commonplace and silent, listening. Your brain rages with electricity, but no one writes about it. Inside: your bravery, your valor, your anger, your quaint madness, your insecurity, your security, your condescension and your humility.

Your brain, that ugly, invisible blob. I would have nothing to say about it. No wisdom to impart about it, no poem to romanticize it, no song to serenade it, no conversation to coax it out. No, we've got nothing to say about your brain. The mole is in the middle of your cheek now, so delicate, soft, brown, and inspiring. 
 

---

Josh Raab been published or featured in The Orlando Sentinel, The LA Times, The Los Angeles Review of Books, The Louisville Review, The American Anthology of Poetry, and Thought Catalog. They worked short stints at Random House and The Overlook Press before leaving to Kickstart his experimental book publisher, theNewerYork. After some successes, the small press was sued by The New Yorker for trademark infringement and then became spiritually and financially bankrupted. They were born in Montreal, raised outside Orlando, went to high-school in Santa Barbara, and graduated from New York University with a degree in English and a minor in Philosophy. They live in Los Angeles with his fiancé. When they are not writing or playing piano, they work for The Industry Productions, a radical non-profit opera company. 

A Vagabond's Notes: Italy, Singapore, India & Malaysia

BY SUPRIYA KAUR DHALIWAL

McLeodganj, India

I unhook my bra. No, I am not being nasty, nor I am getting ready to go to bed by getting off that elastic strap that claims to keep my pride upright. I am rather gearing up to retreat my pen to a sojourn that will lead it to some other sojourn and so on. Sojourns are important. They encapsulate the remains of my life and bury them into their unrevealed corners.

---

Like a good child, I sit on the passenger seat, introspecting, with my daddy behind the wheel. We drive through a maze of winding roads, shunted by moody rafts of a well acquainted river flowing underneath the gravel and on its sides. The car is sliding on an aisle skirted on a two dimensional model by pine trees. As the altitude rises, the forest that skirts the road starts to get thicker and the vegetation appears spookier on the sight of the dense spread of sky kissing tall deodar trees. After a few minutes, we reach at a town they call “Mini Lhasa”. We park our car. Its tires screech like my nails do when I rub them against the coins in my pocket. We walk to our favourite café and order our coffees. Double shot Americano and Latte. I watch two men sitting against the Dhauladhars, facing each other, staring into the nothingness surrounding each other’s face. I wonder if all their unspoken words diffuse in their mouths into that white thing that arose from their coffee mugs, which they try to swallow with their coffees. The pristine haranguing of the monks clad in maroon robes seeps in. “Om Mani Padme Hum” and other mantras, the syntax of which I fail to decipher. Infinite tourists have flocked up this part of the Himalayas to watch the summer die. They play with the prayer wheels. They don’t know what else to do. I buy a plate of thaipo and start walking towards my favourite bookshop to buy an Italian dictionary (which I will need badly in the coming days) and a book of poems by Rilke. Those tourists laugh at me. They think what I am eating is disgusting. They don’t believe how steam can cook this layer of bleached wheat flour. They perhaps need tandoors (clay ovens) on the streets too. I make a rhyme out of their giggling. I try to fit my words into it. Because I know I was going to find a new rhyme now, I let it escape me. I rather create space for a new rattling.

Salerno, Italy

“Buongiorno!”
“Ciao!”
“una tazza di caffé”
“Cafone!”
“Grazie!”

I didn’t keep a record of the number of times the hands of my wristwatch have moved in circles. Their position is still set on the Gulf Time Zone. There’s no vacant seat in this café I have walked in. The agitated Kosovan owner who speaks perfect Italian joins her hands, says “Namaste” and escorts me to seat near the sink where her husband sits and plays cello almost every evening. She knows I am an Indian. She read that on the conference tag hanging on my neck. I hear the espresso mugs crinkling in the sink. That’s the sound of Italy. I eat a slice of pizza with French fries licking the cheese on its top. I drink three cups of espresso. Ten euros. I pay the bill. “Come again!” she says in her broken English. I smile and nod.

---

I am amazed to see how these Alfonso Gatto poems painted on the walls of Salerno have become a part of me in just a few days. “La brezza del mio cielo“, I hum this verse like a six-year old who has just crammed Gayatri Mantra. It is my last night here. Limoncello has driven me sloshy. I walk on the lungomare. The path is straight. My mind has become linear too after walking on this straight line for a while. I buy a mint flavoured gelato. I find a bench. I sit facing the Mediterranean. I recall a couple of conversations from the day.

“Why are you not eating something?”
“I can’t write with a full stomach.”

