J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia, hoping to escape one day. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Disturb the Universe Magazine, The Beatnik Cowboy, The Rye Whiskey Review, Misfit Magazine and Mad Swirl. You can find him most days betting on baseball games and taking care of his disabled mother. He has a blog, but rarely finds the time to write on it anymore. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
Sally was standing at the kitchen window over the sink one night, peering into the darkness, when the saucer landed in her back yard. Instantly her eyes opened wide and she shouted, “Duke, come in here. ET has landed!”
Her husband of 40+ years tumbled out of his recliner in the living room, tossed his newspaper aside and made a beeline for the kitchen. As he walked in, Sally mutely pointed out the window. Duke craned his neck and stared.
“Goodnight, nurse,” he muttered, then opened one of the cabinets and extracted a small black revolver. Taking out a box of ammo, he fitted bullets into the empty chambers, opened the window and pointed the weapon at the invaders.
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
With the smell of cordite thick in the air, the pair peeped through the window to see what damage Duke had done.
An alien, ghostly gray and three feet tall and with shadows where its eyes might have gone, approached the window, levitated and handed Duke the three spent bullets. There was no sign of damage to ET.
“Gblrbg!” scolded the alien.
Duke blinked down at the undamaged bullets.
“What is he saying, Duke?” inquired Sally.
Duke turned up his cell phone and said, “Alexa, translate Gblrbg.”
They waited for a moment, then Alexa said, “Ass wipe.”
“Thank you, Alexa,” murmured Duke.
The alien began to speak, but Duke presented his iPhone and the alien started anew.
At length, Alexa translated the verbiage as: “Astral parasite, we of the planet Vorg intend to mine your miserable world for precious Ygbl (cigarette butts) and Zglzh (plastic waste) with which to replenish our stock of planetary fuel. Resist and you will be hgsgl (neutralized). Cooperate and we will make you wealthy as Ythgx (Croesus). Our excavation will take approximately thirty of your earth days.” ET then withdrew to his saucer.
Sally and Duke stared at each other, dumbfounded.
One month to the day later, the alien returned to the kitchen window and handed Sally and Duke a king’s ransom in precious jewels. The pair accepted the riches avidly and bid the alien farewell. They watched as he returned to his spacecraft and prepared to embark, when suddenly the saucer violently exploded. Sally recoiled and screamed.
“What happened, Duke?” cried Sally.
“I reported the aliens to Homeland Security,” replied Duke quietly.
“But why?” she said incredulously. “They took all the cigarette butts and plastic waste from the planet,” she protested. “What did they do wrong?”
“They were using up possibly valuable resources,” Duke told his wife. “Some of them mated with earthlings and they were poisoning our blood lines.”
“But, they seemed so nice,” remarked Sally distractedly.
“On their planet,” said Duke, “they were probably thieves and rapists and escapees from insane asylums.”
Sally looked out and the still smoldering embers of the saucer and sighed.
“I guess you’re right. They must’ve been interplanetary vermin.”
The next day another similar saucer hovered over their backyard. A voice from the saucer said “Do not attack. We come in thanks. We wish you well and have many blessings to bestow upon you.” This time no translation was needed.
Before Duke could grab his pistol, Sally asked him to listen to them.
The saucer landed and a similar alien came out of a portal and approached. “We got our language skills from people who were selling what you call cheap crap on television. Thank you for killing criminals from our planet.”
“Were they thieves, rapists, and escapees from insane asylums?” asked Duke.
“No, but they were intent on overtaking Vorg. We didn’t want that. What we want is ice cream, Coke, Brazil nuts, and coffee. And of course the Russian women who want to marry American men. You will like what we offer in exchange.”
“What’s that?”
“We can send more of what the criminals sent before, or we have saunas and salons which generate their own power, our pets which you will love and will love you if you know what I mean, and honest politicians if anybody is interested.”
At this point Duke said “Sounds good. Let me see if I can get our leader.”
The United Nations decided to send football hero Pitt Yazoo to meet with the Vorg leader Emile Stanza. The interplanetary leaders came up with a compact which was taken to world counsels on both planets. It was adopted.
