Charudutta Panigrahi introduces us to to the eighteenth century literary giant, Upendra Bhanja, who gave up his crown for the love of words. Click here to read.
Ravi Varmman K Kanniappan highlights the contemporariness of Sangam Literature with discussion about a narrative based on trust and power politics. Click hereto read.
Art by Joseph Mallord William Turner (1775–1851). From Public Domain
Floods, heatwave, hurricanes and storms — wild weather rips parts of the earth. While experts attribute these to El Niño and climate change, one wonders if peace and lifestyle choices could have any impact to reverse the changes on our home planet. Do wars add to our deep distress? We lose people, homes, what we nurtured and loved, the beautiful cities and structures we built, even forests, fields and rivers. The nuclear holocausts, the killing fields of the World Wars, the mined fields of Cambodia and Vietnam which continue to maim farmers… all these should have taught us to avoid wars but now when the television throws up images of war-torn zones, one wonders if those are worse than climate disasters?
In climate disasters we lose lives, homes and cities too — but people can step in to help and rebuild after the disaster. In a war setting, rescue workers are at a risk as bombs mow down terrain and destroys the tenor of daily lives. The disasters born of climate change too can be irreversible — especially with rising water levels, depleting shorelines and warmer climes ripped by storms. Which is worse — wars or climate disasters? What do you think? Could we go back to a pollution free world and reverse the darker impacts of climate change?
Just as history accepted wars and moved on, perhaps the time has come when climate change has to be accepted as a part of the new reality, and we have to find new ways of life. Exploring such stories is a book by Rajat Chaudhuri,The Climate Crossroads: Literature’s Encounter with a Planet on Fire. It has been reviewed by Bhaskar Parichha who tells us: “It reminds us that the climate crisis is not solely a scientific or political problem but also a crisis of imagination. Rajat Chaudhuri demonstrates with remarkable insight that stories are among humanity’s most powerful tools for understanding uncertainty, confronting ecological loss, and envisioning more just futures.” Somdatta Mandal, on the other hand, has brought in more on environment with her discussion of Siddharth Kak’s A Fire over Mount Everest. Andreas Geisbert adds colour to this section with his exploration of Angel Ramon’s Requiem of a Lost Nation. Satya Narayan Misra has reflected on Bhaskar Parichha’s Icons of Odisha – Lives that Shaped a State, a non-fiction whose excerpt tells us much about the journey of the author to bring to us community builders in various streams of life. We also have a bit from Kanupriya Dhingra’s non-fiction about a book bazaar that flourishes despite bookshops finding it hard to survive, The Sunday Book Bazaar: Daryaganj and the Making of a Reading Public in Delhi.
Our interviews this month touch upon environmental issues with Keith Lyons conversing with Helen Townsend, environmental entrepreneur and plant enthusiast who is high on sustainability and earth friendly solutions while Suzanne Kamata has interviewed Lily West who has travelled to all the countries in the world and has put it all down in her memoir, West goes East. Like Kamata, she teaches in Japan now. Kamata has also given us a humorous piece on remote controls. Humour is a sentiment that has also been wrought into our nonfiction with a flourish byDevraj Singh Kalsi too. He writes of his wedding sherwanialmost with a passion like the Dickensian Ms Havisham[1] exhibited for her crumbling wedding gown, except it has a different tone — that of wry tongue-in-cheek irony. Farouk Gulsara has a similar twinge of sarcasm as he muses on uncertainties in the future. Ian C Smith brings in a bit of the weather as he muses on a rainy day while Subramaniam Cheemalapati muses on the star-studded sky, dwelling on his anecdotal childhood experiences. Gowher Bhat introduces us to an aid worker who helps war victims. Meredith Stephens continues on her sailing adventures in Western Australia with photographs by her husband, Alan Noble. The photograph of the pink jellyfish is awesome. Do check it out!
Translations have brought in a shower of poetry with Tagore’s poem on a rainy-day hinting at shared confidences. Professor Fakrul Alam has translated Bengali lyrics Nazrul wrote for his friend and mentor, Rabindranath Tagore. Ihlwha Choi has brought to us a whiff of the Korean summer with his verses and Fazal Baloch has brought to us soulful poems from Balochi by Mohammad Hussain Anqa. Isa Kamari’s translations carry a flavour of Malay life in Singapore, and this set of verses bring to a close his book, The Lost Mantras. We are very privileged to have his entire book translated solely in our pages. Isa Kamari is an eminent literary voice of the Malay Singaporean community.
We have news about our hardcopy poetry anthology. We have had six media coverages in less than three months. Professor Malashri Lal deems: “For those of us who still believe in principles of care and compassion, humanism and amity, Wild Winds is a lifeline to keep afloat…It is especially commendable for wrapping global concerns in the fine tissue of hope.” And Mandal tells us: “Reading through these one hundred poems is indeed a pleasurable experience even for readers with a more prosaic temperament.” We are delighted that the book has had a warm welcome. Huge thanks to our publishers for giving us a hardcopy platform.
Thanks to all our contributors, readers and the fabulous team that make borderlessjournal.com come alive each month with a vibrant soul. Huge thanks to Sohana Manzoor for her fabulous artwork. Do pause by our contents page for the July 2026 issue.
Barashar Dine (On a Rainy Day) was published in Tagore’s collection, Manasi (Born of the Psyche,1890) as a poem.
Art by Sohana Manzoor
ON A RAINY DAY
What a day it is, What menacing rain! Amid clash of thunders clouds pour. It’s cool and dark. No one will hear these sounds As it’s solitary all around. Facing each other are two sad people. The sky streams water incessantly. The world seems to be empty. Society, world, the noise of living Are all reduced to insignificance. What remains are these flowing eyes. Sip the cup of heartfelt sensations. The rest has dissolved in the dusk. Your own voice will remain unheard. Your life will seem to have faded. Words will dissolve slowly in tears In the midst of these clouds. Both lives will mingle with these words. Who would be harmed by these If they rid the heaviness of minds? In the downpour in a nook of the home, If we confide in each other, How would it matter to anyone? During the forthcoming twelve months, There’ll be many conversations, laughter. Many will come much of sorrows-joys too, Will these confidences ever be destroyed? The world will go on forever. The wind blows with agitation. Lightnings strike every now and then. The words that remain unsaid In this life, may they be spoken In this thundering monsoon shower.
