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Saturday, July 7, 2012

CLRI July 2012

Contemporary Literary Review India July 2012
Wish to Live: A beggar on a street in Pune (India) writing her feelings on a paper to kill silence in her life. Your life is precious. Never give up, always try to live.
Editorial July 2012
Pros & Cons of Digital Publishing by Khurshid Alam
As there are pros & cons of everything so are with digital publishing.
Discuss this topic on Kindle Community with thousands of members.
Three Poems by Akhil Katyal
For the First Few Days
Khusro and Nizam
Two Poems by Nithya Raghavan
American-Indian Daughter-In-Law
Hollow & Empty
I Do Not Have AIDS by Bestin Samuel
Even though the odds are heavily stacked against me, I am confident.
I do not have AIDS.
Haiku by Sanchita Choudhury
Winged time brings me here
Withered time emancipates
The Fifth by Dr (Ms) Prem Kumari Srivastava
Twelve years ago,
she entered the staff room.
Get Me Before It Ends by Krishna Keerthi
As the world comes to an end,
I can't find me any friend,
Three Poems by Gopal Lahiri
Sharing Thoughts
Pencil Sketch
Three Short Stories by Ron Koppelberger
Flourishes of Half Dollar Renown
A Breed of Rain
A Blessed Blossom
Pete’s Records by Valery V. Petrovskiy
“Now, let his best friend have the floor”, said a master of ceremonies turning to me.
Mukhagini by Ashok Patwari
Parvati had another glimpse of setting sun dipping in to the horizon.
Mistry's Bombay: Harmony in Disparity by Ezzeldin Elmadda
This article discusses Rohinton Mistry's portrayal of the city of Bombay as a unique locale in India...
Arts by Lord Frederic Leighton
Flaming June by L F Bennett
Book Reviews
Review on Lost In Seattle by Ghanshyam Iyyengar
Bruce Louis Dodson, in his debut novel Lost in Seattle, tracks the economic slowdown...
Review on Reading the Qu’ran by Meenakshi Chawla
We live in an unsettled and unsettling world.
CLRI in Digital Formats CLRI is released in more than 10 digital formats and is available with almost all eStores worldwide to suit readers from all walks of life.

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CLRI July 2012

Featured Author

Lost in Seattle 



Bruce L Dodson

                                Buy Lost in Seattle from                       

Lost in Seattle - A novel that traces social turmoil that started with economic recession in America in  2008 and impacted the society for ever.
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CLRI Quiz Vision 2012-2013

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Opening date: 1- 08- 2012                               Results & Solutions on: 1 – 09 --2012
Closing date:  31-08- 2012
(Up to 6 p.m. I.S.T)

Clue # 1:  There is a JOY/SADNESS in sweet sound That quickens tears.
Clue # 2:  Psychologically, it is felt that a child is innately ACTIVE/SENSITIVE.
Clue # 3:  In central Tibet, the salutation consists in sticking out the tongue, pulling the
                 LEFT/RIGHT ear and rubbing the left hip, making a slight bow at the same time.

Clue # 4:  To be defenseless, in the face of the armed might of so many world powers, is        virtually an invitation to AGGRESSION/ANNIHILATION.
Clue # 5:  One of the commonest human failings in a our present civilization is ANGER/GREED.

Clue # 6:  We fear and desire because we do not know what we ARE/HAVE.

Clue # 7:  There is in trouble and in sorrow no SOLUTION/SALVE and no balm like that of
                 personal affection and personal sympathy.

Clue # 8 : All philosophy….to a truly sanctified mind….is but…..matter for
                 RELIGION/DIVINITY to work upon.

Clue # 9 : The word “Witch” is not a bad word; it simply means a WRONGED/WISE woman.
Clue #10: No poetry was ever so human than Chaucer’s; none ever came more genially and
                 frankly home to its READERS/CRITIQUES.

Clue #11: Insert a comma after each slightest break of connection in the grammatical
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                 in TENSE/SENSE.

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Pros & Cons of Digital Publishing by Khurshid Alam

Pros & Cons of Digital Publishing by Khurshid Alam
As there are pros & cons of everything so are with digital publishing. However, digital publishing enjoys more good than reservations. At its advent the print publishing took it too lightly and has the grudge against it. But digital publishing expanded beyond prediction and the print publishing is now feeling in the line on competition with e-publishing.


