If I could stop a war, I would— but now I can only keep hoping.
The residues of our insignificant lives grow larger in someone’s memory.
The news will include us in cold statistics, forgotten from the chapters of history—
an unmarked grave in an unknown land, though not dead in your loving heart.
A picture you possess, will have a solitary lamp amidst littered petals of flowers.
I will still remain in your breath, blending with the air, in the wavelengths of your mind—
still sheltering our moments of passion.
I will live in your verses, rendered with the force of life.
I am not dead when you’re still gifted with life.
Mitra Samal has poems in Muse India, Borderless,Madras Courier, The Chakkar etc. She is an avid reader and a cinephile. Her poetry book Silence Has a Sound was published by Om Books this year.
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Balu was a kind and bright boy who was always smiling. But he had a secret: he was utterly terrified of the dark. He never dared to step out of his house alone after sunset. Whenever the lights went out during a power cut, he would let out a small, scared squeak, cry “Mom… darkness!” and rush to hide himself in his mother’s arms.
One night, as he sat trembling on her lap, his father scooped him up. “Balu,” he said gently, “there is absolutely no need to be afraid of the dark. Think about it. When the light is on, your toys are right there on the shelf, your favourite books are on the table, and your cozy bed is waiting for you. When the light is off, guess what? All your toys, books, and bed are still exactly in the same place! Darkness doesn’t add anything or subtract anything; it just turns off the lights. It’s your own mind that invents imaginary monsters. Once you learn to push those silly thoughts away, you’ll see how brave you can really be.”
Balu nodded, trying to understand. But the next night, when the light went out, his heart began to pound all over again.
Days turned into weeks, and Balu remained as scared as ever.
One cloudy afternoon, as he was walking home from school, the sky grew unusually dark. A strong wind rustled the leaves, making them dance in eerie shapes on the ground. Suddenly, Balu froze. He heard a strange, pathetic little whimper. He stopped and listened. The sound was coming from the thick, thorny bushes by the side of the road.
“What could it be?” he wondered, his heart fluttering. He hesitated for a moment, then took a brave step closer and peeked into the bushes.
There, trapped deep within the tangle of sharp thorns, was the tiniest, fluffiest puppy he had ever seen. Its leg was caught, and its velvety ears were drooping with fear. Every time it tried to wiggle free, a thorn would prick its delicate skin, making it let out another sad cry.
Balu felt a wave of fear wash over him. “If I reach in there, those thorns will tear my skin,” he thought, taking a step back. But then he looked at the puppy’s big, soulful brown eyes, shimmering with unshed tears. He saw how hard its little body was shivering. “No, I can’t leave him. He’s just a baby, and he’s so scared,” a little voice whispered inside him. “He needs me”.
“Don’t worry, little one. I won’t let you get hurt,” Balu said, his voice stronger than he expected. He dropped his heavy school bag on the grass and looked around. He found a long, strong stick nearby.
Using the stick, he carefully pushed the sharp thorny branches aside, creating a small path. Slowly and gently, mindful not to scare the puppy further, he reached into the opening. A few thorns scratched his hands, but he hardly felt them. He scooped the tiny bundle into his arms and carefully pulled it free.
From Public Domain
Once safe, the puppy didn’t run away. Instead, it looked up at Balu, wagged its tail with all its might, and enthusiastically licked his nose. It was its own little way of saying, “You are my hero!”. His heart was filled with a warm, joyful feeling that erased all his remaining fear.
When he got home, he ran to his father and told him everything.
His father’s eyes filled with pride. “You did an incredibly brave thing today, Balu. You risked getting hurt to save a small, helpless creature. Only a person with real courage can do something like that. I am so proud of you!” He gave Balu a tight hug.
Just then, his mother arrived with a tube of soothing ointment. As she gently dabbed it on his scratches, she smiled. “Well, my little hero will be truly unstoppable once he conquers his other fear—the fear of the dark!”
Balu’s smile faded a little. “You’re right, Mom. I still have to work on that.”
His father sat next to him. “Balu, that’s where you’re wrong. What you have isn’t a fear; it’s just a misunderstanding. To prove it to you, I have an idea. Tonight, we will go into one of the rooms and sit together in the dark. I will show you that there is nothing there but silence and emptiness. Your imagination is the only thing that fills it with monsters. Will you sit with me? After that, mother will know you are a complete hero.”