Written in 1889, it was shortened and put to music at a later date. You can listen to a rendition of the lyrics by the legendary singer Pankaj Mullick (1905-1978), who performed it on the Indian radio for the first time in 1927 by clicking here.
This poem has been translated from Bengali by Mitali Chakravartywith editorial input by Sohana Manzoor
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
No ancient brass or bronze vessel is here, just a very modern Moka pot, it’s clear, with a genie trapped in the stainless steel who serves up warm magic that is real. But why does he dwell in a coffee pot?
He had no lantern from the Middle East to serve as home, so he settled for the least awkward alternative: he’s not conservative and happy to smell like a caffeinated beast because none of his powers shall decrease.
And now I enter the scene, as in a dream, to rub that pot, but not to clear the grime: I’m waiting for the water to boil in time, for the steam to erupt in a fragrant cloud, and the genie to rise, uncanny and proud.
Three wishes granted, says the coffee sprite, to cure your doldrums and to bring delight! But avaricious wishes are forbidden here, no bags of gold or gems, I’m afraid, my dear. My spells all run on roasted Arabica beans, and operate purely through culinary means.
Your first desire must be incredibly strong to wake the sleeper and push the day along, a shot of dark espresso, gloopy and black, to insert a dinosaur’s spine into your back.
And now I smile and make my bold request and the genie stirs himself with mystic zest. His pressure builds, the liquid starts to pour: a rich espresso bubbles from the tiny spout and forms a spreading puddle on the floor. But it holds the power of a thousand suns and through my veins the lightning runs.
Now, the genie says, for wish number two, a different style of magic we must brew. This second wish must be a frothy dream floating on a cumulus of curdled steam like a hydrogen balloon without a crew.
And so I request white and foamy skies and watch carefully as milky bubbles rise: a cappuccino slowly fills a colossal mug, more comforting than a knitted winter rug, a mountain peak of froth with a dusted crest where weary men can lay their heads to rest.
The genie shines: a spoon of silver bright and gyrates in the kitchen’s morning light. The final wish, he insists, requires a twist, a sweeter spell like the most delicious kiss.
It must be chocolatey, a silky smooth design where raw cocoa and the coffee beans align. I beg the entity for mocha, deep and sweet, seeking true sanctuary in an ultimate retreat.
The genie drops in a chunk of dark cacao and weaves a spell of chocolate magic now. The swirl of brown and black begins to fuse, blends into a shade to chase away the Blues.
Three wishes done! the coffee genie shouts as he dispels all my sluggish morning doubts. I have no gems or gold and there is no myth, but look at all the joy I have been gifted with!
He dwindles back down into his metal shell, into the vessel where the grounds cool well. The lid snaps shut, the kitchen is quite still, just three empty mugs on the window sill.
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
“Speedy Gas” was a small, two-pump, single-bay gas station tucked into a forgotten corner of San Francisco. It was not the kind of station visited by those chasing the lowest price per gallon or making a hurried dash into a minimart, but to its old customers and to those who still valued personal service, Speedy Gas was a relic of a slower, more intimate relationship between driver, car, and service station operator, resembling a visit to a trusted family doctor.
Rita kept the Speedy Gas rituals: windshield wiped clean, hood lifted, fluids checked, tires tapped and filled. Rita approached quickly with the tools of her trade; window spray, clean rag, tire pressure gauge, and welcoming smile.
Below in the grease pit, Daniel lay beneath an aging sedan, his hands blackened with oil as he tightened the final bolts. The scent of motor oil, grease and cement walls of the pit surrounded him like family and was his sanctuary.
Rita stepped carefully toward the edge of the pit and looked down at him.
“Mister M, you’ve been working on that old car all day without a lunch break, and it’s nearing six o’clock.
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“This car is more than transportation to its owner.
“Joan Hobson’s long life is wrapped up inside it this old car and driving it to Christmas to be with family will make her feel at home just like this pit and garage makes me feel at home. When I’m done, I want you to run the car over to Maxi Waxi’s and pay for ‘The Deluxe’ service wash.”
“I look at the invoices and know you’re undercharging your customers. You’re a generous man, Mister M.”
“Rita, I’m four times your age. I own this place free and clear and live comfortably inside my shoddy apartment behind the garage. My ‘generosity’ is paying it forward for my long life. I’ve survived. What matters is we’re serving the people who depend on us.”
“The grease pit is too dangerous for a man your age.”
“I may be one hundred and two years old, but I can still lubricate a chassis.”
“It hurts me to see you down there and living behind the garage in a cramped apartment alone. Spend Christmas with my family.”
“I celebrate eight days and nights with candles which is enough celebration for me but thank you. I’m a lonely old man who finds solace working here. My son worked alongside me after school, weekends, and summers at this garage. Ben was a natural born mechanic just like you.”
“I know you miss them dearly, Mister M.”
“I never had a chance to say goodbye to Ben. His jet was taking off from Naval Air Station Alameda to join the carrier USS Constellation at sea. I was busy replacing a radiator hose for an old customer, so I sent Helen off and told her I’d join her after the repair. She called me from the air station and said I missed Ben taking off to join the squadron. Helen said Ben appeared disappointed by not seeing me saying, ‘Tell pop’s I love him.’ She mentioned a look in his eyes as if he knew…
“I lost my only child, Ben, when his F-4 Phantom jet was shot down over Vietnam. He’s still listed as ‘MIA’, but we know Ben didn’t survive and buried him posthumously at the San Francisco National Cemetery. When Helen died peacefully at home twenty years ago, I sold our home including all its happy and painful memories to live and work here where I can keep my mind on work and cherish memories of working together with my son. I’ll be here opening and closing for our customers every day including holidays until the day I die and join Helen and Ben.”
The grease gun slipped in his hand and Daniel fell holding his chest.
“Are you okay, Mister M?”
“I’m having a heart attack!”
The last thing Daniel remembered was a mask placed over his face and Rita holding his hand.
*
Lieutenant Daniel Mercer was flying straight and level through a gray morning over the Atlantic. Suddenly, the cockpit filled with the bitter smell of burning oil and hot metal. The instrument panel flickered, the engine sputtered and fell silent. He knew his P-51 Mustang was hit by a lucky shot from a fallen Messerschmitt.
“Blue Jay Two, you hit?”
“Still flying but no engine and falling fast.”
