Once Upon a High Time: Weedy Fairy Tales
Short story featured in a collection of stories published by Broccoli
After Manala
Flash fiction featured in Weedy Tales section of Issue 11
Farewell to the Little Yellow Bug of My Youth
Learning to say goodbye to my first car is also, at least for the moment, about saying goodbye to the city I grew up in and the people and experiences that shaped me...
Quiet Lightning Board Member [Disruptors 2020]
Announcing our new board members! Disruptors 2020, clockwise from top L: Tom Pyun, Anna Allen, Rhea Dhanbhoora, and Kevin Dublin.
“Itemizing My Identity,” “Collective Shame,” and “In Diaspora”
Capsule Stories Autumn 2020 Edition: Burning Up
Featuring autumnal poems and prose by emerging and established writers, Capsule Stories Autumn 2020 Edition explores the theme Burning Up.
POETRY
“Itemizing My Identity,” “Collective Shame,” and “In Diaspora” by Rhea Dhanbhoora
Featuring autumnal poems and prose by emerging and established writers, Capsule Stories Autumn 2020 Edition explores the theme Burning Up.
POETRY
“Itemizing My Identity,” “Collective Shame,” and “In Diaspora” by Rhea Dhanbhoora
Crystal Radio Sessions Upstate
Crystal Radio Sessions Upstate is the new, local outpost of the NYC reading series, committed to showcasing the work of both established and emerging writers from our region. Come hear short stories by David Rabe, Ashley Mayne, Harris Lahti, Courtney Maum and Rhea Dhanbhoora, read by AOH audience favorite actors. Crystal Radio believes in the power of the spoken word and is devoted to transmitting compelling literary expression through the ether.
Seven To None
They can't book the baug because they're from a mixed family and the husband hasn't had his Navjote, but their eight-year-old wants to be like the other children in the colony, so they decide to have a ceremony on the terrace instead. She's more interested in gifts than prayers, she says, twirling desperately in her polka dot dress...
Outside: Issue 7: Here, There & Everywhere
All the other images fade, but for the orange flags. Stiff nylon, fighting lazily against a balmy breeze.
Orange. Always the strangest in the spectrum. A colour, a fruit, a flower — all rolled into one lazy word. As if there were no other way to describe the ghastly coalescence of red and yellow. A marriage of pigments, arranged quite conveniently between colours I have mixed feelings about. There was red, a reminder of period blood and bindis and rage and lipstick, muddled with yellow, a seemingly duplicitous shade that spits up images of Wordsworth’s daffodils as quickly as it will Eliot’s yellow fog.
Orange. Always the strangest in the spectrum. A colour, a fruit, a flower — all rolled into one lazy word. As if there were no other way to describe the ghastly coalescence of red and yellow. A marriage of pigments, arranged quite conveniently between colours I have mixed feelings about. There was red, a reminder of period blood and bindis and rage and lipstick, muddled with yellow, a seemingly duplicitous shade that spits up images of Wordsworth’s daffodils as quickly as it will Eliot’s yellow fog.
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