Easy to Publish
Digital publishing is basically a self-publishing interface where you write a book, get it edited and proofread, convert it into PDF and upload to dozens of digital publishing houses such as Amazon, Smashwords and others. E-publishing is coupled with great easy of publishing and you can go viral in no time all over the world.

Wider Marketability
The cost on digital publishing is highly affordable which makes the writers to pick it and attracts the customers as well. Its marketing area is without any boundaries. The writers have higher possibilities of selling their books to the readers from around the world. It is very easy to buy a book online and own a book of your choice on an electronic device.

No Snarky Rejection
Once you finish a book, your next goal is to get it published. In the run to get your book published you submit to the publishers but you dry out when you get rejections from the publishers. Rejections do not simply mean your story lacks or is not fit to publish but more than that. In many cases publishers look for more than an idea, they look for whether the proposed books have the masala to sell.

Digital publishing has come to rescue a large number of those aspiring writers who have the idea but do not meet the substance of print publishing industry.  Digital publishing has the power to cherish your creative dream beyond such fetters. If you want to have your story in a certain way, preserve it so. If you are not looking for money, no issues you self-publish and make your books available for free. The writers have no snarky rejection thrown on their face as does the print publishing.


There are some disadvantages which though are not of digital publishing but in digital publishing.

Traditional publishers generally have their own in-house editorial team. Howsoever your books are well written, edited and proofread, they are edited thoroughly. Traditional publishers do not leave the write-up to the writers but they work very hard on the manuscript. Their goal is many fold. They convert the manuscripts to the high standard of publishing style. They do good research on the subject and themes and suggest the writers to make suitable changes, if any.  Traditional publishers do the marketing themselves. They do so to earn money from the writers, rather than elixir in the literary art.

On the other hand self-publishing suffers from bad reputation of low quality on all fronts. For self-publishing there is no guide to suggest on theme and subjects,  no compliance to writing styles, no research whether the story is original or a mere repeat of other stories etc etc. All these put the writers and their quality in the doc. For this it is very important that the writers must get their books edited and proofread by some good editors, must follow compliance in writing, get the manuscript reviewed by some writers.

Once again I would say digital publishing is coupled with more positive sides.

Forthcoming Topics
Book Formats for Digital Publishing
India’s Stand in Digital Publishing

Three Poems by Akhil Katyal

Three Poems by Akhil Katyal

For the First Few Days

since I know you'll be coming down the road;
since I've put away dinner 'til that time;
since there is grass under ground, waiting to grow.
—Kyla Pasha
For the first few days, everything
here had a thin film over it, as if I
saw them from the eyes of years
before, that film is almost shed now
and there is no distance any more
between me and this gamble that
is now laid down, between me and
the places here where I am now
hesitantly putting this hope – let me
cope, after all, how tough can it be,
there was love and now the next thing
will be that which comes after it,
a kind of (I find) modesty, an aftertaste,
a willingness but without the haste
and a new sort of ability to know
before it comes, that trough and
that crest, to know when it is time
to go, and to know the time to rest.

Khusro and Nizam
The real causes of the loss of the Mughal Empire were some mistakes committed by the elders of that king [Bahadur Shah], and the biggest of them all was that they had separated lover and beloved from each other, by burying Muhammad Shah between the graves of Hazrat Mahboob Elahi and Hazrat Amir Khusro.
—Ahmed Ali, Twilight in Delhi

They parted them in their graves,
for a Mughal to be buried in between.
Khusro and Nizam count the days,

how long before this city's razed?
Part not the lovers, the curse had been,
they parted them in their graves.

Now look from the ridge, all Delhi's ablaze,
'They exiled the king, what do you mean?'
Khusro and Nizam count the days,

till Bahadur Shah looks for a little place
to be buried in, far from home, unseen,
they parted them in their graves.

Setting up the marquee, a worker says,
'They're white as milk, the new king an' queen,'
Khusro and Nizam count the days,

till the time another Delhi pays
its ransom to the lovers that had been,
they parted them in their graves.
Khusro and Nizam count the days.

You push the bag under your seat,
sidle back, make space for more,
'This is the Piccadilly line service
to Heathrow terminal 4,' you see
attics pass by and vacant lots of
the city you are leaving make their
graffiti as if to say - a year later,
it is only yesterday, a year later,
it is only yesterday. And you think,
if you were given one more question
for her, you would ask, how long does
this year of separation last, how long
does it take for a shadow to fall
between what we love an' what we
fear; you are near, the tube halts, you
take a long step out so as not to miss
the ground beneath your feet, how bad
a joke departure is, to leave everyone
you meet. You board your plane, take
your seat again, an' by way of love, the
city tilts when you see it last, it begins to
melt as the plane turns around, you sigh,
for love, a bit like the seat-belt you tie,
guards you but always holds you down.