The engine temperature needle swung hard into the red. Smoke curled backward across the wing. Daniel tightened his grip on the yoke. Below him, the ocean was choppy and cold.
A bullet had passed through his upper flank, grazing the ribs and tearing muscles. He adjusted the trim and remembered home, San Francisco. He thought of the cable cars on California Street, the ringing bell and the slow climb toward Nob Hill. His father’s garage was on California Street, and he would inherit it and forever live his life in the “City by the Bay”.
War had changed his career plans, and the aircraft was descending quickly. He could see England now, and the white cliffs of Dover emerged slowly rising out of the sea with welcoming smiles.
“I’ve got Dover in sight, Blue Jay Lead!”
“Take it straight into any field you see and may God be with you, Blue Jay Two!”
*
He opened his eyes. The air smelled of starched sheets, chlorine, antiseptic, and pain. A woman stood beside him. She wore a white neatly pressed nurse uniform, her posture was erect, and her expression composed. Her hair was pinned neatly beneath her cap. One hand rested lightly against his wrist, fingers counting the rhythm of his pulse.
“Where am I?”
“You’re in a British Army hospital.
“I’m Lieutenant Nurse Stephanie Hall.”
“Let me out of here!”
“You’re wounded and require proper medical care.”
“Where are my clothes?”
“Sir, if we must strap you to the bed to ensure you receive proper care, we shall do so.”
“I can see you are going to be a difficult patient. Most of you Yanks are.”
“I need to get back to my unit.”
“Where is your unit, Lieutenant?”
“My squadron is the ‘United States Army Eight Airforce’ based in East Anglia, England.”
“A ‘Mighty Eight’, lad. We’re grateful for your service to Britain. How old are you?”
“My birthdate is on my dog tag.”
“I see a very brave, defiant, man-boy of no more than nineteen, correct?”
“I guess the truth no longer matters because the war is over for me. I lied about my age when I enlisted. I serviced the Packard Custom Eight Clipper at my pop’s garage owned by a Brigadier General who pulled strings for me. They rushed me through flight school in time to see action before the war ends. I’ll be twenty years old on Christmas Eve.”
“Your mother was very fortunate to receive a gift of a beautiful baby boy the night before Christmas. I expect you to write home and tell her and your ‘pop’s’ you’re receiving the best of care and will be home soon.”
He studied her face and saw beauty, confidence, and something else, buried deeper. He did not yet know what it was.
*
The hospital ward was filled with wounded men. At night, the air filled with murmured prayers, delirious whispers, and sometimes screaming. Nurse Lieutenant Stephanie Hall adjusted bandages, administered morphine, and checked pulses. Her presence was precise, efficient, and compassionate.
She rarely spoke more than necessary but he watched the way she leaned closely when listening, the faint crease that appeared between her brows when she concentrated, and how beautifully her figure filled out the uniform. He found himself waiting for her. He learned she worked the late shift ending at midnight.
*
He woke to find her sitting on the edge of his bed.
“I’m off duty. Care to chat?”
“Only if you move in closer; the crash made me hard of hearing.”
“Nonsense, but brilliant try. What’s it like where you’re from?”
“San Francisco is a slice of heaven. The fog rolls in low, like it owns the city. You hear the cable cars before you see them.”
“Cable cars?”
“The San Francisco cable car system hurdles up the hills. You hear the bell and their steel grip biting into the tracks. It’s a good sound. It means people are going somewhere. Going to work. Going home where I want to be. My father has a garage on California Street with one bay and two pumps out front. Before the war, I spent my days in a grease pit underneath a car or truck with oil dripping down upon me and grease under my fingernails that never quite washed out.”
“That sounds dreadful but delightfully masculine. You have long slender beautiful fingers resembling those of a pianist which contradict your profession.”
“Slide in closer and I’ll let you read my palms, too.”
“Just a few inches, Lieutenant but I warn you my scream will awaken this ward.”
“You’re bluffing, you’re a compassionate nurse and wouldn’t risk waking these poor wounded bastards.”
“I remind you that you’re also ‘wounded’ and an irreverent ‘bastard’.”
“Find me sexy?”
“Possibly, Lieutenant and you’re sex appeal may likely increase after talking more about the garage.”
“I enjoy repairing cars. A customer say’s he can’t get to work or his wife’s expecting soon and he needs it ready. You find what’s wrong, set it right, and witness the beautiful sound of the engine turning over again. I helped him and it made me feel like I mattered.”
“Your work is like that of a surgeon, Lieutenant.”
“Yeah, call me a car doctor! Ah, I made you chuckle…Your hands are soft and beautiful and don’t look accustomed to hard labour.”
“Before the war, I was an appendage to a man of position. That sort of vital national service.”
“I don’t understand a damn word you’re saying. Spell it out.”
“After graduation from boarding school, I was placed into an arranged marriage with a man I didn’t know. He was the first man I came to know. I didn’t love him and there was no romance. His family sorely desired a male heir to carry on his family line. We tried and failed repeatedly to have a baby. I was blamed for being infertile despite his private admission of impotence. I remained a dutiful wife standing beside her husband instead of close to him in the same bed. Now, I find myself helping broken men stand again. Helping them return to their lives. Just like the cars you made whole and sent them on their way.”
“Where’s home?”
She chose not to answer, knowing nothing she could say would translate across the caste and privilege gulf between them. Her world was a life he had never imagined, just as she could never truly appreciate the grease-stained certainty of his.
“Home is wherever I am needed.”
They remained there in the dim light, studying each other with the quiet curiosity of two travelers who had met at the crossing point of two lives. He saw refinement that both fascinated and intimidated him. She saw competence that steadied her, a man whose worth was measured not in title but in usefulness. She saw a man she ached for and dreamed about.
*
Night after night, they spoke. Their formality softened. He called her Steph and she called him Daniel. They recognised the war they shared brought them closer and freed them from needing to understand dissimilar worlds.
*
A distant chime signaled midnight awakening Daniel. Steph was no longer wearing her cap, and her long flowing blond locks fell softly around her face. She saw his eyes open and he smiled.
“I have a surprise for you, Daniel. But you must keep it a secret. I’m breaking hospital regulations.”
She handed him a paper bag. He opened it and found a bottle of Coca-Cola, a Hershey bar, and a pack of American cigarettes with a matchbook.
