Welcome, readers, to the first Synchronized Chaos issue of November 2025. First, a few announcements.

This issue was edited by poet Tao Yucheng, who has been published several times in Synchronized Chaos and in several other publications.

Contributor Kelly Moyer has launched a blog-style journal, Circle of Salt, a simple blog-style journal for all things esoteric. Potential contributors are invited to send up to three unpublished pieces of magickal poetry (including esoteriku), prose, personal essay, original art, reviews, recipes, tips, etc. to Kelly Sauvage Moyer at unfazedmoon@gmail.com. The web address is https://circleofsaltmag.blogspot.com/.

Also, the Naji Naaman Literary Prize is now open to emailed submissions from around the world.

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Now, for this month’s first issue: Sip and See.

A sip and see is a meet and greet party popular in the southeastern United States where people enjoy light snacks, drinks, and the chance to meet a newborn baby. In a way, Synchronized Chaos Magazine’s issues are global ‘sips and sees,’ celebrations where we may meet newly emerged bursts of creativity.

As we would when encountering a new baby, Priyanka Neogi revels in life’s joy.

Teresa de Lujan Safar’s poem celebrates the delight a mother takes in her children’s appreciation. Graciela Noemi Villaverde remembers the daily love and care of her deceased mother. Rakhmiddinova Mushtariy Ravshanovna pays tribute to the presence and care of her mother.

Bill Tope and Doug Hawley’s short story “Evergreen” portrays quiet familial concern, capturing the subtle tension and affection between siblings as they notice their mother’s unusual, tender attachment to her garden.

Mahbub Alam takes joy in nature and the brilliant sunshine. Timothee Bordenave’s essay explores permaculture, advocating livestock grazing on fallow land and urban fruit tree forests. Genevieve Guevara playfully links weather patterns and emotions. Walid Alzoukani revels in how the rain enriches his spirit. Brian Michael Barbeito’s “What is the Meadow and What is Love?” finds love and presence in the quiet endurance of nature. Bekturdiyeva Nozima’s essay examines the urgent need to cultivate ecological consciousness among youth, emphasizing education, family, and practical engagement as keys to a sustainable future. Jack Galmitz’ poetry speaks to cultural memory and our connections with nature. Brian Barbeito’s work reflect the relationship between human beings, nature and animals, which is even more important in the current Internet age.

Paintings from Srijani Dutta reflect hope for the return of spring, drawing on images from an Asian mythological system. Eddie Heaton guides us on a surrealist romp through a colorful universe. Mark Young speculates through found and created poetry on how human art can coexist with science and technology.

Federico Wardal highlights the work of holistic physician Dr. Antonello Turco and how his medical practice is a work of art. Nidia Garcia celebrates the creativity and insight of a weaver who tells the story of her people in cloth. Taylor Dibbert shares an amusing anecdote about sartorial fashion choices and lost luggage.

Jacques Fleury’s “The Color Purple” is a vibrant meditation on heritage and symbolism, exploring how shades of purple evoke nobility, spirituality, emotion, and the richness of human experience. Normatova Sevinchoy reflects on the nature of beauty and finds it through elegant simplicity. Kelly Moyer’s films explore the relationship between life and all things through the disposal and dissolution of human-built objects.

Literature and writing are integral parts of human creative culture. Contemporary Uzbek literature blends tradition and modernity, emphasizing national identity and the Uzbek language. Abdulazizova Nigina Faxriddin qizi’s article “Developing Speech Culture of Primary School Students” examines methods to enhance young learners’ oral and written communication, emphasizing interactive strategies, cultural awareness, and the link between speech skills and social participation.

Zuhra Jumanazarova expresses that preserving the literary quality of the Uzbek language is integral to preserving Uzbek culture. Muhayyo Toshpo’latova’s essay explores how contemporary Uzbek literature balances tradition, national identity, and digital-age innovation. Nilufar Yusupova discusses advantages and challenges posed by online education. Masharipova Unsunoy outlines strategies for improving student public speaking competence. Dilafruz Karimova evaluates various methods for teaching English as a second language. Rashidova Lobar’s “Mother Tongue” is a heartfelt tribute to the Uzbek language, celebrating it as the nation’s soul, heritage, and eternal source of pride and unity.