Author’s Bio: Akhil Katyal is a writer based in Delhi. He teaches literature at Delhi University and his poetry has been published in several international journals and anthologies.

Two Poems by Nithya Raghavan

Two Poems by Nithya Raghavan

American-Indian Daughter-In-Law
She stands before you—
your daughter-in-law,
white-skinned, sunset
pink touch of hibiscus

on the American snowfall.
A tap’s air-water pressure
congests your chest in its
prejudice and beliefs

coil around your belly;
snake hisses acid bubbles.
She is transformed, has
waxed away her

customs, falling from her
bit by bit along
with the curved black
hair on her smooth legs.

She stands before you
in the nine-yard Saree
of your ancestor’s traditions.
You’re shocked. The

society has footballed
you in its opinions, stuffed
trash into your lotus pink
tongue, renowned for

its sweet speech. A door
creeks open. She’ll be
one of the discarded
antiquities in your attic,

unheard, unspoken of…

Hollow & Empty
Your words fragment
into letters and
syllables slip and fall
into this phonetic

space, never raise their
heads at me except
in those feeble threads
of memories. I,

the sarangi instrument
standing before you
am space, void.
Blow through those

organs, sensations fall
into slumber, a
polar bear’s hibernation
nothing more than an

echo in a cave or
a wind’s commotion in
a tree trunk. I stand
before you to let those

scars fabricate into
trails of shooting stars in
the night sky. I am
what I am—Existence,

nothing more than
~hollow & empty~

Author’s Bio: Nithya Raghavan has finished her BBA at Heriot-Watt University, Dubai. Her poems can be found on, (Ghost of Words), Muse India, Kritya, Asia Writes, Qarrtsiluni and Nether magazine. She has also published articles for Nxg, The Hindu, Time Out, Abu Dhabi, letters to the editor in Khaleej Times and Gulf News and a column in Khaleej Times.

I Do Not Have AIDS by Bestin Samuel

I Do Not Have AIDS by Bestin Samuel

Even though the odds are heavily stacked against me, I am confident.
I do not have AIDS.

Education taught me that morality is, fortunately, relative.
That I need not curb my desire to mate when I felt like.
That when I do curb, I am conforming.
Which, obviously, is for the uneducated.

The Philosophers among my friends told me that being bisexual is amazing.
As I get the best of both worlds. I was happy:
I could crack a thousand gay anecdotes and jokes, and finally walk away with my girlfriend.
And let my philosophically-challenged friends heave a sigh of relief.

When I lost myself in the vortex of carnal pleasure once, twice, thrice
With men, women and some who were children at their hearts.
I never felt a single pang of guilt. I was happy. Yes, I was. Wasn’t I?
Yes, I was.
Of course.

I’m sure this article in the magazine on my lap holds no sway over my life.
Only the brothel-visiting sex-crazy perverts get AIDS. Poor them.
I do not have AIDS.

My mind is playing too many games with me these days.

Author’s Bio: Bestin Samuel is a postgraduate in English from the University of Hyderabad, and is currently employed with the Editorial team at Cambridge University Press India, Hyderabad. He evinces keen interest in Culture Studies, Dalit Literature, Eco-criticism and Christian Studies. Having presented papers at various National and International Seminars, he intends to pursue research on Childrens' Writings and Eco-criticism. He is also a prize-winning cartoonist and poet. He can be reached at:

Haiku by Sanchita Choudhury

Haiku by Sanchita Choudhury
Winged time brings me here
Withered time emancipates
Time is immortal.

Droplets melt in rain
Incessant drops oozing new
Yet we need some more.

Needless to move on
We move in the frame of time
Race with time no more.

Stars and stars amassed
A full moon night no special-
A treat for the moon.

Feathers together
Can’t infuse life in a bird

Author’s Bio: Sanchita Choudhury works as an Assistant Professor and DIC (department-in-charge) in Padmanava College of Engineering, Rourkela in the Department of Humanities. She has completed her Ph. D from IIT Kharagpur in the field of Ethnomusicology. She is also a performing artist (vocal). Sanchita is a poetry lover and spends her time writing poems and experimenting with different genres of poetry. She is a UGC trainer of Capacity Building of Women Managers.