“What made you do this at your peril?”
“I wanted you to feel some small semblance of home.”
“You’re a wonderful woman, Steph. I wish I had met you under such different circumstances. Steph, what can I do for you?”
“Daniel, just be my friend and listen to me. I have no one else to speak to about these matters.”
“What do you have to tell me, Steph?”
“My husband Bernard was a pilot. I spent two years waiting for him to come home until notice arrived; he was shot down and killed.”
“I’m sorry for you, Steph.”
“I’m lonely, Daniel. I find meaning and purpose working here but I think I would like to find the passion and yearning absent in my marriage with you, Daniel. I also wish we met under different circumstances.”
*
The deceased were removed in the very early hours of the morning so as not to alarm the dying. Their beds were filled by morning. A priest came by each bed at dawn, whispered a prayer, and waved his hands in the form of the cross. He never spoke but Daniel muttered, “I guess one prayer is as good as another.”
*
Stephanie arrived just after midnight on a clear cold night. The moon’s light cast a faint but warm glow across the ward. She drew the privacy drape around his bed. She stood beside him, her hands trembling faintly, and they devoured each other with their eyes.
“Do I smell ‘Chanel No. 5’ perfume?”
“I chose a scent you might recognise from San Francisco and used so little only you would notice.”
“Why the perfume?”
“Because after midnight, near to you, I’d rather be a woman than a nurse, darling.”
She climbed onto the bed beside him; her movements deliberate, urgent, tender, raw, vulnerable, and filled decades of neglect, culminating in a glorious culmination of emotions. He held her close but neither spoke. The world beyond the drape ceased to exist.
*
Rain traced soft lines down the tall English windows. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, his shoulder wrapped in stiff white bandages. Daniel noticed fewer beds were being filled, which meant the war was ending.
The curtain providing intimacy at midnight opened without haste. It was Nurse Captain Melinda Richardson. She carried herself like an officer accustomed to command. Her uniform was immaculate, her posture erect, and expression firm but not unkind. She pulled a chair close to him to speak quietly.
“I have come to speak with you about Nurse Lieutenant Stephanie Hall.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“It has come to my attention that the two of you have spoken intimately on more than one occasion. She has attended to you personally, even when such attention could have been delegated. I do not interfere lightly in the private lives of my nurses, but I am responsible for their well-being, particularly in matters where misunderstandings may arise. You are an American and come from a nation where distinctions of class are less formal and permanent. That is not the case in England. Nurse Lieutenant Stephanie Hall was married to the son of Lord Hall. She returned to his family estate a widow before she had truly become a wife. She is the daughter of a distinguished family, and her father holds influence at the highest levels of government. She could have spent the war in comfort and safety. Instead, she chose to serve Britain by becoming a nurse and entering the army. She will one day return to the family estate. Her father is ill and mother deceased. She is the last of her line.”
“In other words, she’s out of my league.”
“You’re blunt but on point.”
“I’m from San Francisco, Captain. My father owns a garage. I suppose that’s all there is to say.”
“You became an officer and crossed an ocean to defend a country not your own. That speaks highly of you. But there are worlds, Lieutenant, that do not easily join. Not because of character but because of obligation and history. Bluntly, Stephanie Hall’s Anglicanism and your Jewish faith present barriers to a union between you both. The fact that you have won her heart is not a trivial thing.”
“Steph never brought up religion although the letter ‘H’ for Hebrew was stamped on my ‘dog tag’.”
“I ask you to understand what it all means and what it may never be permitted to become.”
He looked past her, toward the dark window where the rain pelted reminding him of the bullets fired to kill him and this time, hitting his heart.
“I understand, Captain. Requesting your leave to process all of this.”
“I wish you the best of everything and a long life, Lieutenant.”
Captain Richardson left him, but he knew that survival, however miraculous, did not free a man from the boundaries of the world dividing people. War should have taught him that lesson, but for a moment in time, a beautiful woman from a stately manor and mechanic-turned-pilot fell in love.
*
The day came when he could stand, walk, and be discharged. They did not speak of it until the morning it arrived. He stood beside his bed, wearing his uniform again. Steph stood before him.
“You’re returning to your unit and then home?”
“Yes, to the life I had lived before the war.”
“I will miss you, Daniel.”
He attempted to pull her tight to him, but she resisted.
“You cared for me and I took you into my heart, Steph. I want to say more but there are no words which will suffice except a kiss which you’ll permit me, please.”
She entered his embrace and released the pent-up desire raging through her until Captain Richardson approached with his discharge papers. Nurse Lieutenant Stephanie Hall watched Daniel leave forever but knowing he left behind a permanent memento.
*
Their son was born in the spring and she named him Bernard. Steph raised him alone. She never wrote to Daniel and never spoke his name, but she was reminded of him in every feature of their beautiful son.
*
Daniel returned to San Francisco, resumed his life working inside his father’s garage and married. The war became memory. Years and decades passed. His garage on California Street was built with his hands and discipline learned in the cockpit, and watching the dedicated nurses complete their rounds with compassion which he shared with each of his customers.
*
Daniel awoke and found himself alone inside an ICU not resembling the hospital ward he recalled from the war. The war defining his youth was more than eighty years behind him and losing his son and wife faded into memory.
Rita was cautioned by the cardiologist,
“Say your goodbyes before it’s too late. His birthday is tomorrow. We didn’t think a birthday celebration was appropriate for a dying man. Nobody in this ICU can recall a birth and death on the same day particularly Christmas Eve.”
“Mister Mercer never shared his birthday with me even though I’m the closest thing to family.”
Rita held Daniel’s frail hand in one hand and a faded sealed envelope with foreign postage stamps in the other hand. Daniel’s eyes were hollow, but he recognised the aged envelope.
“I searched your office for somebody to contact and came across this envelope from England addressed to you many decades ago and never opened.
“Would you like me to open it?”
Daniel remembered his decision not to revisit the past by opening the envelope because he put the past behind him, but the memories and mourning were about to end, and he motioned for Rita to open the envelope.