Balu hesitated, a shadow of fear crossing his face. “Are you sure? Will I be safe?”.
His father said, “I am your dad. Would I ever ask you to do something that wasn’t safe? I promise you, I will be right there with you the whole time. You’ve faced sharp thorns to save a puppy. Facing the dark is easy compared to that.”
That night, they went into a quiet room and closed the door. His father flipped the switch, and the room was instantly plunged into darkness. At first, Balu let out a gasp and squeezed his father’s hand as hard as he could. But his father just laughed softly and put his arm around him.
“Now,” his father began, “while we’re sitting here in this quiet, peaceful dark, I’m going to tell you a true story about a real-life hero who was born in our very own country. This is a story about a brave young man named Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj.”
He told Balu about Shivaji’s courage, how he learned to navigate through the densest forests and the darkest, snowiest mountains without any fear. He described how Shivaji, even as a young boy, wasn’t afraid to explore hidden caves and deep canyons, always knowing that the dark was just a part of the world, not something to dread. Balu was so enthralled by the stories of battles and daring escapes that he completely forgot where he was. He was picturing Shivaji on horseback, charging through the night to defend his people.
“Wow, daddy! What an amazing hero! He was so brave,” Balu exclaimed when the story was over.
“He was,” his father agreed, smiling in the dark. “And tell me, Balu. During all this time we’ve been sitting here, while I was telling you the story, did anything happen to you?”
Balu thought for a moment. “No, nothing at all. I wasn’t even thinking about the dark! My eyes have adjusted now, and I can see the shapes of the furniture. It’s not scary at all.”
Outside the door, his mother’s phone alarm went off. The next moment, she pushed the door open, flooding the room with light.
Balu looked up at her with a beaming smile. “Nothing happened to me in the dark, Mom! I’m not afraid anymore!”
His mother hugged him tightly. “I am so proud of you, Balu! The courage that was concealed within you all this time has finally revealed itself. That courage is your own special light. Where there is light, darkness must disappear. And where there is courage, fear has no place to hide.”
From that night on, Balu never feared the dark again. He was truly a hero, through and through.
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Naramsetti Umamaheswararao has written more than a thousand stories, songs, and novels for children over 42 years. he has published 32 books. His novel, Anandalokam, received the Central Sahitya Akademi Award for children’s literature. He has received numerous awards and honours, including the Andhra Pradesh Government’s Distinguished Telugu Language Award and the Pratibha Award from Potti Sreeramulu Telugu University. He established the Naramshetty Children’s Literature Foundation and has been actively promoting children’s literature as its president.
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There are punctuations of wonder within the units here and upon raising one's arms you can find proximity to mysteries of the universe.
There may not be worldly treasures in this reservoir but pearls of the heart glisten here.
ROOF OF THE WORLD
It was an extraordinary moment as we disembarked from Mehtab Manzil's highest bough, away from an august gathering, to venture closer to the pigeons.
We carried the taste of centuries-old lakhauri affixed to ruined ramparts and proceeded to walk ahead.
THE MARTYRS' SIGHS
A martyrs' monument and garden, sighing youth sitting under the inscriptions.
They only bring dry, coarse words within this fervent platform.
Revolution has died with their cold flames in the here and now.
KITES IN THE SKY
It's a good thing that we didn't catch those colourful kites. Those coarse threads are better left not passing through these fragile fingers.
These fingers have lost their sense of rhythm.
THE COLOUR PURPLE
The river's purple-hued currents stagnate with the boats on them. These banks stay and tell their tales as red and yellow lights are emitted on umbrella-shaped domes and triangular shapes that breathe with the city everyday.
SARANGI
"Play sarangis", echoes the old soul of the city preserved by its defiant custodians of culture. The masterful, classical heart of Lucknow is our only friend.
THE DOORWAY
The city has taken a turn. There it is, the city's foremost doorway. Now, our steps will move that way. Let us proceed to go towards the future.
THE TREASURE TROVE
We ate wandering berries, tasted tangy syrups during these moody yet soulful days.
Parting communal curtains, we separated ourselves from cob-webbed doors.
We don't need to look for a treasure- trove. The world opens up for us here.
GLOSSARY
Lakhauri: Limestone bricks that were used to construct many of Lucknow’s iconic monuments.
Sarangi: A stringed instrument known for producing melancholic sounds but also great beauty.