Mickey Corrigan’s poetry honors the survival, grit, and literary mastery of novelist Lucia Berlin. Grant Guy’s artwork evokes the creative spirit of decades-ago absurdist No! theater. Christina Chin and Kim Olmtak’s tan-renga poems promise adventure on the horizon. Scott Derby’s poem draws on The Odyssey, exploring a journey of trials and self-discovery, ultimately evoking a return to faith. Inga Zhghenti reviews Armenida Qyqja’s collection Golden Armor, about the quest of the human spirit for survival amidst adversity.

Peter Cherches’ vignettes explore through gentle humor how we make decisions and set up our lives. James Tian reminds the faithful to use their God-given brains, even in church.

Janna Hossam’s essay explores the fleeting nature of achievement and the trap of “fast dopamine,” urging a shift from chasing external validation to finding lasting fulfillment in steady, meaningful growth. Sharifova Saidaxon advocates for balance in the use of social media and online entertainment. O‘rozboyeva Shodiya’s essay “How Social Media Affects Young People” reflects on the dual impact of social media, highlighting its benefits for learning and reading while cautioning against distraction and over-immersion in the virtual world.

Brooks Lindberg’s poem wittily questions the nature of facts, blending philosophy, mathematics, and law with humor and skepticism. Candice Louise Daquin reviews John Biscello’s novel The Last Furies, which evokes themes of tradition, vaudeville, religion and mysticism.

Turkan Ergor reflects on how people’s strongest desires and best-laid plans don’t come to fruition. Dr. Ashok Kumar expresses the peace found through surrendering to what we cannot control.

J.T. Whitehead’s Nocturnes are haiku-inspired reflections on art, history, and personal experience, capturing quiet joy and solitude. Christina Chin and Marjorie Pezzoli’s collaborative renga blends fragmented, stark imagery with a conversational, experimental flow, exploring tension, vulnerability, and the raw textures of experience. Derek Dew’s poems “To Come” and “What is Ours” delve into language, memory, and moral stillness, blending abstraction and lyricism to explore identity, silence, and the elusive nature of meaning. Sayani Mukherjee’s “God’s Hands” is a dreamlike meditation on time and memory, shimmering with blue skies and fleeting wishes. Vo Thi Nhu Mai’s “Harbour of the Changing Season” is a tender, reflective meditation on love, loss, and the passage of time, finding beauty and peace in the rhythms of nature and the flow of life.

Duane Vorhees’ poem “ORH” tenderly portrays love as cleansing and transformative, merging identities like rain washing away dust. Amina Kasim Muhammad advocates kindness and humanity. In a similar vein, Maja Milojkovic reflects on the value of a human soul as measured by the person’s compassion and integrity. Ruzimbayeva Quvonchoy Jamoladdin qizi’s essay highlights Uzbekistan’s national values as the enduring heart of the nation, shaping identity, unity, and moral life.

Yodgorova Madina also celebrates traditional Uzbek values such as diligence, hospitality, respect for the elderly, the young, and women, honesty, and compassion and urges modern Uzbeks to pass down those values. Jumanazarova Muxlisa’s essay highlights women as the vital foundation of Uzbek society, shaping history, education, and leadership. In the same vein, Egyptian writer Adham Boghdady’s poem portrays a woman as a radiant, inspiring presence who lights up hearts and the world. Dildora Khojyozova’s essay “Kindness and Humanity in the 21st Century” emphasizes the enduring importance of empathy and compassion amid technological and social change, arguing that true progress depends on how we treat one another.

Abbas Yusuf Alhassan’s long poetic piece illustrates the different facets of love as expressed through grief. Elmaya Jabbarova’s poetry intertwines love and grief. RP Verlaine comments on what brings people together and what divides us. Eldar Akhadov ponders the mental distance that inevitably separates everyone.

Turdiyeva Guloyim’s “I’m Tired, Mother!” expresses profound loneliness and disillusionment, lamenting false friendships, cruelty, and the harshness of the world, while yearning for genuine human connection. Kandy Fontaine’s “Nepantla, The Tipping Point, Deep Time: A Conversation Between Worlds” examines the intersections of literature, identity, and planetary change, using the concept of Deep Time to reflect on societal fear, power structures, and the urgent need for transformation. Mirta Liliana Ramirez reminds us that powerful people exist who prey on the vulnerable. Patricia Doyne surveys the sentiments at a San Francisco Bay Area No Kings rally. Aubrey Malaya Lassen’s poem “The Call” confronts misunderstanding and oppression, using vivid animal imagery to explore awareness, resistance, and the refusal of power to recognize truth.

