Tag: Pacific Ocean

The Word I Could Never Say

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date May 14, 2025
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By Odbayar Dorj

There is a word I’ve never been able to say. Just three letters in Mongolian—“ААВ” (father)—but for me, it’s the most difficult word of all. I’ve never called anyone by that name.

I remember second grade in Duut Soum, one of the most remote and elevated villages in Mongolia. It was a small, close-knit place where everyone knew each other. My classmates and I had grown up together—from kindergarten to school, playing outside in the same familiar streets. Because there weren’t many children, each grade had only one class. Ours was one of the largest.

One day, our teacher assigned us to write a composition titled “My Father”. It was a simple assignment for most, but for someone who had never known a father, I didn’t know where to begin. For the first time, I asked my mother for help. I remember her thinking of her own father—my grandfather—and guiding me gently: “Write that when he comes home, it feels like a mountain’s shelter fills the house.”

I wrote exactly what she said and turned in my paper.

Later, our teacher read aloud one of the essays she liked best. To my surprise, she read mine. I was so embarrassed, I wanted to disappear from my seat. I still wonder why she chose it — maybe because it touched her, or maybe because it came from a child imagining what she had never experienced. When she finished, some boys asked, “How can she write about a father if she doesn’t have one?” Their words cut deeply. I didn’t cry, but I wanted to.

From that moment on, every assignment about “father” became something I dreaded. It felt unfair that schools continued to assign such topics, as if everyone had the same kind of family. In a world where many grow up without a father or mother, why do we continue to teach in ways that exclude them?

Despite it all, I’m endlessly grateful to my mother. She raised me without letting me lack for anything. Because I never had a father to begin with, I didn’t know what I was missing—until much later.

In 2022, I came to Japan as a student. It became one of the most beautiful periods of my life. I met many wonderful people, and one of them was Toshio-san.

As summer approached, I was researching places to travel. When I showed Toshio-san my list, he pointed to one place, Shimanto River. “That’s near my home,” he said. “I can help you get there.”

We arranged to meet at the library the following week. Punctual as always, he was waiting at the entrance. We planned to go on August 22, and he suggested we stay two nights instead of one. I agreed. He called a friend to find accommodations and promised to take me to the Pacific Ocean.

Later, he returned from a trip with brochures and snacks for me, but due to rising COVID cases, he suggested we postpone. “But I promise, I’ll take you,” he said. I would have understood if it didn’t happen, but just before classes resumed, he contacted me again. He opened his calendar and asked about October 29–30. I had no plans, so I said yes.

Before leaving, he added, “Oh, one more thing. Do you know Yuto Ishihara? He’ll join us.” I did. Toshio-san thought I might feel uncomfortable traveling alone, so he arranged a friend for me.

I counted the days until October 29.

When the day came, he called at 5:55 a.m., right on time. We picked up Yuto and headed toward Kochi. It was a warm, golden day. Our first stop was Umi no Eki in Toyocho, famous for fresh raw fish. Unfortunately, I dislike raw fish—and raw eggs too, which was part of the breakfast set. When I asked if it was boiled, Toshio-san laughed and explained that Japanese people enjoy mixing raw eggs with rice and soy sauce.

Still, I ate the miso soup and rice and watched the surfers nearby.

“Kochi is known for its waves,” he said, smiling.

We visited a cave near Muroto, one of Tokushima’s 88 pilgrimage sites, and passed through orange fields. “Do you like oranges?” he asked.

“Yes, I love them!”

He immediately called a friend to find the best ones and bought me two bags. I shared a few, then ate the rest happily. Watching me, he said, “What else do you like? I’ll get it for you!” He was sincerely happy to make me happy.

That’s when a thought crossed my mind: What would it have been like to have a father?

I had never asked myself that before. But seeing someone care so sincerely, someone wanting to make me smile, I couldn’t help but wonder: If I had a father, would he have been like Toshio-san?

We visited the famous Hirome Market in Kochi for lunch. I told him I liked karaage (fried chicken), and he got me several types to try. Later, we drove to Tosashimizu. On the way, he talked on the phone—I guessed it had something to do with fish.

By the time we arrived, the sun was setting. We went to Tosashimizu Geopark to see the sunset. Though we were late, the orange glow lingered, and the lighthouse in the distance glowed beautifully.

