Important Update

With the new year, and the success of the previous year, we at Life As An have decided to change our publication format. We intend to make our publication more of a magazine and less of a blog. To accomplish this, we will now publish 4 issues per year, each containing 10-15 pieces. Everything that we decide to publish will still be viewable on this site, but will be published in bulk 4 days per year. We also hope to have these issues available in a downloadable format appropriate for e-readers. Don't worry, everything will still be free.

This new publication schedule will enable Life As An to be listed on certain websites that do not feel that our old format was appropriate for a literary magazine. Details on what this means to you as a writer are available under “Submission Guidelines.”

These changes go into effect December 16th. Anything submitted before then will be published according to our previous guidelines.

So what does this mean to our readers? Basically, it just means that we will only be publishing new work on January 1st, April 1st, July 1st, and October 1st. Anything already scheduled to be published (or that is accepted between now and December 16th) is not affected, meaning that until March 31st, there will still be some stories and poems published that are not included in the new issues. After March 31st, this will not happen. All of our archives will still be available and unaffected.

The Alarm's Screech...

 by Dr. Smita Anand Sriwastav

The shrill screech of the alarm clock echoed to tatter the gossamer veneer of a fuzzy dream or was it a hazy memory replaying as some old mute movie on mind’s canvas in swirls of grey and sepia? They had held me mesmerized as languidly unfolding fairy tales that breathed their fragrance into my thoughts, like orchids sighing scented vowels into stained glass flutters of butterflies. The alarm’s wail was the chime of the bell of consciousness that drag reluctant thoughts away from alleys of Morpheus. I tried to recall that scene vivid moments before and now strangely vague, almost forgotten, lost in amnesic depths of unconscious thought. I wondered if I closed my eyes silently would those faded realms be revived, in swirls of sienna shades, alluring, intriguing and unworldly. Lurking at the edge of the eyelashes, those scenes refused to replay themselves, a poignant medley of faded scenes refusing become completely lost as well. The adamantly ticking hands of time denied such reincarnation, simply earmarking those moments in the ambiguity of nostalgia. They dispersed like fickle friends in adversity, for they were like carmine sighs of withered rose scattered on soil never to feel the kiss of pollens. The window gilded in morning’s grin beckoned as dispelled with traces of languor, dreams died and consciousness soared high like dove’s feathers over heights of a newborn day.