The Fifth by Dr (Ms) Prem Kumari Srivastava

The Fifth by Dr (Ms) Prem Kumari Srivastava

Twelve years ago,
she entered the staff room.
‘5 appointments made,’ exclaimed the colleague from Political Science disbelievingly.
‘Major tug of war ensued till late last night,’ echoed the other.
‘Two new faces’ chirped the ‘one’ always with news.
‘Three predictable appointments,’ crooned the lazy one.
‘the fourth a very bright one, the Head’s protégé,’ came a voice from the corner.
‘the fifth?’
‘we don’t know’
‘An outsider,’ was the unanimous verdict.

She heard it…all of it.
Her face belied, but I noticed her ears
Beetroot red.
This was twelve years ago.

Today, she had called.
And narrated for twenty-five minutes.
I put the phone down and almost mumbled to myself,
‘she is dying.’

This girl-woman
with inherent brilliance -
flighty, unsure, grumpy, cranky,
would laugh and cry in one breath,
rushing in, when there was no hurry;
in frenzy, when wholly unnecessary;
A Samaritan for people in distress;
a warm, wailing puppy, when in stress.

Today, I saw a death
of what she was, and what others thought
- and rebirth -
all at once!
into a bright, sure-minded poetess!

Author’s Bio: Prem Kumari Srivastava is an Associate Professor of English at Maharaja Agrasen College, University of Delhi. A Visiting Shastri Fellow at University of British Columbia, Vancouver in 2010, she has several research presentations (national and international) and publications in books and eminent journals such as South Asian Diaspora, Routledge, Indian Literature, Sahitya Akademi, Literary Paritantra and Creative Forum to name a few. Co-Guest Editor of the journal Fortell (Forum for Teachers of English Language and Literature), New Delhi for four issues in 2010-2011, she has been appointed the Guest Editor again for its forthcoming Silver Anniversary Issue no. 25, Sep 2012.
Her research interests are Cultural Studies (indigenous and the popular) American studies, Religion of Saints and e-learning: with an overarching focus on Gender. Her poems have been showcased in Indian and African journals.

Get Me Before It Ends by Krishna Keerthi

Get Me Before It Ends by Krishna Keerthi

As the world comes to an end,
i can't find me any friend,
I stuck myself in the room of,
Loneliness I can't take off.

Chaos has got into my veins,
Repercussion is what my heart's at,
With it fights all my guts,
But loss is the only result.

I try to get my hopes all high,
Treasure all the might I live by,
Revolting the dark insight,
Forgive me oh pessimist.

One day the sun will dance again,
My eyes will downpour heaven's rain,
Grab my hand, we shall run again,
On the shore of our dreamy nations.

Author’s Bio: Krishna Keerthi is a poet.

Three Poems by Gopal Lahiri

Three Poems by Gopal Lahiri

On the cluttered pavement,
A boy fixes his eyes to nowhere,
Rickety hands have only scars and wounds.

He never goes to school, never read rhymes
Never play with the butterflies, smell the flowers
Sleep on the streets unwanted and alone.

He has seen sun being merciless on his frail body
He has seen clouds only to be battered by rain
He has seen moon through his hungry eyes.

Tears roll into his eyes when he is beaten up for nothing
Still he works on to feed his empty stomach
Struggle hard to live life, save the day and night.

His weak legs do not hide the spider veins,
Unmindfully hold a poster board...telling the world
Look at me and spare a smile, it’s free.

Sharing Thoughts
Come and sit here, in this narrow, windy courtyard
To pursue, to seek, to find and return to what I am
Perhaps an era, an eon has walked past slowly.

Share something that blossoms; knowing your thoughts are roots
Shift but never change to another image, grow but never wane
A forward step, nothing behind, a flash of lightening in an empty sky.

We are miles apart, you say, life isn’t like that fires within,
Something is on the way, something is blocking the view
Turning on the light, still lock in our magical dreams.

You are the true musicians, bringing smiles to my heart
Lit up the mind with shafts of your melodious light,
A kind heart underlying the flame, flickering images persist.

You always say- goes to the root look inside and pray
For promises carve in the mountains and rocky stretches
I feel shy, awkward, can’t express what is in my heart?