Rita removed a photograph of a handsome young Royal Air Force aviator. She turned over the photo revealing a handwritten note suggesting a woman’s soft touch with a fountain pen which she read softly:
Dearest Daniel, Please meet our son, Bernard Mercer Hall. Bernard was told his father was an aviator killed in the war. The night our son was conceived inside the darkness of the ward remains a blessed, romantic memory and a warm togetherness two young people shared inside the cold of war. After graduation from Cambridge, he darted off to the RAF to become an aviator like his father. I’m mailing this photograph and note in the final days of my life. I knew you as a sensitive young lad and you may be reticent to open it fearing to relieve the past which I fully understand. Life was kind permitting our union during times of mutual need but also cruel in keeping the three of us apart. I hope our beautiful son will bring you happiness and remove any grief life may have dealt you. Goodbye, my love.
Daniel’s American son followed him into the sky and lost to it but here was another son; a son born of survival and two lovers from different worlds. Although Bernard walked beneath ancient, privileged towers, he, too, flew inside the same sky that had both spared and punished three pilots; a husband, and a father and son. Daniel was gifted with a second son, and his grief was replaced with pride in two heroic sons born from two magnificent mothers.
Rita held Daniel’s hand which gripped tightly and suddenly let go. A sound from the heart monitor resembling the bells of the cable cars Daniel warmly spoke about signalling his long journey ended. Daniel’s cable car reached the top of California Street and waited for him to climb aboard with a nonstop flight to a grand reunion of loved ones; a beautiful extended family all with eyes towards the sky.
From Public Domain
Jonathan Ferrini has published nearly one hundred short fiction stories and poems. He is the host and writer of the weekly “The Razor’s Ink Podcast” where he discusses movies, television, and music.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Narrative by Meredith Stephens & Photographs by Alan Noble of their sailing adventures in the Southern Hemisphere
East Falls, King George River, Western Australia
“Shall we bother going to the East Falls?” Alex asked me.
“I’m a bit worried about crocodiles, not to mention jellyfish,” I replied.
Jellyfishes in King George River
I looked overboard and saw tens of large pale pink jellyfish. We had spotted a crocodile the day before on the banks of the King George River. I felt safe from the height of the boat, but would we be safe in the tender? I was tempted to decline and head back to the ocean. After all, the previous day we had taken the boat all the way along the river to see the Twin Falls. It had been in the late afternoon and the sun was punishing. I had walked around the boat trying to seek out shade. The heat alone had exhausted me. After having seen the Twin Falls perhaps we didn’t need to see the East Falls, but my curiosity prevailed.
Twin Falls
“Let’s do it! We’ve come this far,” I relented.
We donned our lifejackets. Alex lowered the tender into the water. He held it with a rope while I gingerly hopped into the centre. Then he stepped in behind me and started the outboard motor. It was still early morning and the sun was low. Our bodyclocks were not adjusted to the standard Western Australian time but were rather in synchrony with the sunrise and sunset. The gorge walls provided shade, and we motored to the waterfall in an exquisite coolness. We were alone at the waterfall apart from a small fishing boat. Mist from the waterfall enveloped our bodies and my toes started tingling. It was that hallowed feeling that reminded me of Salisbury Cathedral, when you enter into a higher plane and dissociate yourself from both the outside world and daily life. The hardships we had endured to get here, the seemingly endless crossing of Joseph Bonaparte Gulf, the fierce sunshine, and the stress of having to retrieve furling and fishing lines that had become entangled in the propeller, were worth it.
“Let’s stay here, Alex!”
“Sadly, we have to head back to the sea while the tides are still in our favour,” he explained.
We motored back to the boat and climbed back in. He raised the tender and we set off down the river towards the ocean. Tens of tenders loaded with tourists headed towards us. They must have come from a cruise ship. Because we had anchored at a mid-point at the East Arm anchorage in the river, and had risen early, we had had the waterfall to ourselves. We kept the rudder half-raised to manage the shallow waters of the river enclosed by gorge walls and once at sea, witnessed a large and a small cruise ship. This confirmed that we had chosen the right destination.
Next, we were to sail to several locations that were the site of ancient rock art. We obtained permission and paid the requisite fee to the traditional owners, the Wunambal Gaambera people, and spent a day sailing west to each of the locations. All the while I was terrified of bumping into a crocodile. The first of the locations was Jar Island. We anchored and took the tender to the beach.
The tender on Jar Island
“Is that a rock or a croc?” I asked Alex.
The dark object protruding from the water looked to me like a crocodile.
“They’re just rocks,” Alex reassured me.
Then as the water splashed over them, he moved closer to observe them more closely and confirmed that they were indeed rocks.
I carried the boat hook with me to defend myself, as we carefully walked the path and clambered over rocks to reach the ancient art. This was to be repeated at the next two locations. We would anchor at a safe depth, calculating the change in tides during the time we were ashore, and then take the tender to the island, monitor the shore for crocs, and locate the rock art.
Crocodile, King George River
The second site of rock art was Swift Bay. We anchored a long way from the shore and hopped in the tender. Alex motored towards where the co-ordinates had indicated the art.
“The map is wrong! The inlet on the map doesn’t exist. Let’s go to the other side of the bay. Maybe it’s over there.”
We turned towards the other side of the bay. The tender skipped over the rough waters, and I was drenched in sea-water. I could taste the salt entering my mouth. Finally, we arrived at the beach. I kept my shoes on as I clambered out of the tender for fear of stepping on a jelly fish barefoot. We hauled the tender to a higher place on the shore and tethered it to a rock. Then Alex checked the co-ordinates on his phone map.
“It’s over there, about two kilometres away!’
We walked along the beach, over rocks and rock pools. There was no sign of human habitation on the shore, nor was there any rubbish. I kept scouring the shore for crocs, holding my trusty boat hook. Alex consulted his map again.
“It’s over that rocky hill! The tide has receded and the inlet on the map has appeared. It’s better to go back to the tender and head to the newly revealed inlet.”
“I’m too tired!” I whinged. “Can’t you go and get the tender and pick me up here?”
“Yes. It’ll take me about half an hour.”
Then I thought it might be scary to wait by myself. How would I defend myself against a crocodile?
“I’ll come with you. We should stay together.”
He grabbed my hand, and we hurried back to the tender. Light was falling. Just as well I had got drenched in the previous tender ride because my damp clothes were keeping me cool. We untethered the tender from the rock and dragged it into the water. I hopped in first and Alex pulled it to a suitable depth. Then he boarded and we motored to the inlet.
Once at the inlet we disembarked with our shoes and socks on, as usual, and dragged the tender across the sand to a rock.