That night, we visited an elderly woman, nearly 100 years old, who gifted me handmade crafts and an eco-bag. Then we went to a guesthouse run by another friend. Dinner was elaborate, and though they had prepared sashimi, Toshio-san had informed them in advance that I didn’t eat raw fish. They made grilled chicken just for me.

It was then that I realized: that phone call earlier had been for me.

Another guest joined us—a friend of Toshio-san’s who showed me his collection of sea shells and marine fossils, each labeled and categorized. He even gifted me one as a keepsake.

At that moment, I remembered a Mongolian proverb:

“When your father is alive, meet people. When your horse is healthy, travel far.”

I had never been introduced to so many people before. This was what that proverb meant.

The next morning, we woke early to watch the sunrise. Words can’t describe its beauty—the waves crashing, the golden light spreading over the ocean and cliffs, the lighthouse standing tall.

We visited Kawashijima Island, where the sea was so clear we could see fish without any equipment. Later, we had lunch at another friend’s restaurant—a tiny, spotless place where I had the best omurice I’ve ever tasted. While waiting, another friend of his joined us—a lively woman who had worked in elementary school and was now a river master.

Although it was only a two-day trip, I met so many new people and visited countless beautiful places. It became one of the most precious memories of my life—when I truly felt how beautiful this world is, and how many kind-hearted people there are in it. In those moments, I found myself thinking, If I had a father, maybe he would have taken me on a trip like this, introducing me to his friends, just like this.

And in those moments, it felt like the wound I’d carried deep in my heart for 26 years had finally started to heal.
The thought: What if I had a father?

Just be kind. Your kindness may fill someone’s emptiness. It may even heal a wound they’ve been silently carrying for years. Maybe, at that time, Toshio-san didn’t even realize how much of that space he had filled in me. But I truly wanted to say the word I could never say for so many years—father—to him.

Even though we were born in different countries, speak different languages, and live in different cultures, I found the father I had long searched for—in Japan. I haven’t seen Toshio-san since, but if I’m ever asked about my father, I will tell this story again and again.

Because sometimes, it doesn’t take blood to become family.

Sometimes, a kind voice, a shared meal, or a smile from the heart is enough to fill what we thought would always be missing. In a quiet corner of Japan, through simple acts of kindness, I found a sense of belonging—and perhaps, the most unexpected gift of all: a father’s love.

Sunrise in Cape Ashizuri, Tosashimizu, Kochi, Japan. Photo Courtesy: Odbayar Dorj

Odbayar Dorj is an international student from Mongolia currently studying in Japan. Her writing reflects on cultural identity, personal memory, and the power of connection across borders and generations.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

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Tags COVID, Duut, Japan, Kawashijima Island, Kocho, Mongolia, Muroto, Odbayar Dorje, Pacific Ocean, Tokushima, Toyocho

Excerpt

The Sunset Suite

Title: The Sunset Suite (A Weird Western)

Author: Rhys Hughes

Publisher: Gibbon Moon

The two men had made camp beneath a bristlecone pine and they sat with a fire between them. The flames had died down but the embers were glowing and the pot of coffee was resting on the ashes and bubbling. They had tiny cups in their gnarled hands and sipped them as they blinked at each other and the stars over the world burned without twinkling. The first man, who was called Brand, spoke to the second, who was named Thorn, and his words were about the beverage in their cups, and his tone was awestruck.

“You know something, pard? This coffee tastes not just like coffee but also like something else. I think it tastes like a story, a different story with each cup, but a very short story every time because the cups are so small. And that’s not a normal thing for coffee to be like. I won’t say the situation is worrying, no siree, but I might venture the opinion that it’s highly unusual. The cup I drank just now tasted like an anecdote about a mule.”

And Thorn said, “You are right, Brand. What should we do about it? There is a lot of coffee remaining in the pot.”

“I guess we’ll keep drinking it, pard. But maybe we ought to tell it as well as drink it. Get those stories out there. It might be injurious to our health if we swallow them and absorb them all.”

“Agree with you, I do. The cup I just drank tasted like a fable concerning a cactus and a coyote. Should have related it to you, but I didn’t. Maybe I’ll get an attack of indigestion now. Hope not.”