Bill Tope’s “The Gauntlet” is a tense short story following Anais, a Haitian refugee, as she navigates an unsettling encounter with police in a small Ohio town, exploring themes of fear, vulnerability, and power. Ahmed Miqdad’s poem reflects on the horrors of violence and displacement, using stark imagery of blood and silence to evoke grief and loss. Emeniano Acain Somoza Jr. writes of humans eking out existence in the shadows of ageless deities and harsh weather. Stephen Jarrell Williams crafts a slow piece on calm preparations as an apocalypse looms.

J.J. Campbell illustrates the lingering effects of trauma on a person’s life and psyche. Mykyta Ryzhykh’s poem juxtaposes stark, unsettling images with fragile signs of life, capturing the raw and abrupt entry of innocence into harsh reality. Alexa Grospe personifies the pain and terror of stage fright and writers’ block. Philip Butera views life from the panoramic perspective of one nearing death. Ablakulova Dilfuza’s essay “My child, if I leave, you won’t find me again” is a poignant meditation on solitude, aging, and loss, vividly portraying the emotional landscape of a woman left alone, clinging to memories as her world darkens. Adewuyi Taiwo’s short story “A Star Called Priye” explores themes of family secrets, grief, and quiet strength.

Duane Vorhees’ review of Taylor Dibbert’s On the Rocks explores his Bukowski-inspired style—plainspoken, raw, and grounded in everyday struggle—revealing a candid search for freedom from pain. Rizal Tanjung’s review of Eva Petropoulou Lianou’s “Freedom” highlights the poem’s haunting imagery of two wingless birds, portraying freedom as both a lost ideal and a visceral, human necessity.

Jabborova Vasila comments on how medicine can address psychological changes in some heart transplant patients. Melita Mely Ratkovic’s poem urges the speaker’s friend to heal and love themselves again after trauma. Ramona Yolanda Montiel wishes all her readers simple joys and gentle comfort.

Eva Petropoulou Lianou’s “Miracles” celebrates everyday wonders, human connection, and the light of faith amid darkness. Jeanette Eureka Tiburcio’s poem honors resilience and hope, invoking golden children as symbols of strength, growth, and the enduring light amid adversity.

We hope that this issue serves as a guiding light as you ‘sip and see’ the many forms of human thought and feeling from around the world.

The Gauntlet

The whoop, whoop, whoop of the police siren died to a guttural moan as Anais pulled her Kia to the curb just inside the small Ohio town of Springfield, within striking distance of Dayton. She peeped into the rearview mirror and spied a policeman alighting from the cruiser and striding her way. What now? she thought. She was driving down Rivers Road, a virtual gauntlet of police speed traps, according to her husband.

The policeman rapped with his knuckles on her window and so Anais lowered the glass pane. “Yessir?” she asked.

“Driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance,” said the cop dully.

Anais turned and fished through her glovebox and purse and eventually turned up the requested documents. She passed them through the window to the policeman, who accepted them without a word. Anais, a recent Haitian refugee, had never been accosted by law enforcement in this country. But, she had heard stories. She didn’t know what to expect, but remembered what her grandmother, who’d raised her, always said: “Hope for the best but prepare for the worst. Do whatever they say,” she’d cautioned. Anais waited.

The 19-year-old woman turned her head and noted that the policeman was staring intently at her, through the harsh beam of a huge flashlight. She couldn’t make out his features. Did he suspect she harbored drugs, because her skin was brown and she dressed differently from others? Unable so far to buy native apparel, she was still clad in a vibrant, red and blue chambray Karabela dress.

“Get out of the vehicle,” directed the cop, taking a step back to allow Anais to open her door. She silently complied. Out on the pavement, she stood by the car, uncertain and forlorn. Where was her grandmother when she needed her? She glanced at the western sky; the sun had already slipped below the horizon. It was quite dark now. The road at this hour was little travelled and not a vehicle had passed since she was stopped. She felt very vulnerable.

“Do you have any illegal drugs, contraband or weapons in your car or on your person?” he asked next.

She shook her head no.

“Do you speak American?” asked the cop impatiently.

Anais blinked. “I speak the English,” she told him in her thick accent.

He grunted.

“Why did you stop me?” asked Anais nervously.

Ignoring her question, the cop handed back the documents she’d passed him before and said, “Do you have citizenship papers?”

Anais nodded. “I have the green card,” she said.

“Let’s see it,” grumbled the cop, extending his tiny hand.

Anais gave it to him. He drifted back to his cruiser, engaged the radio for a few minutes and then returned and handed the document back.

“What’re you doing on the roads at this hour?” queried the cop.