Prithvijeet Sinha is an MPhil from the University of Lucknow, having launched his prolific writing career by self-publishing on the worldwide community Wattpad since 2015 and on his WordPress blog An Awadh Boy’s Panorama. Besides that, his works have been published in several journals and anthologies.
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A fat black lizard soaking up the sunrise. The skin is iridescent, Sparkling in the sunshine, Dosing, startled, it dashes to the shade, Seeking a place to hide. The shade will protect him. Fast and smooth and slippery, Dash-stop, dash-stop the jerky lizard pace, Confusion for the predators. The black stands out on the concrete sidewalk. A grasshopper leaps into the air. It crashes onto the pavement, Takeoffs are easy. The grasshopper shakes itself and moves on. The fat black lizard ventures out. Losing its cover. A tan-grey concrete-coloured lizard steps into the sunshine. Warms for a minute and disappears back into the shade. It’s a game, a life-and-death game.
RACE FOR SURVIVAL
The tight green pinecones fall to the forest floor and ripen. Soon, the seeds are expelled and drift down into the soil. It rains, dries then rains again. The seeds magically germinate, Push back up through the dense soil. Burst through the mat of pine needles, And the race is on – the race to the sun. Thousands of competitors entered this race. Find a spot of sun and quickly grow into it. Shadow on the competition, this is a fight for light, for life. Stand above the smooth meadow. For the sunshine, For survival. For life.
From Public Domain
Ron Pickett is a retired naval aviator. His 90-plus articles have appeared in various publications. He has published five books: Perfect Crimes – I Got Away With It, Discovering Roots, Getting Published, 60 Odd Short Stories, and Empaths. Ron has had his poems published in Scarlet Leaf, Borderless Journal, and other periodicals.
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David Lynch had always been my favourite living filmmaker since I watched The Straight Story on new-release Blockbuster DVD back when I was nineteen. At that time, I was still acting and dreamed of a role in one of David's strange, beautiful films. It took me several years to understand Lost Highway was simply a story told from two different perspectives: reality, and the twisted reality of the murdering protagonist. Or, that Mulholland Drive was both the idyllic fantasy, and inevitable stark reality, of a talent starved actress desperate to make it in Hollywood. Blue Velvet, a bleak exploration of the dark violent extremes man is capable of resorting, to when stricken by uncontrollable love. Twin Peaks, a contagious evil, perpetually travelling throughout cultures, people, and time. Navigating a lengthy wake of heartache, and loss. As the decades passed, I no longer desired to be in David Lynch movies, just simply wished to meet him. Maybe share a few drinks and talk about those wonderfully distinct pictures, that to this day, I continue viewing. Mr. Lynch, the night before you died, I was sipping on Tennessee whiskey marvelling at you and Harry Dean Stanton in that brilliant scene from John Carroll Lynch's Lucky, where you say a final affectionate farewell to your recently escaped much beloved ageing tortoise President Roosevelt, following an endless shift at my blue- collar job working the entire miserable shift in the unrelenting, saturating rain. You brought the first, and only smile to my face that exhausting day. A marvellous gift I owe to you completely. Cheers, you spectacular madman. Your atoms have now passed the stars. What glorious pictures they must see.
Brenton Booth is a writer residing in Sydney, Australia. His writing has been published by New York Quarterly, Midwest Quarterly, and North Dakota Quarterly.
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KANSAS Kansas. White clouds scud across the blue sky. Weeds quiver under a relentless sun. Black Angus cows stand knee deep in pond water as a Gator driven by a teenager speeds by and the blue pick-up in the driveway needs gas and Casey’s is open eighteen hours a day. Kansas. Where the blue bowl sky stretches forever. Do folks really live in Tonganoxie? Topawingo? Baxter Springs? Chalk Corner? Kansas. Do the red brick houses with white wood shutters in Baxter Springs cost less than those in Anderson Acres with aluminum shutters? Do oleanders grow along the sidewalk? Will the teenager from the new housing development mow the yard every other week or will American Lawns and their electric powered mowers driven by men who only speak Spanish and have callused hands do it instead? Is the school home to the Bulldogs? Or is it the Knights? Kansas. Do folks earn their beans and bacon at Iron Bull? At Willow’s Plow? Or E-A-R-P? What is a Why Burger and does Door Dash deliver? Is the Help Wanted sign still in the Waffle House window? Kansas. Do Prairie Dogs really land at Prairie Dog landing? Is the Haunted House really haunted? Does Mrs. Stella Green still own Green’s Landscaping? Did Miss Fortune come to work this week? Kansas. Where the restless wind blows. Where the hot sun shines and white stars stud the night sky and soon snowflakes will fly and Casey’s is open eighteen hours a day.