“What do you do in your free time?”
“I eat ice-cream.”

I look for gelato cups and cones in the water.

---

Amalfi, Italy

The hills and the sea were so in harmony with each other that I couldn't refrain myself from taking back such scenes which would later remind you of the poetic sillage in the air. Not just that, those scenes will later echo the silent guffaw of this majestic panorama in my senses, known to me as something called saudade.

---

Pompeii, Italy

Only if roses could grow in my throat, I'd have let you water them and let them grow. Their thorns would have pricked my fattest vein, and the hardest yet translucent sheath of skin that let the sunlight in. Bouts of blood would have splattered, one after another and I'd have used that debris as fodder for my quill, to fill these sleepless nights with a few bloody words.

Your memory would have set those bloody words on fire. Bloody words dipped in gin ablaze with the burning memory of you. Nothing would have finished. Only the life would have been sucked out of everything as Mount Vesuvius evacuated life out of this land I am standing on, where roses refused to grow, proving that a temporary bout of light is nothing more than a jinx.

---

I often wish that travelling in two different trains at the same time was as easy as listening to two different songs simultaneously. The hissing of the engine and the rattling of the wheels against the track wouldn't differ much from each other, but the destinations would be unconnected and I could magically switch my final terminus. At times, the hassled mingling of two tunes or journeys is better than the ruckus of ruthless rigmaroles and all that palaver.

Destinations stopped fascinating me long ago.

---

Dear List(s), you've no clue how much I adore you! Numbered chores scribbled on a piece of crumpled paper- this is how I make a list. The serial numbers indicated against the to-do and already done activities; and the paper on which they get sequenced randomly get acquainted to each other in no time. I feel as if a supple power gets enclosed between them and every time I start reading out the things that I had written, that power starts unveiling itself and bounces back on me. This way, even the most gruesome things to-do get blessed and I'm actually able to do them. I've been making a lot of lists lately. If I had to make a list to introduce the kind of lists that I make daily, I'd need a scroll as long as the distance between the earth and the sky.

*makes another list*
*let’s hop back to Asia*

---

Damansara, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

Only if the Petronas Twin Towers could reflect some sunlight all the way into the empty spaces of the Batu Caves, only then I’d have been able to see some Gods inside. As I enter this poetry pub, I feel heady in the presence of so many travellers and artists and also by that pint of Guinness I just had. Dim lights. Red and black walls. Poetry. Poets. Books. Music. Records. I think I could shoot my own Dead Poets Society here. We step out. Tonight’s show just got over. The air has a whiff of goodbyes now. I know I won’t come here again until I have written the script for my version of Dead Poets Society. A Chindian poet is standing next to me. He is smoking what would be his third cigarette. I don’t smoke. He thinks I do because I have a trace of longing on my face. He thinks this is a longing to smoke a cigarette. But this is a sensation of starving for squids, roasting on an array of coal, producing a different kind of smoke.

---

Singapore

If the asphalt of these geometrical roads had ears, then Singapore would have had roads with elongated ears like those of some fairy tale goblin, stretched long enough to turn these roads into symmetrical alleys. The skyscrapers appear to stoop over the grey of this gravel and seem to erase all the freckles that would've otherwise continued to exist if there were no tall buildings to suck them all. There seem to be no freckles here. They're nowhere in sight. Not on the roads, not on the sky, not on the posters or sign boards whose language I fail to decipher. Days and nights seem to have created their own vicious circle because days are days and nights are nights, there's no swapping taking place between them. The heat and the haze are in harmony. They sprint hand in hand and hinder the panorama of this geometry savvy land. The tone of mixed dialects being hummed in the streets has a language of its own, the Singaporean slang perhaps, which has a room for Sanskrit, Chinese, English, Hindi and what not. The heights of these tall skyscrapers are fighting a battle, constantly trying to withstand the strength of the roots of their opponents. This place carries just a tinge of the memory of its past because it's always ready to knit and re-knit its future while it has kept its present garnished with every possible delicacy; just like we have smeared our bodies with so many varieties of dust, yet we pretend to have gotten rid of the dirt which accumulated previously and always look forward to cling to a newer, fresher kind of dirt.

---

Shimla, India    

It perhaps gets agitating when you're walking in the street of an Indian small town, enjoying the rain, legs drenched from feet to knees in ice cold freshly poured water and suddenly you spot a shameless man peeing in a puddle in which you were about to jump, just for the sake of having some fun. I guess I'll think twice before jumping into a puddle now.

