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A home isn’t just found, it’s built. A home us yours to make and remake till it’s just the right way for you. Home is wherever your heart is, even if the place has yet to exist.

The Autumn Leaf

By: theriptidemagazine October 7, 2019October 7, 2019

The Wordart, artist, beautiful, brown, cold, colors, colours, die, fall, home, house, leaf, life, live, maple, mapleleaf, muse, musing, Musings, new, october, pain, pretty, prose, theme, theriptidemagazine, time, vine, writer, writingLeave a Comment

He has been sculpted like a painter and painted like a sculptor. All the poetry is for him, for the dead Maple leaf, the thousand stanzas that a poet creates is just for him, the innumerable colors of life, of celebration, of sacrifice, that a painter’s brush creates, is for him. It is for the withered, surrendered, dead Maple leaf.

A Taste of Home

…I could sense the nostalgia she felt when she would talk about home, although I never quite realised the extent of it. She loved cooking, which was partly the reason why I used to visit their place so frequently.

A Pinterest Home

By: theriptidemagazine October 7, 2019October 7, 2019

The Wordaesthetic, comfort, death, decorate, feeling, home, homesick, house, loss, love, mother, pinterest, PoemsLeave a Comment

A poem about a loss of love, and a consequent feeling of being homesick for solace and a place of comfort. A reminder that a house is not a home.

Pieces

By: Krutika Puranik We are all pieces of what’s left of our parents. Your mother’s eyes, father’s ears, an aunt’s height. I often sit amidst my family and wonder if they see themselves in me. The way I slip a strand of hair discreetly behind my ear, the way my eyes turn into the colour…

The Fallacy of A Home

By: theriptidemagazine October 7, 2019December 20, 2019

Photo-Story, The Wordarticle, descriptive, home, homesick, house, literature, october, theme, theriptidemagazine, writingLeave a Comment

By Vasundhara Singh The undercurrents of a mercurial afternoon were still vibrating under my skin as I sat alongside my father in the back seat of a Toyota car after my last board exam. Almost 5 years have gone by since the tempestuous day but I am often reminded of the friends I left behind…

House of Horrors

A house, she had heard from others and read in storybooks, was supposed to be a safe haven. A place where someone was protected from all the misdemeanors and brokenness of this gruesome world. But the irony was, all of that existed in her house.

Home?

“Home,” she said once again. It didn’t sound like home from her mouth. It sounded like she was taking the name of a place that should’ve never existed.