“Not far now,” Alex reassured me, following the map.
After walking through bushes and climbing rocks we deduced that there must be a better way to get to the ancient art. We retraced our steps and found a well-trodden path. We just had time to view the rock art in the sunset. We couldn’t afford to linger though. We needed to return to the boat before nightfall. I kept nagging Alex to take photos of the sunset, but he urged me to hurry. What if it were too dark to take the tender back to the boat and we were stuck here with little food and water, and the fear of crocodiles?
By now the tide had turned, and the tender, which we had beached earlier, was floating. We untethered it, pulled it into the sea and I hopped in. Alex pulled it further and hopped in behind me. The tide was strong and it turned the tender around to head back to the shore. Alex pointed it back out to sea, turned on the engine, and headed towards the boat. The tender bounced along the water, and I was again splashed with sea-spray. The boat was a small object in the distance. Would we make it? As darkness progressed, we could just make out the anchor light at the top of the mast. The boat grew larger and larger. Alex turned off the motor, and I grabbed the rail at the stern. I pulled myself up and received the dry bag from Alex. After securing the tender Alex boarded, fixed some snacks, and we sat at the stern, savouring the relief from the sun, the solitude, and the purple and orange lights flickering on the water in the sunset.
The third location was Wary Bay on Bigge Island. By now I had had enough of the heightened tension that came from being vigilant for crocodiles. Maybe it was just me. I decided to do a search for the dangers of crocodiles in the Kimberleys, and my fears were confirmed.
“Maybe we should just enjoy Wary Bay on board?” I suggested.
“Don’t you want to see the rock art?” he countered.
‘Will you protect me from the crocodiles?”
“Of course.”
First, we had to anchor. Our chosen anchorage turned out to be too shallow. Alex raised the anchor and headed for deeper water. We repeated the process of heading ashore in the tender. This time it was a short ride, as was the walk to the caves. We congratulated ourselves on the ease of achieving our aim. We managed to return to the boat way before sunset. As the afternoon and evening progressed, we noticed a coral reef between the beach and us emerge from the water. The tide receded, and the reef grew more and more imposing. If we hadn’t anchored at a greater depth, our boat would have become grounded on the reef. If we had lingered in the caves, the reef would have blocked our route back to the boat in the tender. Instead, we would have been stranded on shore until the next high tide, scanning the water for crocs, or looking at rocks.
.
Meredith Stephens is an applied linguist from South Australia. Her recent work has appeared in Syncopation Literary Journal, Continue the Voice, Micking Owl Roost blog, The Font – A Literary Journal for Language Teachers, and Mind, Brain & Education Think Tank. In 2024, her story Safari was chosen as the Editor’s Choice for the June edition of All Your Stories.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Fountain of Youth by Hans Holbein the Younger (died, 1543CE): From Public Domain
FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH
There was a rumour going around. Superstitions began to take hold.
Residents kept disrobing and climbing into the water fountain.
In the front atrium of The Evergreen Village old age home.
No one knew how such beliefs had come to dominate.
About the fountain of youth and its mystical powers.
But the nurses were busy with the towels.
Walking everyone back to their rooms.
And to hear the nurses talk, you would think there was nothing to such sorceries.
These same nurses, who after each shift, would dip their fingers in the fountain just in case.
From Public Domain
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Borderless Journal, GloMag, Red Fez and Lothlorien Poetry Journal.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
What will you do with the sherwani? Do you think you’ll wear it again? You remember you haven’t tried it once in the past ten years. Why don’t you start wearing it as an overcoat in winters? Have you decided to keep it as a relic or what? Can’t you see it is occupying so much of the wardrobe space? Will the shoulders fit? Why don’t you just donate it now? A barrage of such questions left me wondering how to answer with brevity and conviction.
The wedding lehnga with heavy brocade work was also consuming plenty of almirah space. It was also not used once in all these years. But it was not gifted to any needy woman tying the nuptial knot with unfulfilled dreams of wearing a lehnga on her wedding day. It was preserved with care and concern, with naphthalene balls placed in the corners of the almirah to save it from damage. I had never raised these queries but my sherwani emerged as a prime piece of shimmery clothing that attracted her critical attention. I had a nagging feeling that she was planning for its ouster. I had to chalk out an emergency plan for its occasional, if not regular, use to ensure that she lost interest in my royal outfit forever.
Since I did not attend wedding receptions because I expected to be welcomed and treated like the groom everywhere, I did not get the scope to wear the sherwani. Many friends — esteemed and otherwise — of the groom wore the sherwani. It was considered perfectly stylish. To revive the old tradition, I went to attend a wedding reception in the local area where I was told by some jealous acquaintances that my sherwani appeared odd and outdated. I looked around to scan the truth. I discovered that I was the only prominent guest wearing the nawabi sherwani while the rest of the invitees looked dashing in their ill-fitting formal blazer suits with printed neckties.
I could not manage a makeover at this stage. I chose to stay dressed in the sherwani and gulped the refreshments from various stalls. My mood and attitude and self-confidence got a tremendous boost when the sherwani invited a second look from the decked-up gorgeous aunties who recalled my wearing the same outfit on my wedding day. They seemed to discuss either my poverty or my simplicity, thanks to their good memory. Poor fellow, he has not saved enough to buy a new wedding outfit in these all years. Look, such a simple, down-to-earth guy who does not flash his wealth.
My wife probably overheard their conversation about my professional shortcomings. She came rushing to escort me and proposed we should leave the wedding hall before someone mistook me for a struggling salt-and-pepper haired poet and asked for a sher-o-shairi[1]session in the mehfil[2].
My wife had no idea my sherwani would be remembered here as a stunning piece. I rejected her proposal to retreat after greeting the newly-wed couple on the stage. I claimed to be a more charming, well-dressed guy so I chose to hang around the place and observe the reactions of the crowd, get more photographs clicked as a doting couple more photogenic than the newly-weds.
She held my arm in front of the cameras and felt elated that my sherwani still garnered attention. It suited me more than any other formal suit. There were many people who were seeing me for the first time and the element of newness gave me a winning edge in their instant appraisal of well-dressed men present at the venue.
On the way home after dinner, she surprised me with her request, urging me not to wear the antique piece again when I went out with her. Most of her friends had already seen me in this sherwani. Repetition reveals a lot about financial compulsion was her subtle message. I assured her that my sherwani would never become a source of embarrassment.