“Listen then, Thorn. Let’s help ourselves to another cup each and I will tell you the story that I’m tasting. You can go second. We’ll take it in turns and keep going until the coffee pot is exhausted.”

“That dented thing looks tired already. But I know what you mean. Alright, I am waiting for you to tell me a tale.”

And the one named Brand opened his mouth.

Into the Sunset

Cowboys are often depicted riding off into the sunset. Jake Bones loved riding off into the sunset more than anything. He refused to ride in any other direction or at any other time. Sunsets don’t really last long, and so Jake rarely rode more than a mile every day. He hung around places until the sun started to turn orange and when it reddened he would mount his horse and canter towards the western horizon until the fiery ball vanished over the edge of the world. Then he would pull on the reins, dismount and look for a place to sleep. In this manner he very slowly crossed the continent. It took years for him to complete his journey and when he started, from a small town on the coast of North Carolina, he hadn’t a plan at all. He just knew he had to follow the sunset. The plan came to him five years later, when he was halfway across the mighty landmass. Jake Bones knew that one day he would finally reach the Pacific Ocean. How would he be able to ride off into the sunset then? His horse would drown if he attempted to make it swim through the rippling light. But there is a solution to every problem and he was riding through a forest of dead trees when inspiration struck. He snapped a branch off, then another, as he went, while the rays of the setting sun slanted at a lower and lower angle and finally were horizontal before they were blocked by the curvature of the Earth. Jake strapped the branches to the sides of his horse with the rope he always carried. In the days, weeks and months that followed, he acquired more branches and other pieces of wood, and the appearance of his horse changed dramatically. Finally, the tang of a salty breeze filled the nostrils of Jake Bones and he knew he had almost reached the ocean. With his knife he cut off the brim of his Stetson and turned the hat into the cap of a sailor. Then he climbed over a rise and found himself gazing down at a seashore lapped by little waves, and the sun was setting into the sea and making a ladder of reddish light towards him. That ladder beckoned and he spurred his horse the short remaining distance into the cool water. His horse was watertight and floated well and he had no anxiety as he slowly paddled towards the west. Why should a lack of land interrupt his progress? Jake Bones had converted his horse into a boat and he had done this on the hoof. He still follows the sunset and has been sighted by the crews of several ships since.

A Model Prisoner

He was guilty of shooting off the ear of a man in a saloon, a man who later died, and that’s why he went to jail. Everyone knew that Shorty Potter was quite an unpleasant individual and that he had tried to place that bullet in the brain of the mad auctioneer, Killy the Bid, but he had been drinking heavily and his aim was amiss and the ear flew off and landed in the middle of an important poker game on a table in the far corner of the saloon.

The bar keeper sent an errand boy to fetch the town sheriff and Shorty was apprehended and locked up and a trial date was set, but Killy the Bid made the incident more complicated than it might have been. The loss of his right ear left him with a ringing in his head, and at first he supposed the ringing was the noise of a train coming through the town, so he tended to stop in his tracks whenever he heard it and wait for the train to pass.

But there never was a train and he soon understood that the ringing was in his mind or maybe some form of tinnitus. He was crossing the railway tracks on a bright morning three weeks after the incident, and when he heard a ringing he just ignored it, and the train struck him and not much of Killy the Bid remained, apart from his left ear, curiously enough.

His demise was deemed wholly, albeit indirectly, a result of Shorty Potter’s discharge of his Colt in that saloon, and the public prosecutor wanted him to be charged with murder, but in the end he was charged with affray and disorder and sentenced to ten years behind bars. Ten years was considered a harsh sentence at a time when men died relatively young and Shorty was appalled at the idea. But he decided to make no trouble henceforth.

He was meek and mild and his reputation as an unpleasant fellow began to erode, at least among the other prisoners and the prison guards. Shorty became, in short, a model prisoner. He volunteered for menial tasks, swept the cells and corridors even when it wasn’t his turn, tended to inmates who fell sick, kept his own cell neat and tidy, was always polite to the guards, no matter how savagely they spoke to him, and in fact they started to soften their tone when telling him something. They eventually trusted him.

