It was dusk and the snow-clad mountains were glazed with golden color that pulled the strings of my heart. The breathtaking mountains were priceless and so was the deep river a thousand feet below.
The house stored beehives and bees; I used to run eating and sucking honeycombs with both of my hands, honey dripping off of my elbows and my mouth painted with sticky layers of honey, which when dried coated my face with a filmy layer of translucent sweetness.
This is a story that reflects on the effect of Maoist war.
All of a sudden, he shouted in a shrill sound and woke up at 4 in the morning. It was still a black-pitched night, and