There were very few occasions I went out alone for parties. Yes, I went to the market for daily errands, to the bank for withdrawals, to the post office for booking speed post articles. I should make it a habit to wear the sherwani like a casual piece of clothing and wear it off fast to get rid of it at the earliest. I chose not to keep it safe from coffee stains or sauce spill-over while eating burgers or noodles.
Besides, what you start wearing something every day, it loses the tag of being fancy and special. It breeds familiarity and ordinariness. At least that is what I used to think then. Dump it in the laundry box for a normal machine wash instead of taking it gently packed in a carton to the gentle drycleaner.
Along expected lines, I went to a bank for a transaction. The teller was amused to see me dressed in a sherwani on a sunny, sultry day. Are you attending some function today? He was trying to find a justification for the attire. I said I was just trying to feel the vibe of being a nawab even though my pocket made me feel like a pauper every day. The bank staff broke into peals of laughter and declined to clear the cheque because of insufficient balance in the account. I laughed out loud to confirm the truth of my joke.
I came out dejected, rejected, and chose to walk to the nearby chemist store to buy OTC pills for gastric relief. The florist in the corner beckoned me and sold a rose bud for the sherwani. Now you look smart, he said and charged me ten rupees for the unnecessary accessory. I changed my mind and began to walk home instead of visiting the chemist who would refuse me to identify me as a patient in my present avatar.
I told my wife that the sherwani was likely to foment trouble in my rather peaceful life. She argued it was nice to be spotted in a sherwani in the summer. My sherwani would enable me to establish my secular credentials with ease. She asked me to ignore people and their silly reactions even though she herself had not managed to do that yet. When the husband had already mastered the art of ignoring her volley of queries with a deafening silence, I could easily manage to fob off everything criticism that came my way. A revelation of her offended sentiments put me on the mute mode once again.
One fine morning, I chose to visit the farmer’s market. They looked at me with distrust, perhaps thinking I was a zamindar who came to exploit them again. The sherwani continued to be identified as an aristocratic dress long associated with the wealthy royals so they chose to vent their suppressed anger on me without realising that the prosperous working middle-class had already hijacked this dress and changed the old narrative and perception.
They increased the rates of fruits and vegetables to deliver a good lesson loaded with revenge for the atrocities perpetrated by the landed class over the centuries. My appearance in a sherwani provided them with a token opportunity to go hammer and tongs. I found myself poorer when I came back and I felt I should have gifted my sherwani to them to pacify their agitated minds. By taking it off in front of them I would have expressed solidarity with their struggle to expose the exploitative rich.
I confessed to her I couldnot remain in peace when I wore the sherwani in a public space. Finally, I decided to gift it to a young associate about to marry since I thought it would be expensive to order a new one. He refused to accept my sherwani and confirmed his choice of a Western suit, which he had already ordered by paying through his credit card. The sherwani was still quite a wearable, elegant dress and many heroes on the big screen wore it when they danced to woo the heroines during marriage functions. But he wanted to wear what his big boss in office wore every day.
As a writer, I was made of sterner stuff. So, I decided to make a grand statement of style once again. I added a pen apart from a rose to glam up the appeal. I chose to board the bus or local train wearing my sherwani. Fellow passengers gave a weird look along with ample space to sit comfortably. They looked interested to have a conversation with me to know my pursuit. I said I am a writer who was currently visiting various places to gather material for his new work.
They were ready to accept me as a tourist from the other side of the border. One gentleman beside me asked if I wrote in Urdu or Persian. I said I write in plain English and he shot back with a suggestion that I should wear a coat and necktie like an Englishman.
I tried to sound smart by contending that the suit has already been usurped by corporate honchos and the necktie is a definite sign of slavery in modern times. My non-conformist views did not win instant approval from my fellow passengers who wanted to know my destination and my works. I wanted to share everything I could but the conductor in the meantime announced that my stop was nearby. I chose to get up quickly. My sherwani was damaged atlast! This set me free of the burden. I realised the sherwani was helping me understand the other way people tend to think about dress code.
Making the sherwani a less celebrated wear by using it casually on ordinary days did not lead to any decline in its appeal as the older people still took note of it and reacted to it. Within a few months of regular use, it gathered lots of stains and spots. She assigned the job of making it squeaky clean to the dry cleaner. I was surprised to see her attempt to refurbish it.
Was it proposed to reduce her burden or was it a sure sign of her emotional attachment? My mind was still tumbling in confusion. When he saw the condition, he said he had not seen such a dirty sherwani in all his life. It was like a piece of everyday clothing, catching dust and grime all the time, wondering if I was posted in a mining area.
I confessed it was indeed my preferred dress as I wore it often, almost like a standard uniform whenever I went for shopping or dining. He advised me to wear it occasionally to protect it and keep it safe in a plastic cover or else it would lose the shine with frequent cleaning attempts. He pointed at the worn collar. I showed no interest as my lacklustre life would not suffer if the sherwani suffered a loss of sheen. At least my better half would get a logical ground to discard it or exchange it for a kitchen utensil piece.
When I finally saw both the fancy dress items, Sherwani and Lehnga, packed and restored and displayed together in the wardrobe smelling fragrant like fresh rose, I was convinced that our marital bond had got a fresh lease of life.
Devraj Singh Kalsiworks as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Title: The Climate Crossroads: Literature’s Encounter with a Planet on Fire
Author: Rajat Chaudhuri
Publisher: Bloomsbury
The climate crisis has produced an unprecedented body of scientific research, policy documents, and environmental journalism. Yet facts alone have often failed to generate the emotional engagement necessary to confront a planetary emergency. How, then, can literature bridge the gap between knowledge and action? In The Climate Crossroads: Literature’s Encounter with a Planet on Fire, Rajat Chaudhuri argues that stories are indispensable to understanding climate change—not merely as an environmental phenomenon but as a profound cultural, ethical and imaginative challenge.
This is neither a conventional work of literary criticism nor a handbook on climate science. Instead, it is an ambitious interdisciplinary exploration that moves effortlessly across literature, philosophy, history, politics, art, and environmental activism. Drawing upon his own experiences as a climate novelist, researcher and environmental communicator, Chaudhuri creates a work that is as intellectually stimulating as it is deeply personal.