The result of all this activity was that he was awarded privileges, nothing a free man might regard as a luxury, but small liberties that any incarcerated felon would certainly appreciate. He was allowed to read books, though the choice he was offered was very limited, but not all of them were religious tracts, and a big volume of Longfellow’s poetry became his favourite. He was also permitted two hours of exercise in the yard instead of one.

Shorty Potter never pushed his luck too far. He scarcely pushed it at all, but one day he approached the most senior guard in the prison and softly asked if he might be allowed some clay. He wanted to construct models for his amusement, a hobby that nobody could surely regard with disapproval, and the guard agreed it was a great idea, an outlet for Shorty’s exuberant creativity that was obviously pent up not only by metallic bars but the rigid routines of prison life. Permission was granted. A bucket of clay was provided.

He moulded it to create little figures of men and women, and as his skills improved he made small houses, churches, even a replica of the prison itself, a model that delighted the senior guard so much he asked for it as a gift. Shorty was happy to give it to him. He produced another, deliberately not as detailed, for himself, and followed this up with ships and saloons, wagons and herds of bison, incredibly lifelike eagles and coyotes. He was especially admired for the hungry bear and a pack of wolves he made.

During this phase of his imprisonment, Shorty Potter often thought about his own surname and wondered if fate was playing a joke, but fate sometimes is kinder than that, and in this case it wanted to help him. Shorty began work on a special piece, the most ambitious of his models. He required more clay than one bucketful and it was given to him after he answered the question, “Why do you need so much?” by saying he was preparing a surprise for the prison guards, an artistic statement that would electrify them.

He worked on this project only at night. The prison guards trusted him now and waited to see what surprise he was preparing for them, and they laid bets on what his masterpiece might turn out to be. A paddlesteamer, said one. A replica of the White House, said another. One guard, pondering the word ‘electrify’ had the unhappy idea that Shorty was making a model of an electric chair, a method of execution introduced the previous year.

One morning, he failed to respond to the wake-up call. A guard rapped on his door with a short iron pole, but there was no answer. The guard peered into the cell and saw Shorty Potter still in bed, and there was something wrong with him. He looked an unhealthy colour. Had he died in his sleep? The guard turned his key in the lock and rushed inside. He shook Shorty and felt the clamminess of his flesh. No, it wasn’t flesh. It was clay!

Shorty had made a model of a man and substituted the model for himself. A decoy! He must have made his escape. But how? There were no holes in the wall and no tunnels under the cell. How had he managed this miracle? With an angry yell, the guard summoned his comrades. They felt betrayed, and it must also be admitted that they felt some respect for Shorty. He really had turned out to be a model prisoner. Then they growled:

“Send out a search party. He can’t have gone far. Shoot on sight! And get that clay model out of here. There will be hell to pay for this. No one has ever escaped from this prison before! Hurry…”

And they hurried. Two of them carried the clay model out of the cell and along the corridors to the main gate and threw it into the dust outside. Then they returned into the prison and slammed the door. One minute later, the clay model stirred, sat up and blinked, then stood. It began hobbling away from the prison until it reached the bushes. It pushed on through the undergrowth, avoiding the paths, until it reached a rapidly flowing river.

It knelt and washed itself in the foamy water and every part of its exposed skin needed a good scrubbing, all apart from the left ear. People would later say that this was a secret message to Killy the Bid about his missing right ear, but in fact the reason was merely that there hadn’t been enough clay to cover it. Shorty Potter cleaned himself and when he looked like a flesh man again, he forded the river with difficulty and reached the far side.

Then he started running for the hills. He reached them too, a sanctuary safe from his pursuers. But on the sixth day of his newly-won freedom, as he walked over a fissured plateau, he slipped down a narrow crevice…

About the Book

Coffee around a camp fire. But every cup tastes like a story. And so the two cowboys, Thorn and Brand, exchange tall tales as they drink. And they will keep telling stories until the pot is empty. They will relate implausible and incredible accounts of outlaws, pioneers, visionaries, musicians, lawmen, warriors, ghosts, mountain men, dreamers and hellfire preachers. They will gradually and inevitably turn into stories themselves as they sit beneath the bristlecone pine tree…

“Rhys Hughes seems almost the sum of our planet’s literature. He toys with convention. He makes the metaphysical political, the personal incredible and the comic hints at subtle pain. Few living fictioneers approach this chef’s sardonic confections, certainly not in English.” — MICHAEL MOORCOCK

“If I said he was a Welsh writer who writes as though he has gone to school with the best writing from all over the world, I wonder if my compliment would just sound provincial. Hughes’ style, with all that means, is among the most beautiful I’ve encountered in several years.” — SAMUEL R. DELANY

About the Author

Rhys Hughes is a writer of Fantastika and Speculative Fiction.