Anais glanced at her cell phone: it was almost 9pm.

“I’m on my way home–from the grocery store,” she said. She began to feel some dark misgivings about the way this interrogation was proceeding.

Now the cop directed his large flashlight again into Anais’s face and after a moment, said, “turn around, put your hands against the vehicle, take a step back,” he ordered. She did.

At just that moment, another police can rolled up and parked behind the first. Men got out of both doors. Their boots scunched over the gravel on the side of the road. The first cop withdrew and met them halfway to his vehicle. They talked in hushed tones. That left Anais standing awkwardly against her car.

Anais looked up as the men exchanged a bawdy laugh. Were they talking about her? she wondered. Anais was a newlywed and she longed for the comfort of her partner, to hear his voice and feel his arms around her, but the policeman had seized her phone.

Finally, the first cop tromped loudly to her car and roughly patted her down and then, without warning, seized one arm and pulled it behind her back. Handcuffs clicked into place over her wrist. He took her other arm and secured that wrist as well. What was happening? she thought wildly, as the cop opened her back door and pushed her through and face down onto the bench seat in the rear of the Kia. Now the other two cops approached and stood staring down at her supine figure, chucking malevolently. They likewise had flashlights.

“Not bad,” murmured one of the newcomers, “for a greasball.” They all laughed.

“Got a nice ass for a spic,” opined the third racist cop,” reaching in and groping Anais’s backside and running his fingers between her legs.

She whimpered and struggled fruitlessly against her bonds.

“So,” said the first cop. “Who wants to do her first?” he asked the others conversationally.

One of the cops said, “Maybe we should do dinner first. You said she’s from Haiti. What’s your pleasure, senorita, a dog or a cat?” They laughed yet again. The burning essence of marijuana now wafted through the air.

Anais thought hard, then suddenly spoke out. “I saw your face,” she rasped desperately.

The three men grew silent as statues.

“I thought she didn’t see you,” whispered another of the three.

“She didn’t,” said the first cop. “I never gave her my name or showed her a badge or nothin’. I used my flashlight, like the last time. She’s lyin’.”

“But, what if she ain’t,” said another voice.

“Then you’ll have to kill me,” Anais spoke out. “Or go to jail for kidnapping and rape. I’m a married woman,” said Anais with sudden rage. “And my husband owns a big gun. You’ll be shot, if you touch me again,” she shouted. “You release me now, and I’ll forget about the touching and the disrespect. You decide now. You got five seconds to decide.”

In a matter of only a few seconds, the handcuffs were opened and Anais was freed. The other two cops hurried off to their car and sped away. The first cop snatched the keys from Anais’s ignition and tossed them and her cell phone into the weeds a few feet away and loped to his vehicle and likewise took off. She could hear the tires burning rubber.

Finding her keys, Anais stumbled back to her car and was soon motoring home, shaking and crying as she drove. She lived only minutes away. The only thing she saw when she entered the small house was Michael.

He said, in his rich, soft baritone, “Carino. I was worried about you.”

She fell into his warm embrance and immediately told him of her narrow escape at the hands of the rogue policemen. After she’d completed her narrative, Michael gently grasped her shoulders and said, “Did you really see his face?”

Anais had the grace to blush. “No, Michael. The flashlight was in my face the whole time.”

Then he said, “Anais, I don’t even own a gun.”

She smiled up into his face. “No, but you would’ve gotten one,” she whispered with confidence.

Facts

Hegel: Facts? There are no facts in philosophy, only truth.

Tarski: Facts? There are no facts in maths, only stipulations.

Dershowitz: Facts? Who says we’ll see a jury?

Brooks Lindberg lives in the Pacific Northwest. When not at work, he’s stalking butterflies, hiking, or prepping for winter.

THE STAR CALLED PRIYE

My second mother wore a wide black, hat that exposed only her chin, but since I was right beside her, I clearly saw the contortion on her face, an ugly expression like the combination of a gleeful smile and a hateful sneer. Her black gown billowed in the wind, softly at first, then harshly, as the sky darkened and hesitant raindrops plummeted down as if the clouds themselves were grieving with us.

The priest’s solemn voice monotonously articulated the last farewell for Priye. Her embalmed body lay in the brown casket seven feet in front of us, quiet for the first time in seven months. Her picture was hugged to my chest, where her face blossomed with a pleasant smile that would forever haunt my dreams. The green, chiffon dress she wore in the picture was resting at the back of my wardrobe. I would wait for six months before wearing it along with all her clothes and jewelry that had become mine, even though it had only been seventy-two hours since she died.