While the fate of the Russian women remained an open question, Vorg sent what earthlings would call three-dimensional, interactive videos to earth. Many of those who saw the videos signed up. Their messages back to earth got more recruits, some from married women.
At the signing ceremony Stanza again thanked the earthlings for the service they’d rendered.
“What exactly were those criminals up to?” asked the American President.
“They were intent on taking over Vorg after making weapons of mass destruction with cigarette butts and plastic waste,” explained the Vorg leader. “You saved our pghtx (bacon)” he said gratefully.
Anđela Bunoš was born on October 2, 1998, in Belgrade. She completed her undergraduate and master’s studies at the Faculty of Teacher Education, University of Belgrade. She is currently working as a teacher at the “Sava Šumanović” Elementary School in Zemun.
Heartaches By The NumbersThe End of the Road
My yellow brick road was paved with her promises.
A Dickinson Uncouplet
A rant without slant?
Don’t tell me I can't.
Night Cruises
Our ships passed at night.
She would pass many others.
I only passed hers.
The Rehearsal
When she rehearsed our wedding night
I’m sure it whet their appetite,
helping him rise up for more—
another notch, another score.
The Outsider
Perhaps if they’d stopped once they kissed,
I would never have felt that I missed
the delight in her heart
which was blissed from the start
of the joy she found on their first tryst.
My Mourning Star
I
still
wonder
where you are,
you who made my dawn
come up like thunder, morning star.
The same fire called Love burned us both. My sorrow-sister – you, firewood. You blazed like a tree, I burned like a man. Our smoke became one spirit, (somewhere, fire made peace with water) From you – a fist of ash remained, From me – a fist of earth. Tell me… which of us burned more beautifully, firewood?
YOU AND I
I sought the truth- but you came to me as a gentle lie.
I sought the dawn of hope- but you came as a trembling “perhaps.”
I sought the joy that sings- but you came as a quiet consolation.
I sought forever- but you came as a fleeting lifetime.
And on this wide earth, I searched for the self I had once lost in the wind… and it was you who stood before me.
POEM WOMAN
Seeing your delicacy, they compared you to a flower…
Seeing your mischief, they compared you to the wind…
Seeing the tears in your eyes, they compared you to the sea…
Seeing your boundless loyalty, they compared you to the earth…
But you, woman, are a poem created by God. And I compare you to a poem that soothes my soul. Your name is Poetry…
You were born like a poem. Verse by verse, you live. Syllable by syllable, you weep. Line by line, you laugh. With your laughter, you wipe away the world’s sorrow.
Sometimes you are joyful like a poem. Sometimes sorrowful like a poem… Yet, woman, you are eternal like a poem! Your name is Poetry…
Prof. Phd. Rasmiyya Sabir’s nine books have been published in Azerbaijan, Turkey, Uzbekistan, and Iraq. She is one of the members of the Union of Writers of Azerbaijan and Chuvashistan. At the same time, she is a co-founder of the Union of the World’s Young Turkish Writers. More than 130 poems have been composed by the composers. Her first CD and cassette with the music from her poems was recorded in 2002. Her poems have been translated into many foreign languages, including Turkish, Russian, English, Georgian, Persian, and published in Turkey, Iran, Iraq, Sweden, Germany, Bulgaria, Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, and elsewhere. She has been awarded many prizes. The first prize was given to her in the year 2000 in a competition dedicated to Fuzuli. She has been chosen “The person of the literature of the year” by the International Organizations called KIBATEK and VEKTOR. She has translated Modern Azerbaijani poems into Turkish and modern Kazakh and Uzbek poems into the Azerbaijani language. She has been represented in different poetry festivals in Azerbaijan. She has gained the benefit of the President’s Fund of the Azerbaijan Republic.
And the voice of the question when it emerged from fear.
In the hand of the first human, it became a tool that holds life,
A spark that lights the darkness,
A ember that preserves the body from the cold of annihilation,
And the first line on the cave wall.
It was a home when a home was unknown,
A sky to seek shade beneath,
A ground that bears the tremor of a step,
And a language that speaks without letters.
From it the story was launched,
Upon it the cry was broken,
In its hollows the trace dwelled,
And through it, humans understood the meaning of being.
In all its transformations, it bore witness,
In the grave, a mark,
In the temple, a symbol,
In the crown, glory,
And in sculpture, immortality.
