Introducing Nitin Lalit Murali – Room 101


I live in a room that’s both my last meal on Death Row and the Gas Chamber. When it’s the former, I embrace this illusion we call ‘free will’ and enjoy a sumptuous meal according to my desires, but I’m soon dragged away by the guards of tyranny, and a brutal genocidal force, and I’m strapped in the chamber, my fear echoing, my heartbeat an odd time signature that you can use in a Math Rock song, and I’m soon left writhing with apparitions surrounding me, threatening to engulf and envelop me, and as foam drips from my mouth, and my irises disappear, I’m slowly fading, clutching to pillars of delusion that only seemingly held me. Delilah defeats Samson thoroughly here, because he’s denied his strength even after he’s tortured, and his eyes are gouged out. This room’s both pleasure and pain. The unmitigated dark pleasure of the ebb and flow, and twisted secrets kept when I’m with a woman – personifying and venerating her, giving her a place outside restrictions, smashing Time and his infuriating ticks, tocks and chimes. But it’s also the pain of watching her dissipate within seconds and replaced by a deep-seated primal fear of watching dimensions split and cacophonous syllables spoken by a horrific deity slowly inching their way into my mind, scalding reason, and overwhelming and overpowering me. This room’s both catharsis and oblivion. I find here, the catharsis of downers, alcohol, and jazz – the juxtaposition of a slightly loud piano and a gentler alto saxophone, and the ephemerality of sex and fluid, of women entering and leaving, but I also slowly find that with each transient nirvana I’m granted comes a plethora of soul-sucking thoughts, ripping my heart from its place and placing it out of reach, showing me just how vulnerable and insignificant I am. I find that with each orgasm comes guilt, because she isn’t here to stay, and will waltz back to her life the next morning while I’m fox-trotting out my life in click-bait and endless cyber repetitions. This room is many things, but despite the moans and sighs, the false lull of pharmaceuticals, and the chaos and quietude of a mind, it lacks love.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

You can find more of Nitin’s work at Fighting The Dying Light

Let Go – The Stories in Between

My hands scrape the cold ground

Digging for the final exhale

Which to shake the Earth

Punish time

Take this down

Stripped to naked regret

Upon my dead shore

The last remains

To be seen


Let go

Of the benign


You hold in your mouth

We are ghosts

In this place

With nothing

To haunt

Our time punished

Through broken lens

Without understanding


We all let go


Or try to

Attempted facade

A slow dance

Running from dreams

A lethargic assault

Tumbling over

The broken

And reckless

Until the time

We are caught

In stillness

In understanding

In difference


What do you see?


I caress your cheek

Explore your eyes


We really don’t know

Do we?


More from the author can be found at The Stories in Between

Untitled – Chris Nelson

Born into the night

Sharp-suited, black

Against the shadows,

Felt your footsteps

Cold and soundless


Each placed deep within my own,

Your breath,

Chill upon my neck

As your words swirled,

Like birds lost in the warmth

Of early winter,

Around my head,

My back sheltered by

The uneasiness of your coat

Wrapped about my shoulders,

Felt your hands eat

Into my formaldehyde mind,

Sowing the seeds for a harvest

Misted by candle-wick days

Which devoured the light

And led the Sun to its

Uneasy bed,

Born into the night

Cut from the promise of light,

Against the shadows

I felt your footsteps.


© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018


If you enjoyed this, thank you! To read more please visit chrisnelson61.

A BRIMFUL OF GRIM – A.G. Diedericks & Kindra M. Austin


I walk the streets, brimful of grim

a former empath, deformed

with a Stephen Hawking-sized

black hole in my chest


At night I chisel the cemetery of us

blurred visions leave my veins with an incision

I siphon the blood back into our old skeletons

reprieve my solitude


The moon is a phantasm—

a projection of you

Your cold white face casts shadows

of me against these cobblestone streets

and up the sides of Tudor buildings—

I am a colossus,

brimful of grim


In an L.A. riot, I lie quiet

under a monochrome sun,

and listen to the unison of us—the way we were, uncanny

The earth vibrates underneath me; defibrillator, ascertain my heartbeat


Ever since you left, every woman I meet plays her part in a ménage

á trois with your mirage

Cosplay lovers;

I think you would love the homage


The sun’s beams envelope me,

a yellow shroud melting

Saturate my winter soul—

memories of you coagulate

in my arteries, thick cholesterol

You are my heart disease

I crave the taste


Insatiable, the revenant of you

I climb into your climate

A masochist, unable to resist—tie me up, let me hang,

suspended in the mist of you


For more of Kindra’s work, please visit poems & paragraphs

As for A.G.. you can find more of his work here

Ocean Side – The Stories in Between

Quietly I lay beside

A stricken moon beam, at ocean side

Feel it breaking, tremble inside

Do you hear me cry the oceans tide


Can you hear me

Can you see me


I feel you breaking

A silent fracture, Torn in time

Are you beside me

Reaching for that, Which you can’t find


Wait for me

It all ends soon, I promise you

Walk beside me

Hand in hand to the ocean’s moon


Can you hear me

Can you see me

Can you feel me




Originally posted at The Stories in Between

Introducing Chris Nelson ~ Magpie

My perch it is the highest fence

My view the clearest view,

I scan the city streets all day

In search of something new.


I watch the faces passing by

The frightened and the brave,

And steal their thoughts before they know

They’re stumbling to the grave.


But never tree

Or hanging branch

Will ever hear me sing,


I move with grace

From left to right

But never on a limb.


I’ll take the shiny and the dull

And keep them in my nest,

All the doors that never opened

Now locked inside my chest.


And when at night you cannot see

The memories that you lost,

I’ll gaze upon each every one

And marvel at the cost.


But never will

I take the dive

Or sing out loud my song,


Just bob my head

From side to side

And pray that I’m not wrong.


I’ll watch the Sun both rise and fall

And welcome day and night,

Basking in the cloak of darkness

And hiding in the light.


I’ll never fly too far from home

For fear I’ll lose my way,

Rather nest on stolen chances

As on my perch I stay.


So neither tree

Nor hanging branch

Will ever hear my song,


As safe I grasp

The middle ground

To be neither right nor wrong.

© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018

If you enjoyed this, thank you! To read more please visit chrisnelson61