Priye was my elder sister by three years. She was frail, sickly and short. But she was more intelligent than me, and she had a beautiful voice that mesmerized everyone in our school. Last year, her performance of Whitney Houston’s “I will Always Love You” was so breathtaking that our principal’s mottled face cracked a smile for the first time that term and he approached her in his black, pinstriped tuxedo to shake her hand. “That was marvellous. It reminded me of my late wife. She loved that song in our twenties,” he had croaked, looking wistful.

Priye had beamed with an ethereal radiance, looking more like an angel than a human being. If not for the leukaemia that ravaged her body…“Oh God, her mother died barely five years ago. Why?” my grandmother wailed in her wheelchair, her saggy cheeks throbbing with every sound she retched. “Why did she die so young?”

I looked at her, at the wispy patches of white hair on her head, and her wrinkled face. In eighty years. Priye could have resembled her. She would have enjoyed her old age, tending to her hibiscuses alongside a host of stubborn grandchildren. I pictured it for a moment, and gulped back a sob.

“Why?” Grandma cried again. She turned to look at me. “Priye, is this a dream? Wake me up!” She gestured at the coffin. “Wake Ifunnaya up, please!”

My second mother hushed her. “Priye is dead, Mama. The person you are talking to is Ifunnaya. The priest is still speaking.”

Did she ever wonder why Grandma kept making that mistake? Maybe not. Grandma’s eyesight was very poor anyway. Most times, she couldn’t see people until they were stooping very close to her nose. But I knew, and the truth was stuck in my throat like a goitre, something I couldn’t swallow, yet couldn’t spit out. Because my mother killed her before her time, I thought, answering grandma’s question silently, hugging Priye’s frame tighter. My mother was a more insidious disease than Leukaemia.

On those dreadful nights, three months ago, when Priye howled in her bed, my mother sang in her room, eulogizing God for bringing misfortune to all her enemies. She rocked expensive aso-oke to galas and to the birthdays of her clients while I held Priye’s hand and assured her, she was not alone.

In those moments, it hurt so much to remember that two years ago, she had been well enough to attend school, chirping tirelessly about everything like the Maths teacher’s knack for singing Fuji in class, her dreams about sailing the Atlantic in her own yacht and her subtle affection for a tall, nerdy boy in her class whose glasses were three times the size of his eyes and who always came first in Mathematics, even though my mother never gave her food for days. It was later that I knew that she poached food from her friends during lunch break, and she did it so prudently that they never suspected that she was being maltreated.

I remembered waking up late in the night, disentangling my second mother’s limbs from around me, and tiptoeing outside. I would go to the backyard with a nylon of biscuits for Priye. She always kept her window open so that I could throw the biscuits in. The window was two stories high so I was often successful two times out of thirty.

Many nights, I was totally unsuccessful, the biscuits thumping against the sliding glass or the wall. Most of the biscuits that made it in had been smashed into crumbs that Priye had to pour into her mouth.

That was when I noticed her fascination with stars. Those nights I woke up after midnight and raced to the backyard, I found her stargazing, with her window open, the chestnut curtain bunched behind her, her white nightgown draped over her skinny frame, looking as bright and quiet like the celestial bodies she stared at.

The only time I ever saw her differently was one night, months afterward, when my mother said she would not waste another dime of her late husband’s money on her disease and Priye latched onto her like a monkey and bit her neck. But after that, she apologized. Though, that night, she looked into my eyes with the intensity of a camera taking a picture. Her diary entry for that night read this: I think we human beings are more like stars than we think. We shine brighter when we start to fade.

It was as if she knew that she would die, so from that day onward, she said her goodbyes quietly. She confessed her love to the boy who told her sorry, he was in love with Zendaya, and she ran home without taking the bus, crying and laughing at the same time. She told me she was crying because he was so stupid, and laughing because she finally mustered up the courage to ask him out. All I did was stare at her, dumb, because I had no idea what it meant to have a crush on someone.

After she calmed down a little, she asked me to draw her, so I took my drawing book and drew her at her window, staring at the sunset. I should have painted the sky black to show it was night but I wanted the memory to be warm, not bleak, besides her skin tone was the colour of a brown sunset and I wanted that effect to show when I painted the drawing.

That night, she sat by the window in her satin nightgown with a crime novel in her lap, staring at the man selling suya on the busy street behind our house and the people walking, and she suddenly asked me a question.“Did you know that stars shine the brightest when they want to fade?” her laptop was playing a YouTube video of how a star becomes a supernova. 

