On the corner of Dzirnavu and Baznīcas Street is a unit of a café franchise. Floor-to-ceiling windows with warm-toned plastic fairy lights draping down, Picasso and Matisse rejects hung on insipid sage walls, a haphazard bookshelf, various artificial plants...

My girl was not magic. She was not a six-legged spider hanging off the side of a mountain, nor a Russian poet who wrote her best work in the company of Siberian rats...

The tickling my mom inflicts on me feels stress-free when the sun joins in. On the three stories of our summer house, I feel human. I feared life when the last local cat first sat on my lap and refused to go, and I loved my ears every time I heard...

It’s humid. Our skin sticks to each other's arms and the yellow curtains are failing to dwindle the intensity of the sun. It must’ve been around 3 pm, hour 4 in the back of this bus, destined for a remote and almost vacant childhood town, when we finally took...

A small village called Pitrags (or Pitrõg in its original Livonian) stands in Courland nestled against the rolling sea and ambrosial trees. It is my family’s summer home — in truth, many snow-laced days have...

A short horror story inspired by the disappearances of James Ducat, Thomas Marshall and Donald McArthur while on duty on the Flannan Isles lighthouse.

If I could, only for a mere second, go to that place that no longer stands as it once stood, as it should. A place that exists in my mind, where only memories prevail: my grandparents'...

I step forward, and the automatic doors open. Fluorescent lights beam overhead. Towering shelves frame my field of view as I slowly peruse each aisle. Mascots on cereal boxes, meticulously written nutritional contents and allergen warnings, stickers highlighting...

There is blankness in place of memories. There is nothing in spots where something should be, not even a hint or glimpse. I have never been able to grasp that nothingness, and I have never been able to make sense of it. All the years and dates mentioned are approximations. I am still determining how close or far apart most of these events occurred...

Comedy is like magic. It's like a magician showing tricks to a little boy - the magician hopes he falls for it and the boy hopes to not expect what's about to happen. I don't think there exists a good joke where the comic played on the expected - that's not comedy, it's formality...

I have submitted my first college application. I fail to reflect on the fact and recognize its significance after two years of anticipation. I have a week to submit my portfolio, and another two until my interview, and then another month until a decision. Maybe then I will have understood…

“Bliny?” Despite this memory being well over a decade old, I distinctly remember the teaching assistant’s soft-spoken inquiry encouraging me to speak. I had spent the previous hours meticulously rolling out clay on my small part of the table, afraid and unable to socialise. It was my first day at school…