O you,
Silent one who thinks,
Heavy one who speaks with wisdom,
Secret one dwelling at the edge of time.
I AM NOT AN IDOL
I am not an idol,
nor a silent wall where your voice hides when it fears the void.
I am the breath of the universe when its chest feels tight,
and I am the wound that refuses to become a scar.
I am woman,
not a shadow that follows you wherever you walk,
nor a mirror that polishes your face to see your own glow in it,
but another face of truth,
questioning you when you long for forgetfulness.
I am not a stone that adorns your throne,
I am a wave uprooting silence from its roots,
and a land returning to the seed the whisper of eternity.
You want me as a chain,
but I want you as a journey,
searching with me for a meaning beyond flesh and blood.
I am not an idol,
I am a question dwelling in your eyes,
and an answer written only with the freedom of the soul.
I am woman,
and if you understood me…
if you stood before me without fear and without dominion,
you too would become… human.
A TEST FOR CONSCIENCE
In the silence of closed homes
The stone bleeds from the heat of bodies,
And the gaze of shadows trembles in the corners of the soul,
As if time itself fears to witness.
The hand that strikes is but an echo,
An echo hiding in the hollows of the heart,
And a letter lost amidst the silence of screams,
A soul learning to live without a voice.
In every wound, a river of questions is born,
And in every tear, the philosophy of existence takes shape:
Is freedom merely a distant dream,
Or a secret hidden in the depths of anguish?
The woman is not merely moving silence,
Nor a stone dwelling between walls,
She is a light slipping through the cracks of pain,
A river flowing despite the chains,
And wisdom that cannot be broken by the striking hand.
Every fracture teaches the stone to dream,
Every tear gives the shadow new colors,
Silence becomes a cry,
Pain opens gates to light,
And resilience births a new horizon for life.
Violence against women is a test of life,
An experiment of human awareness,
A test for conscience,
And where the soul endures,
Light springs from the depths of the stone,
And dignity learns it cannot be killed,
Silence becomes strength,
And freedom echoes in every heart that remained silent,
Until the world understands that true power
Lies in respect, and in enabling the soul
To bloom without limits.
TAGHRID BOU MERHI is a Lebanese-Brazilian poet, journalist, and translator, whose writing carries echoes of multiple cultures and resonates with a deeply human spirit. Born in Lebanon, she currently lives in Foz do Iguaçu, Brazil, after spending significant periods in various countries, including eight years in Italy and two in Switzerland, where she absorbed the richness of European culture, adding a universal and humanistic dimension to her Arab heritage.
Taghrid writes poetry, prose, articles, stories, and studies in the fields of thought, society, and religion, and is fluent in six languages: Arabic, English, French, Italian, Portuguese, and Spanish. This allows her to move between languages and cultures with the lightness of a butterfly and the depth of a philosopher. Her works are distinguished by a clear poetic imprint even in the most complex subjects, combining aesthetic sensitivity with a reflective vision of existence.
To date, she has published 23 original books and translated 45 works from various languages into Arabic and vice versa. She has contributed to more than 220 Arabic and international anthologies, and her works have been translated into 48 languages, reflecting the global reach of her poetic and humanistic voice.
Taghrid serves as the head of translation departments in more than ten Arabic and international magazines, and she is a key figure in bringing Arabic literature to the world and vice versa, with a poetic sensitivity that preserves the spirit and authenticity of the text.
She is renowned for her refined translations, which carry poetry from one language to another as if rewriting it, earning the trust of leading poets worldwide by translating their works into Arabic, while also bringing Arabic poetry to the world’s languages with beauty and soul equal to the original.
She is also president of Ciesart Lebanon, holds honorary literary positions in international cultural organizations, serves as an international judge in poetry competitions, and actively participates in global literary and cultural festivals. She has received dozens of awards for translation and literary creativity and is today considered one of the most prominent female figures in Arabic literature in the diaspora.
Her passion for writing began at the age of ten, and her first poem was published at the age of twelve in the Lebanese magazine Al-Hurriya, titled The Cause, dedicated to Palestine. Since then, writing has become an inevitable existential path for her, transforming her into a flower of the East that has spread its fragrance in the gardens of the world.