Pencil Sketch
A pencil sketch
Look at me every night
All that is good or bad
Eyes not in cohesion,
The aimless game
Lurking around
From one end to the other…

A contoured face
Explodes in anger
To get the fire along
A whiff of suspicion,
Her lips quiver
Drifts in a low song
Able to speak the truth…

And then all of a sudden
Her silent words
Each note each syllable
Crumbles in tears,
Winds whistle through
The cracks of the wall
You look like him…exactly like.

Author’s Bio: Gopal Lahiri, a bilingual poet from India, has been writing poetry for more than twenty years. He writes both in English and Bengali.He also occasionally writes fiction, short story, essay, articles on current affairs and scientific interest and does translation work. He is an earth scientist and currently lives in the coastal state of Gujarat, India.

He has had six poetry collections in Bengali published from India and four collections in English published from Lulu, USA. His latest poetry collection in English (Silent Steps) has been published from Cyberwit, India. His literary works appeared in print (notably in Indian Literature, Taj Mahal Review and Illuminations) and electronic publications (Arts and Letters, Underground Window, Muse India, Poetry Stop, Debug etc) worldwide and his poems published in several anthologies (National Treasures, A posy of poesy,  Concerto, Poet’s paradise, Global Fusion Voice, The Silence within etc) printed in India and abroad. He is a regular contributor of poems to several poetry web sites. He can be reached at:

Three Short Stories by Ron Koppelberger

Three Short Stories by Ron Koppelberger

Flourishes of Half Dollar Renown
The sole resemblance of chance and need, wont and waiting freedom, was a struggle in scarlet battles of wine and snakes that shorn confederate passage allow. He considered the wisdom of promise and pose, able arts and existence.

The half dollar fell to the concrete and the wind sang, tiny tempests swirled in the rain tinctured sunshine spears of light. The coin spun on the edge of a grain of sand as the seconds passed. He saw the design of dust and the savor of oaths in ash and dew, in sovereign applause and ether, in affirmed delight and amazing, absolutely amazing taboo. The coin fell still and random wills sighed in relief as the sun whispered and the world continued to revolve. He had half dollar renown and a distant love of life.

A Breed of Rain
The eclipse of mystery in omens was a deluge in the life of Prey Claw. He found the crème in his coffee was curdled yet sweet and allayed to the harmony of sunshine dawns and wont. A wonder of ascending taste and a mildly amused rhythm of tender embrace. Prey sanctified the contents of his cup and swallowed the bidden blood, “Ahhhhhhhhaaaaaahhhhhh.” he whispered in satisfaction and passage.

The springtide fray he thought in simmering reserve, the course of maelstroms and the way of weeping rain, he considered the beholden day and birth in trade with the gentle assay of what is and what has been a tear in the depth of miracles and myths of coffee care, a sweet and a bitter barter. He sipped and found respite, reprieve in rages of fortune.

Pray strapped the leather harness across his waist and shoulders in easy movements of bond. Bond between the gods of chance and the fates that tell muzzy dreams where to sleep, where to amend the night and the calm in secret repast. Prey secured his harness to the edge of the cliff and around the trunk of an enormous weeping willow. The sun whirled immigrant beams of warmth and stray moted substance of soul. Prey took a final sip of coffee and in betrothal to the arrangement of wind and sun, teasing mountain balance and rapt crowns of revelation, secured the poise of his task and he sang as he absorbed the present.
“Foretell the blessings
Of daisies and dandelions
In tempers of rare wine
And wild adventure, A
Consonance with salvation.”

The will of god saved Prey that morning and he endured in courage and sighs, wonder and sensation.

* The rope snapped and a child would amend the faith in Prey, she would make him whole and in sunshine and rain, she would show him the paths of harvest saffron.

A Blessed Blossom
The naturalness of the gentle blossom was in fine-spun magic with the seasons of both ash and harvest. A bloom in blushing chagrin with the accounts of angels and saints, full in sleep and boundaries of frayed glory. There was a perplexing innocence in the beginnings of reflection and birth, bearth and gusty meandering sanctity.

It came in sad sorrow of shadow and shade, a departure from love and animate intimacy. It was a cold proposition in favor of demons and blackened berserkers, the season in rebuke, the time of parched acquiescence and discreet dark diversion. It was the bane of passerby, the wane desire of soliloquies in bone dust, rattle and gossiping devils.