She didn’t seem to expect my answer. She probably knew I didn’t know what she was talking about back then. Now that I remembered it, I could assume that she thought of herself as a supernova.“Ify, will you remember me after I’m gone?”

I just stood there in her room, petrified. I was bigger, healthier and more loved than her, but in that moment, I wanted to become her. I wanted to be the strong one, even if it meant our second mother would hate me.

“I wish my mother didn’t die,” she sighed, and looked at me with a sad smile. There were no tears in her eyes, only the shimmering darkness of her irises that portrayed her beautiful soul.

Believe me, I wanted desperately to, but I couldn’t tell her that her mother didn’t die five days after her car accident, mine did. And the woman who called me her child now was actually her own mother. This was the last thing my late mother told me. It was the secret only I knew.

I couldn’t remember my real mother’s face clearly anymore, but I remembered her dimples and dreads. She might have looked like Asa. She was our first mother and she loved Priye and me the same way. All I did was cuddle closer to Priye that night. I noted how she smelled like a flower garden. It was the soap that a chubby, jovial boy in her class gave her. She told me how expensive the soap was.

While I listened, I wondered why she didn’t realize that this other boy had a crush on her. We talked for hours uninterrupted because my second mother had travelled to Abuja and left us in a neighbour’s care. We pretended we were sleeping so he let us be. That night was the Champions league final so we weren’t his main priority. We heard him screaming and cursing from his room as his club conceded four goals during the match. We couldn’t help laughing at his plight.

Priye and I talked about many things until she began drifting off to sleep. I was often amazed at how quickly she slept. In a few seconds she was breathing softly, relaxed, her hand which moments ago had clutched mine now limp.

“This woman is your mother, you know?” I whispered so quietly that Priye might not have heard me. It was the best I could do.

And for a brief moment, I was sure she did not hear me.

“I know,” she said faintly. “You are Priye and I am Ifunnaya.”

I LOOK AT YOU 

Where has the shine disappeared

In your sad eyes

I feel, longing destroys your

Despite the years, beautiful face

Can you free yourself, 

Forgive those who

Didn’t know how to love you 

As you deserve

Do you have the strength to let go

The devastating pain in your chest? 

Who are you unconsciously punishing

Despite the love they offer you

Can you love again

Release the weight, take off the shackles,

Free your soul, let the light in

Into life, without fear of rejection, 

Consciously accept a dormant desire

Are you able to try to change yourself? 

 

Melita Mely Ratković is a poet, translator (Spanish, Portuguese, English, Bengali) and literary ambassador of Serbia in Brazil and Spain. She has participated in world anthologies, including HYPERPOEM for the Guinness Book of Records, and has been recognized among the 50 most important women in Europe. She is the winner of international literary awards and a member of several world academies.

(Middle aged light skinned woman in a black top)

THE BEST GIFT 

Good morning! For everyone, 

With a smile. A mate, a coffee. 

Good morning, accompanied by an I love you. 

Necklaces of hugs from everyone, at home. 

Bunch of hands, are the best flowers, 

The perfect decoration for all mothers. 

It’s the joyful setting for everyone gathered, 

May they sing her name, may they call her mother. 

May they pamper her and cherish her. 

A prayer to heaven for those who went before.

TERESA DE LUJAN SAFAR, MEMBER OF TOGETHER FOR LETTERS. I LIVE IN PERGAMINO, BUENOS AIRES PROVINCE MY BOOK: “CRISOL OF IDEAS” I PARTICIPATED IN: • THE “HUELLAS DE CRISTORES” ANTHOLOGIES • THE LITERARY WORKSHOP OF ESTELA TORRES ERILL • SEVEN “ROSARIO, BRIDGES OF WORDS” ANTHOLOGIES, GUARDED BY WRITER GLADYS LOPEZ PIANESI • I CURRENTLY ATTEND THE “FLORILEGIO” LITERARY WORKSHOP, COORDINATED BY WRITER MARTA SUSANA LOMELLINO • I AM CURRENTLY A MEMBER OF “TOGETHER FOR LETTERS”

Christina Chin (plain)

Kim Olmtak Gomes (italic)

honking horn – 

a dog chase

of the schoolbus 

umbrella 

my shield 

weather change – 

the windchime 

soundless stillness

cloud peaks

forecast rain

rainy season –

thrillseekers

tapping the untamed

flooded street 

boys in roller skates