---

The scarce light of setting sun gets filtered through the deodars, smears my head, highlights its dome of hair which gets browner by setting light's weightless patting, but this light refuses to touch my toes, hidden inside the layered mesh of my walking shoes. Sometimes you just can't get the best of anything.

---

While walking from my rented niche to my college this morning, I passed by a mother carrying a child like a gunny sack on her back, his legs couched on the sides of her shoulder like a scarf draped in a modest free-flowing way. I didn't look at them. My eyes were drawn somewhere else but my ears were plunged into their direction, the only source of sound in the pollen-ridden locale. The child was a pre-schooler, I think. He sounded like he was licking a lollipop when he over-enthusiastically asked his mother, "Mumma, ye din hai ya raat hai?" ("Mumma, is this day or night?") This made me ask myself too, if I was just culling out the dark from an unknown source, letting it hinder my light, putting it into my day, only to make my day, just another night.

---

If the entire world lit diyas together someday just like Indians do on Deepavali in India then I'm sure the aerial view of earth would be something like the night view of Shimla. It's such a delight- to stand on the topmost point in the city and look at the entire territory! It's as if these Lego houses have borrowed that incandescent luminous feature of the fireflies. I can make the outline of an entirely new map in this panorama of which this majestic Christ Church is the headquarter. You just can't miss this sight. It's even more alluring than the aerial view of Rome!

---

I am not a nyctophilic critter. I love lights. I love the blinding sun and the blazing fire. I even prefer to sleep with my lights on. But there are days when I tend to like the darkness more, not because the sun forgot to light the facets of my inner being or someone mushed my bruises with a dagger. Perhaps, I tend to like the darkness more because sometimes even the stars are enough to lighten my being. Sometimes, even a single glance of the moon peeping through the deodars can make me smile through my eyes. Sometimes, even a long walk in the night on a Shimla street can feed that dreamy realm of my mind.

"Pat! Pat! Pat!" My shoes rub the gravel underneath as I try to synchronize the sprinting thoughts that stab me with my turtle-like steps. My head turns right and I wonder how many dozens make infinite? Is there a word to name that unit? There should be, because that word would be synonymous to the amount of houses that my vision spots. Most of these houses keep their lights turned on throughout the night. Are they guiding that church which has occupied the tallest position? Are they reminiscent of that power or shakti which Lord Hanuman releases from his vault every night by standing upright in front of them? A tikki-wala is shallow frying a round potato galette in hot and whirling oil. Its aroma refuses to diffuse in the air. It rather knocks my nostrils and shoos away the cold that had settled there. "Choon! Choon!" The monkeys haven't gone home yet.

They have settled themselves on the branches which are adjacent to the road and are ready to gobble anything that the person walking by is unwilling to offer. I reach at a point where three roads diverge. The cars rush heavily from one of them. I know my destination for the day and hence I have to walk on it. A toddler is wobbling in front of me. His arms are waving wildly and his feet, refusing to nudge the ground. His small finger is locked carefully in the fist of an elder. The child's palm, thumb and other four fingers still hang unprotected. I wonder why his guardian has refrained from guiding them. A car coming from the front probably makes the two of them crinkle their eyes with the high intensity of beaming headlights. But wait! This creates a gradient of dark and light and a scintillating silhouette gets designed in front of me as if an artist has added a monochrome and cross process effect and has pasted that toddler and his guardian on the canvas of my eyes. I wonder if the person walking behind me gets allured by my silhouette. He will surely get allured only if he is capable enough of witnessing magic that vanishes even before you blink your eye. After all, not everyone attempts to see a rainbow in the night!

"Pat! Pat! Pat!" My shoes long to walk more but a dog barks from a terrace only to tell me that I am home. I wish this walk was longer. If this walk would have been longer then my dear reader, this small piece of mid-night scribbling would too, have been longer.

---

Supriya Kaur Dhaliwal is twenty, and currently pursuing her Bachelor of Arts in English Literature from St. Bede's College, Shimla. Born and brought up in the tea capital of Northern India- Palampur, she published her debut poetry anthology "The Myriad" when she was only sixteen years old. Her recent book poems, "Musings of Miss Yellow" was published by Authorspress Publications, New Delhi. She has spent maximum of life so far in the lap of snow clad mountains and green arenas and thus believes that it's the nature, the countryside that provides her the fodder for her pen and poems. Just like her thoughts, her poems have no genre. Movement is her muse and she has not stayed in a city for more than two months since she was sixteen. She loves reading and writing prose that reads like poetry. She's tired of people asking her what she wants to be when she grows up. She doesn't know what growing up means to them. She just knows she wants to spend her life writing and being a wayfarer.