The book opens with intriguing questions that immediately unsettle familiar assumptions. Why do climate activists throw soup at Van Gogh’s Sunflowers? What connects a venomous spider with a centuries-old myth from the Sundarbans? How does an ancient Chinese calligrapher recording snowfall resonate with Indian farmers marching in protest?
These seemingly unrelated images become entry points into a larger conversation about the relationship between culture and ecological crisis. Rather than offering simplistic explanations, Chaudhuri demonstrates how literature reveals hidden connections between the human imagination and the changing planet.
Organised into three sections—Maps, Routes and Discoveries—the book unfolds like an intellectual journey. The first section introduces readers to the conceptual landscape of climate storytelling. Chapters such as A Rainy Night in the North and Poets, Volcanoes and a Chinese Calligrapher explore how literary traditions preserve ecological memory and help us read environmental change through cultural narratives.
Chaudhuri argues convincingly that climate stories did not begin with twenty-first-century climate fiction; they have existed in myths, travel writing, poetry, and historical narratives for centuries.
One important feature of the book is its refusal to isolate literature from other disciplines. Michelangelo appears alongside recipes and agriculture; philosophy intersects with environmental history; artistic imagination coexists with political activism. These unexpected juxtapositions enrich the discussion, illustrating that climate change cannot be understood through scientific data alone. Instead, it demands an engagement with aesthetics, ethics and memory.
The middle section, Routes, represents the intellectual heart of the book. Here Chaudhuri explores the relationship between climate and aesthetics, asking whether beauty and artistic representation remain meaningful in an age of ecological catastrophe. Drawing upon philosophical traditions that include Kantian ethics and the Freudian concept of the uncanny, he examines how literature helps readers experience realities that often seem unimaginable. His readings of significant climate novels demonstrate how fiction transforms abstract scientific projections into lived human experience.
Equally compelling is the chapter Heart of Darkness: Climate and Justice. Chaudhuri insists that climate change is inseparable from questions of inequality, colonial history and political responsibility. The climate crisis is shown not simply as an environmental emergency but as a crisis of justice, disproportionately affecting vulnerable communities while exposing the moral contradictions of modern development. His discussion avoids ideological simplification, instead encouraging readers to appreciate the complex intersections of ecology, economics and power.
The concluding section, Discoveries, offers a cautiously hopeful vision. Rather than ending with despair, Chaudhuri argues that stories possess the power to cultivate empathy, resilience and new forms of planetary consciousness. Literature becomes not merely a record of ecological collapse but an imaginative space where alternative futures can be conceived. This emphasis on possibility distinguishes The Climate Crossroads from many climate books that remain trapped within narratives of inevitable catastrophe.
Chaudhuri’s prose reflects his dual identity as novelist and literary critic. It is elegant without being ornamental and scholarly without becoming inaccessible. Although the book engages sophisticated theoretical frameworks, including environmental humanities, philosophy and literary criticism, its language remains lucid enough for general readers willing to engage with complex ideas. The inclusion of visual material further enhances accessibility, making abstract concepts easier to grasp, as does the extensive footnote.
The author’s own credentials significantly enrich the work. As the acclaimed author of The Butterfly Effect, editor of pioneering Solarpunk anthologies, translator, and climate communicator, Chaudhuri occupies a unique position at the intersection of creative writing and environmental thought. His international engagements, including literary fellowships and participation in global sustainability forums, provide the book with a perspective that is both rooted in South Asia and attentive to global conversations on climate change.
The book is unquestionably an important contribution to the growing field of climate humanities. It reminds us that the climate crisis is not solely a scientific or political problem but also a crisis of imagination. Rajat Chaudhuri demonstrates with remarkable insight that stories are among humanity’s most powerful tools for understanding uncertainty, confronting ecological loss, and envisioning more just futures.
Richly researched, beautifully written and intellectually adventurous, The Climate Crossroads deserves to be read by scholars, students, writers, environmentalists and anyone interested in how literature can illuminate one of the defining challenges of our time. It is both a map of climate storytelling and an invitation to imagine new pathways through an increasingly uncertain world.
Bhaskar Parichha is a journalist and author of Cyclones in Odisha: Landfall, Wreckage and Resilience, Unbiased, No Strings Attached: Writings on Odisha and Biju Patnaik – A Political Biography. He lives in Bhubaneswar and writes bilingually. Besides writing for newspapers, he also reviews books on various media platforms.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
I walk around Koreatown where billboards obstruct the sky when I look up.
What is the point of so many
of them is all I have to say? I look up at them as I see
more of them being installed. I could do without them. I rather see the sky and clouds.
So much wasted space. One day the skies will be gone. We will go blind looking at the ads. All we will see of the stars are more ads. We look at all the pretty colours from all the signs and barely a slice of moonlight.
The planet will be obliterated by the blight of floating billboards. This is all I need to say. Why try and deny that everything that is going up is another thing we do not need. For years I have looked in the distance counting on the sky to be there.
THE CHILD-WIND
I conversed with the child-wind who went by delirium.
It played its childlike games blowing hats off the heads of older women and men walking to church.
When they stooped to pick up their hats the child-wind blew the hats only a few steps away to entice them to try to pick up the hats again until they gave up from exhaustion.
I asked the child-wind why it was so mean. It told me to keep quiet if I did not want it to blow my hat away to the next city.
The child-wind told me it was only kidding. It told me how lonely it felt. It said I was the only human it ever conversed with. It said it was just me, and a small bird that it spoke to. It said the small bird was its closest friend and I was a close second by a little bit.
MULISH
I reach for the dictionary when I read certain poets because I was too stubborn to learn certain words in school or to read what was in the curriculum. Do not get me wrong. I love words and reading. I just picked the books I wanted to read. My mulish ways cost me in gaining knowledge that could have shaped my words in different ways. Still, I think I did alright. I watch the sun setting in the distance. I can describe it in simple words whereas a less mulish man could adorn the words with words I could not imagine using. I do not want to get carried away or show off. I let night overcome the day as I write under stars which I cannot see from the inside of my room unless I look out the window with half my body hanging out. I would not want to fall or hurt myself.
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, born in Mexico, now lives in California and works in Los Angeles. His poetry has appeared in Blue Collar Review, Borderless Journal, Hobo Camp Review, Mad Swirl, and Unlikely Stories. His poetry book, Peering into the Sun, was published by Poet’s Democracy.
.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