His earliest surviving short story dates from 1989, and since that time he has embarked on an ambitious project of writing a story cycle consisting of exactly 1000 linked tales. Recently, he decided to give this cycle the overall name of PANDORA’S BLUFF. The reference is to the box of troubles in the old myth. Each tale is a trouble, but hope can be found within them all.

His favourite fiction writers are Italo Calvino, Stanislaw Lem, Boris Vian, Flann O’Brien, Alasdair Gray and Donald Barthelme, all of whom have a well-developed sense of irony and a powerful imagination. He particularly enjoys literature that combines humour with seriousness, and that fuses the emotional with the intellectual, the profound with the light-hearted, the spontaneous with the precise.

His first book was published in 1995 and sold slowly but it seemed to strike a chord with some people. His subsequent books sold more strongly as my reputation gradually increased. He is regarded as a “cult author” by some and though pleased with that description, he obviously wants to reach out to a wider audience!

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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Tags Gibbon Moon, Michael Moorcock, North Carolina, Pacific Ocean, Rhys Hughes, Samuel R. Delany, The Sunset Suite, White House

Essay

Coffee, Lima and Legends…

Post author By borderlesssg1
Post date November 14, 2023
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Narratives and photographs by Ravi Shankar

The city of Lima, Peru was founded by the Spanish conquistador, Francisco Pizzaro in 1535. Spanish scouts sent out by him reported the place had ample water, fertile lands, sea access, and fair weather influencing the decision to settle there. Now, the city is in the agricultural region known by the locals as Limaq. It was once the most important city in the Viceroyalty of Peru that ruled over a large part of South America. Today over one-third of Peru’s population resides in the greater Lima area. The moisture-laden winds from the ocean result in fog throughout most of the year. The cold Humboldt current keeps the Pacific Ocean temperatures low. The coastal region of Peru known as the Costa is a dry desert and rainfall is scarce. The combination of very little rain with a thick fog fascinates both residents and visitors. Most mornings were foggy during my stay in Lima.

Lima serves as the entry point to Peru and during your trips around the country, you can enter and leave Lima multiple times like I did. During one of my visits, I stayed with Cesar, a pharmacist with the Ministry of Health, on the 15^th floor of a modern apartment complex overlooking the Pacific Ocean, in Magdalena del Mar, with a beautiful view of the Pacific.

Magdalena del Mar is fast becoming a trendy neighbourhood has an immaculate Heart of Mary Church, an ornate beautifully designed church in pink stone. Roman Catholicism with its emphasis on ceremonies, ornamentation, and ostentatious displays shares many similarities with the religions of the East. One afternoon after lunch, I visited the long stretch of beach which I admired from the fifteenth-floor window. I had to cross the Circuito de Playas, the six-lane highway that links several spots along the coast in Lima.

The city of Lima is famous for its museums. The Museum of Art in Lima is wonderful. Located in downtown Peru at the Parque de la Exposicion (Park of the Exposition), the museum houses one of the best collections of Peruvian art from pre-Columbian times to the modern day. The artworks are mostly grouped according to the period of their creation. Different cultures like the Moche, Nazca, Chimu, Chancay, Ica, and the Incas are represented. After the Spanish conquest, local artists and artisans concentrated on religious Catholic art. Modern Peruvian secular art began in the nineteenth century. I read with great interest the struggle between two schools/visions on how this art should grow and develop. One school wanted a cosmopolitan art like that developing in Europe while the other school wanted Peruvian artists to concentrate on traditional Peruvian topics like Inca buildings, town planning, Peruvian plateaus and mountains, and the Peruvian Indian.

