Fiction by Sanchalika Das: ‘I thought to myself that the god in heaven is just a child playing with clay, throwing it around with disregard and then picking it up with the intention of throwing it again with utter delight. The clay loses and gains in this process.’

Fiction by Armaan: ‘Your jersey is all sweaty. And your shorts too. It’s stinking up my room. Take it off. / Dilawar’s eyes turned to the door. He felt like if he ran through it, nobody would find him. All he had to do was run.’

Fiction by Labiba Alam: ‘Nandita’s arrival in our lives was similar to a new season dawning upon the hills. It was a slow, effortless glide, almost organic. It looks as if it had always been there, only we had begun to feel its newness by degrees.’

Flash Fiction by Nagireddy R. Sreenath: ‘We don’t talk about the silence between us: the missed birthdays, the calls that went to voicemail, the distance that grew while neither of us looked directly at it.’

Short Story by Biswajit Chatterjee: ‘But this peculiarly-formed lad is an altogether different animal when he is in water. With his unfamiliar yet uncanny ability, he learns to handle the waves, the deadly undercurrents, the movement of the swells, the whirlpools.’

Fiction by Ranu Uniyal: ‘Like old times, they each sit in their own shells. Unable to communicate. Unable to speak. Like old times their eyes still search for each other in familiar spots. Somehow, they never meet.’

Flash Fiction by Rajan Narayan: ‘And somewhere in this city, perhaps not far from where he stood, lay something that was once human, broken and beaten by the vengeance that still radiated from the piece of wood, now quivering in his tiny hands.’

Short story by Madhurjya Goswami: ‘You ask yourself a question: How does a fallen airplane look? Does it look like a pigeon squashed to the ground, its neck askew? And the hot, unplastered room answers: well, you’ve got to see it yourself.’

Short story by Parthosarothy Mukherji: ‘“This is not a Miss Bum Bum contest,” Ash declared to his reluctant collaborators. “This is dignity through exposure. Democracy through anonymity. Art for the masses—by displaying their asses.”’