Pete Peterson’s poetry has appeared in Painted Pony, Baseball Bard, Summer Time, Borderless and other journals. Reach him at petersonwriter9391@gmail.com
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The ocean floor is full of voids left behind by the tube feet of sea stars that didn't adhere—
the notification of unanswered calls glaring from voicemails and pastels decline notes sticking out from the serrated lids of mailboxes.
The fissure on the white flowerpot has widened, three slivers arching away from the centre. The nail heads on the deck were buried under a thick white sheet.
It snowed when I was asleep.
I took the chipped ceramic cup with sketch pens. I had forgotten to tighten the caps. Removing the back stopper, I poured some tap water into a pen. The ink that came out was pale blue.
Anjana Vipin Edakkunny is a writer from Kerala, currently based in the United States. Her poems have appeared in Target Global Magazine and PoemsIndia. Her debut poetry manuscript, The Sandalwood Pyre, has been accepted for publication by Writers Workshop, Kolkata.
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When I was a child of five I was gifted a boy-toy I’d don my hipster holster And a felt hat And go po-pow At every stone, tree and friend.
I was the TV show good man who always won the fight, who always killed the bad boys So I grew up the good guy A man with a vision A force to be reckoned with The force destined to tackle the Cataclysmic enemies of the universe Destruction and annihilation of the enemy Was my mission The good man always wins So I got myself a man’s toy And staked the enemy out I opened fire at random To wipe the bad guys out Because the good guy always wins
A. Jessie Michael is a retired Associate Professor of English from Malaysia. She has written short stories for online journals, local magazines and newspapers. She has published an anthology of short stories Snapshots, with two other writers and most recently her own anthology The Madman and Other Stories (2016).
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In a far away estranged land, my bones do not carry my mother's grief.
It no longer weighs me down, worn-out threads beg to reach you.
Language was born between us, out of silence and longing. Yet, I speak it
alone. When the wilted flowers bloom, I'd like to believe that you think of me.
Every poem I write is a torn hem I keep stitching wrong – maybe, one day, I’ll get it right.
But for now, I dream of a language that can hold our longing in a poem.
A lark tries to sing our aubade that the world has forgotten.
Maybe, in this far away estranged world, I have a love that refuses to leave my body.
Momina Raza is a poet from Lahore. Her works have appeared in TheAleph Review, PoemsIndia, Jashn Anthology vol 2 and other literary journals. She has read her poems at the Lahore Literary Festival and Lakeer Kahaniyaan. You can find her on Instagram @momina17_.
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Joseph Hilaire Pierre René Belloc (1870-1953) was a writer and political activist. From Public Domain
A MOTORBIKE AT KNOSSOS (in memory of Hilaire Belloc)
The chief defect of Arthur Glee was unrestrained velocity. Let’s listen to his final story even though it’s rather gory.
Arthur rode a bike of chrome and red, filled onlookers’ hearts with mortal dread, for he had sworn that he must go to see the island grotto below where the Minotaur in darkness dwelled deep down within a stony hell, his awful bellow the only sound in that grisly underground, and Arthur raced through ruined halls and never hit a single wall. But speed is such a fickle thing, as Arthur learned, while wandering.
The labyrinth, built of stone and myth, was something he would reckon with. He sped past pillars, tall and wide, with nothing but a desire inside to prove that modern speed and gear can conquer every ancient fear. “The Labyrinth!” he roared with pride, and threw the throttle open wide.
But as he leaned into the curve, he lost his grip (and then his nerve). For history is a heavy weight on those who challenge it too late. He struck a wall of Minoan brick and though a rescue team was very quick they found that Arthur, in his haste, had gone most thoroughly to waste.
The surgeons, with astounding skill, repaired his frame against his will. With plastic, steel, titanium plate, they mended his unhappy state until, like Theseus’ famous ship, he’d lost his true identity’s grip. Was he the boy who crashed the bike or something more… robotic-like?
Now tourists stand in frozen lines beneath the Mediterranean pines, while Arthur ponders, strange and grim, with nothing left that was part of him.
The Moral: If you must visit ancient sites, do not go chasing bullish frights. For he who races through the past will find himself replaced at last.
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.
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