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ISSUE 12: CONTRIBUTORS
Malena Salazar Maciá, Toshiya Kamei, Deborah L. Davitt, Dean A. Brink, Drema Deòraich, Raluca Balasa, Dennis Mombauer, I. S. Heynen, May Chong, Logan Thrasher Collins, Holly Day, R. J. Keeler, Z.M. Quỳnh, Aber O. Grand & Michael T. Smith, Arvind Dubey, Kshama Gautam, Shirish Gopal Deshpande, Narendra Petkar, Lorenzo Latrofa, Massimiliano di Lauro & Salik Shah
ART Macrocheira kaempferi (1911) by Theobald Carreras, Wellcome Collection.
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How can I acknowledge your things of whiteness
mine? Born too late for never-setting empires
I am fascinated by the dance between man and nature as they strive to strike a symbiotic relationship that serves them both equally.
We are now expanding the editorial team of Mithila Review with new minds and voices to continue to work towards our vision of a better world.
With every step Ellen takes, her body drags through the water, leaving chevrons in her wake. The surface dimples as water skippers skim away from her, and little bubbles break the surface as fish dart up to eat the algae and insects floating on the surface like gasoline.
“Oh my god, you’re huge! Are you sure you’re not having twins?”
A shapeless smog had descended on Cairo, veiling the city as though it were afraid to show its face to the world.
Stella blinked. She stood in the same place, still naked, but Celandine’s blood had vanished and the statue was unmarked. Its eyes were closed, and very much made of stone.
Coen rolled his eyes. For a moment he’d pleasantly forgotten that Gwen’s husband Martin was even there. The man hadn’t made a single kill the entire trip, which was bad even for a beginner.
“All the stars you look up to—kid, you just wait. By the time you’re thirty or forty, they’ll have tell-alls recounting all the therapy they need just to sleep at night.”
I’m very excited and honored to release Issue 14 of Mithila Review.
The cross-genre stories in 2020: An Anthology by some of Malaysia’s finest emerging writers reflect the present generation’s many concerns and outlooks.
On their third date, Pandora began to open up.
he saw you, blue / as frostbite, wild soot-stained hair and manic eyes, / your heart, a birdhouse of caged fluttering / wings.
little woman, / may your feet be steep as mountains / may you creep into the muddied seas / and dribble into the warm skies.
I’m not sure whether to wipe my cheeks or stay dead. Vincente insisted this morning, every morning, “Absolutely still. A stone. Eyes to the sky, searching for heaven. If you stare long enough, you’ll see it.”