The flower cringed and withered in lieu of passion and sated cycles and in the miracle that defines the amaranth it found purchase in a new day as the specter of loves lost and declared diabolic dissolved into the soils of perdition, passing without further fanfare. A bloom in crowns of possession, a soul in search of harvest hearth, the amaranth of dark confessions

Author’s Bio: Ron is a poet, a short story writer and an artist. He has written 102 books of poetry over the past several years and 18 novels. He has published 642 poems, 600 short stories and 115 pieces of art in over 212 periodicals, books, anthologies and 9 radio Broadcasts.He can be reached at:

Pete’s Records by Valery V. Petrovskiy

Pete’s Records by Valery V. Petrovskiy

“Now, let his best friend have the floor”, said a master of ceremonies turning to me. It sounded as if it were not Pete’s burial but a recital or an inauguration of a monument. But no outstanding personality ever was born here to set up an obelisk; all were ordinary people, nothing to say, and they all were buried under regular oak crosses. The only monument in town was put to those perished in WWII. They were buried somewhere far away, and the memorial was here.

Pete’s face was as if shadowed, but he looked quite sound and his haircut was regular. His eyes were closed as if he were sleeping, just had fallen asleep. Still there was no life coming from his face, a shadow lay on it. And the day was dusky, and gloaming, and no sun around. So, I looked at Pete and had no words. I proved to be unready, never had a rehearsal to say the last words to him. Sorry, Pete, I don’t remember what I said. Not the right words I ought to. I hadn’t prepared myself and I didn’t say the main thing: that he was the best friend, not I!

Then many fellows of his gathered around his grave. The master made room for me when called upon to speak. Not because there were too many people but because the graves were closely set: so folks who came along were cramped, one couldn’t step aside. All of them were familiar to me though I hadn’t seen them for a long time, and they hadn’t seen me either. It was not the exact place to shake hands, and it wasn’t the right moment: one was not supposed to at the burial in Russia.

I greeted them by a nod, as though we parted yesterday, that’s all. As though I left my town for half a day, took a morning bus and was soon back in the afternoon, and already was missing all the mates, missed the green lanes and the side streets with soft grass, missed faint shades along the fences at sunset. In fact, it was ages since I visited my town last.

I never saw Pete asleep, just once when we had woken him up to take his record player. It was quite a thing! Then we took away his record player to arrange an occasion for high school graduates. School leaving party had closed already, and under exposed heaven with the stars like birthmarks a question poised in midair: what’s next? And we made up our minds: a dancing party to Pete’s records then! Dancing until the daybreak as it is supposed once per life!

So, we   simply made Pete awaken then and asked him for the stereo record player. But I didn’t catch Pete asleep – we were for music! Then we had hurried to Pete for music records by a pothole country road walking on air …

As for music, there was no music at his funeral. It all happened ordinary and dismal. He wasn’t a distinguished one, just Pete. He was so plain that didn’t distinguish bad things, no black! More than that, he confused black and white when speaking local dialect. He uttered “black α white” – this and that, such was my playfellow, my close friend.

Though the sun didn’t reveal itself that day, the sky was getting clear as it happens in March afternoons... Only on Pete’s face there lay a shadow, not quite a shadow, just a tinge of a stiff idea as though he were about to utter a word or two. You know such a look when one is going to open his mouth, such an intense expression but no words.

So, now his best friend is called upon to speak… And I was unable to put it right.

A lonely crow would fly away from a crooked tree at the graveyard; it has nobody to fly to.

Author’s Bio: Mr. Valery V. Petrovskiy is a journalist and short story writer from Russia. Не is English Department graduate Chuvash State University, Cheboksary, graduated  VKSch Higher School, Moscow in journalism, and got a degree from Kazan State Technology University in psychology.

He has been writing prose since 2005. Some of his writing has been published in The Scrambler, Rusty Typer, BRICKrethoric, NAP Magazine, Literary Burlesque, The Other Room, Curbside Quotidian, DANSE MACABRE, WidowMoon Press, PRIME MINCER, Hulltown 360, Apocrypha and Abstractions, Apollo’s Lyre, The Legendary, The Monarch Review, The Atticus Review, Marco Polo, Unshod Quills in the USA, and  Australian The Fringe Magazine, Skive and Going Down Swinging journals.

At the moment he is writer-in-residence at Marco Polo arts magazine, while staying in Russia. He has recently interviewed in Gloom Cupboard:

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