The Plaza de San Martin is one of the most representative public spaces in the capital. It was declared a UNESCO World Heritage site in 1988 and is connected to the Plaza de Armas by the Jiron de la Union. The plaza pays homage to the liberator of Peru, Jose San Martin (1778-1850). The plaza was built in 1921 in honor of the 100^th anniversary of Peruvian independence. The buildings lining the plaza date from 1910 to the 1940s.

In the 1960s, Miguel Mujica Gallo used his private collection, gathered throughout his life, to open the “Gold Museum of Peru and Weapons of the World”. The museum has over 7000 gold, silver, and copper objects. Gold and silver had a religious importance in pre-Columbian Peru. Gold represented the Sun while silver represented the Moon. The collection is valued at over 10 million US dollars. The other major section represents the weapons of the world. I found it ironic that humanity expended so much effort and resources on devising better and better ways of killing each other. There is a Japanese room at the museum highlighting the close ties between Japan and Peru. Many Peruvians of Japanese and Chinese descent are still able to read in their native languages while at the same time being fluent in Spanish.

On my last day in Peru, I decided to use the public bus to visit the ruins of Pachacamac which is located outside the capital in the city of Lurin. Pachacamac was a major religious site for the different cultures of Peru. As new cultures became dominant, they added their constructions to the holy site. The site was first settled in 200 AD and is named after the earth-maker God, Pacha Kamac. some museums in Peru there are concessions for teachers which I feel is a very good idea. School children visit museums accompanied by their teachers and museum guides to develop a good understanding of their culture.

Unfortunately, Pachacamac was too near the capital Lima to escape the attention of the rapacious Spaniards. The conquistadores were mainly driven by their limitless appetite for gold and a narrow bigoted religious view which regarded Roman Catholicism as the only true religion and other religions as heretic practices to be destroyed. They caused much damage to Pachacamac.

The wind started blowing and a flurry of dust pervaded the air. The Sun Temple is the major building. There were separate locations for religious buildings, administrative buildings, and residential buildings and there were also granaries.

The Incas and the pre-Inca cultures practiced human sacrifice. Enemies were ritually sacrificed but young virgin girls were also sacrificed. These mamacuna (Virgins for the Sun), had important status. They wove textiles for priests, and brewed corn beer which was used in Inca festivals. The women were sacrificed in the highest ritual; they were strangled with cotton garrote. They were wrapped in fine cloth and buried in stone tombs. Each was surrounded by offerings from the highlands of Peru, such as coca, quinoa, and cayenne peppers.

Peruvian coffee like Peruvian food turned out to be a hidden treasure. Smooth without bitterness or harshness, the coffee can be drunk black without milk. Peru is also home to ‘poop coffee’. Dung coffee is made by having an animal (usually a civet) eat coffee cherries. The natural digestion process reduces bitterness. When they poop out the beans, they’re gathered, thoroughly washed, and typically take on flavors of the animal’s diet. Peruvians use the uber-adorable coatis, which are like tiny raccoons. They are fed the best-of-the-best Arabica beans and nature takes over from there!

Twined with the flavour of Peru is a beautiful legend which needs to be told to highlight their colours. In the good old days, a widowed mother, Pacha, worked day and night to feed her three sons. The sons were lazy and survived on the food provided by their mother. One evening while returning home the mother tripped on a stone and was injured. She was bedridden and became dependent on her sons. The sons were too lazy to work their farm and stole from the villagers and eventually started selling their farm part by part. They lied to their mother about their plentiful harvests. One day, the mother went to the farm to see the harvest but was beaten by the villagers who mistook her for a thief. Learning about this, the sons got angry and turned themselves into hail, frost, and furious wind devastating the villagers’ farms and houses. Since that day when the elders gather at night to tell stories, they talk about the hail, the frost, the wind, and how they ruin the fields from time to time, and they continue to blame the men of the village for having mistreated the mother (mother earth / Pachamama)!

I enjoyed my days in the city of kings. The weather was good, the accommodation was great, the food was excellent, great architecture and art greeted one everywhere, getting around was not too difficult and the cost was reasonable. What more can a man want? I plan to return one day in the near future.

Dr. P Ravi Shankar is a faculty member at the IMU Centre for Education (ICE), International Medical University, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia. He enjoys traveling and is a creative writer and photographer.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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