Standing on his doorstep was Maisie Beck. It had been years since Samuel had seen her, but he recognized her straight away. She was standing a few steps back from the door. Her hair was untidy, and her mascara had run down her cheeks. Also, her lipstick looked smeared. She was wearing a short party dress and had streamers strewn over her shoulders. She was bleary-eyed and tottering on her high heels.
The author tells us that Nevada Noir is a dark, atmospheric trilogy of intertwined tales of greed and temptation in the Nevada badlands. ‘In these three dark and brooding short stories, set in and around the US state of Nevada, a cast of disparate characters struggle with greed and temptation and the cursed lure of easy money. An old man goes in search of his son in the aftermath of a terrible storm, a couple down on their luck make a life-changing discovery, and an ex-cop has one last impossible decision to make,’ he explains, adding, ‘It’s an action-packed meditation on death, temptation and flawed humanity.’
In two eyes, we observe; in one eye we connect.
Two eyes make judgements that one eye rejects.
Two eyes show this one life, one eye shows the rest.
Two eyes watch the lesson; one eye takes the test.
Sensing the mass of human boundaries
so overwhelming and disheartening,
love dissolves the choking ghost of fear.
Hidden talents hit the surfaces
breaking down walls that should never exist
Young Alex considers the goddess her only friend because she doesn’t have any. Her parents don’t allow her to play with the kids in their neighbourhood since they’re ill-mannered, but it’s okay with her because she thinks they’re too loud, and she doesn’t like loud. Her only playmates are her nephew and her two cousins, who live on the first floor; but they’re all boys, and they suck at conversations that aren’t about robots and toy guns, so when she’s not in the mood to play with them, she’ll be alone.
A woven purse of shot silk threads
covered in a glitter like hundreds-and-thousands,
a dust from semi-precious stones
so the purse is abrasive to touch
inside a black leather handbag…
White trumpets of flowers lean
from the bindweed that plaits
a fence of chicken wire
behind which three plastic buckets,
blue, pink and yellow, lie
beside an armchair left out
so long its legs are wormholed,
its green upholstery rotted,
and a table whose top has warped
leaving a concavity
where rain has laid a mirror
so clear I could gaze into it
and forget my origins.
Her second book entitled ‘A Storm of Magic’ happens to be a YA Fantasy. Speaking about the book, Ms Laino says, ‘Being brought back from the dead is an impressive trick, even for magician Darien Burron. Now he must try and use his sleight of hand to swindle modern-day witch, Mirah, to sign her power away, or end up a tormented demon in the afterlife. Meanwhile, sixteen-year-old Mirah is starting to lose control of her powers. After an incident at her aunt’s Witchery store, Mirah is sent to a secret coven to learn to control her abilities. While she is away, Mirah meets up with a soft-spoken clairvoyant, a brazen storm witch, and the creator of dark magic itself. The young woman must learn to trust in herself before she loses herself entirely to the darkness that hunts her.’
I haven’t seen you in a while, my friend.
But I still remember the time we’ve spent together;
Pictures of you are still vivid in my memory –
A part of my soul will always be there with you
Whose words are these I know I’ve heard?
To read his marker seems absurd,
He will not see me stopping by
Nor holding back the need to cry.
We all disappear into a marble crowd.
It’s a pity it has to be strait-laced.
Once our characters were declared out loud.
Now with a chisel symbols are traced
which give little or no clue to character
except to claim that our absence is a cause for grief,
that the life eternal is the victor
though elsewhere if that is your belief.
Acting as if I’m without integrity
My mimicry knows no limitation
Inspired by individuals too pretty
The inspiration becomes imitation.
What’s the use of a luxurious car
If it can’t fit a traveller travelling far?
Can you drive all alone with jubilant pride,
Having refused a soul a pleasant ride?
I see, I be, I walk, I talk;
Each morning I rise with a smile.
I read, I feed, I rock, don’t mock,
Have to cover many a mile.
I personally found the events transpiring in the Belmarsh prison quite interesting. A kind of friendship blossoms here that one might seldom expect to blossom in the outside world. There are moments when you may end up weeping, but as we have mentioned already, the moments you’ll guffaw will be a lot more.
After pies there was a visit to the garden
to see the toad, huge, motionless and sullen,
but not from a diet of sausage pie.
An endless eternity of stars
Blanketed the lofty canopy celestial
Far into unseen mystery
Where swirling lights
A’simmer in a sea of indigo
Washed across the cosmos entire
And vanished into an infinity of glistering dust
Author Marc Cavella might have begun writing at the tender age of ten, but he’d never taken it seriously until 2015 when he decided to leave a Clinical Psychology doctoral program to focus more on writing books. Speaking to the Literary Express in an exclusive interaction, the California-based author , who is looking for a cabin to rent in the general vicinity of Georgia and the Carolinas as one of the stories he is planning to work on is set there, says he generally writes at night right after he finishes with work. ‘I don’t really have a schedule. though. If I get inspired and I’m not near my computer, I’ll write notes in my phone so I can work on them later,’ he lets us know.