Three

I’m three three three one-two-three and nobody knows I’m up up up – Mommy sleeping sleeping sad in her big bed. Daddy at work – work work work in town at the dry cleaners after bacon and eggs and coffee at Ohio Restaurant. Love Daddy – I’m Daddy’s little girl.

Climb one-two-three shelves for cereal in the cupboard – bowl spoon milk from the frigerator sometimes smells bad. Then turn the knob all-by-myself open the big heavy door open the screen door out the door. No shoes no socks my feet my toes wiggle in the grass wet wet wet. Run run run to the barn pee in my big girl training pants take em off and toss em in the weeds every-Mommy’s-bad-word-morning-when-will-she-learn. Bare bottom who cares I don’t care no one cares maybe grandma cares.

Horses are waiting for me me me at the gate one big one nice one mean one brown one white and a pony-just-my-size. And I pet their noses oh my gosh soft so soft and I feed them green grass even the white mean-to-grown-ups one who could eat my tiny fingers anytime it wants to snap-just-like-that but it doesn’t never never never did never never never will. My big brodder’s watching me from his window thinks he’s the boss of me but isn’t the boss of me. Face scrunched and big frown always worry worry worry.

Then my dog friends are waiting every-morning-same-place-same-time for me me me. Black white and brown but mostly black Smokey knows only one trick shake shake shake the neighbor boys taught him a long time ago when he was my brodder’s dog not anymore. And Sammy also black with curly part-poodle hair. And the next-door-neighbor’s big big big red Ireesh Sitter with eyes that say something to me every day. Just us we all go running in the tall green grass field – green grass taller than me and when I fall down my dog friends wait for me to get up and catch up. I know lunch time just-know-it lunch time and cartoons and fight-every-Mommy’s-bad-word-day-driving-me-crazy-brodder time – who’s not the boss of me.

(But he makes me laugh laugh laugh so much I pee my pants accidental not on purpose. When I dunk Oreo cookies in my milk and my mouth is full – makes me laugh so I spray it all over the table. Laugh when he makes the squeaky mouse voice when I try to bite a pickle I can never eat my pickles. “No! No! No! Don’t eat me! Please please please don’t eat me!” And he pushes me around the driveway in my old junky I’m-too-big-for-it-stroller again again again! And of course he showed me how to swing a swing and slide a slide. Keeps my bare feet away from rusty nails and sometime makes me Froot Loops even if I think I-did-it-all-by-myself. And he said he would look after me when I ride the school bus for the very first time. And he looks for me when no one is looking for me and he makes sure I get home for supper. Okay my brodder loves loves loves me even if he isn’t the boss boss boss of me.)

And at nighty-night time Mommy awake – not a morning mommy. And Daddy’s home – I’m Daddy’s little girl Daddy’s home! Brodder shuts up but sometimes a story. Mommy finds at bath and toys in the tub and towel time tics in my ears burrs in my hair from the tall green grass time. Daddy mad Mommy says nothin’ Brodder told-you-so. Tics and burrs just like Smokey Sammy and the big big big red Ireesh Sitter who don’t get baths or towels or cartoons so what’s the big deal?

David Sapp, writer and artist, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawings titled Drawing Nirvana.

1. Please share your thoughts about the future of Literature.

Answer- 

The Literature is the inherent creative human endeavor and enterprise which will last as long as human consciousness is embodied in the physical body in the material realm, because a human being as a cocreator needs to download his inner world of thoughts into the form of spoken and written words organized as systematic expression in a language where the spoken word becomes speech and song while the written linguistic expression becomes Literature.

Moreover, the language and literature have served as the powerful engines of the human evolution.

Knowing that the sustained positive thoughts of universal benevolence through steadfast discipline and regular practice for writing Positive Literature to create an “Epigenetic Mental Ecosystem” which acts as the powerful means and method to awaken the human genes of universal goodness transforming a writer into all caring and compassionate good human being.   

Therefore, I believe that the human endeavor of Positive Literature is the Self transforming exercise which brings out the inherent evolutionary human co creativity which needs to last forever as the evolutionary human endeavor and enterprise. Such is the glorious future of Literature!  

When u start writing?

My first Literary exercise was a poem at the age of twelve, I wrote about friendship which was published in a local newspaper. 

2. The Good and the Bad.

Who is winning in nowadays?

In the contemporary times, the Bad has overwhelmed the Good because of the existing rampant negativity perpetrated by the negative newsfeed of the Global Media Establishments, sadistic elitist indifference to global human suffering, rise of hedonistic and narcissistic social trends, increasing rich and poor divide, irresponsible consumerism fueling the fire of insatiable greed and ecologically disastrous corporate profiteering, all these have created a global ecosystem of perpetual negativity which has arrested the human evolution by disabling the faculty of the logic and reason embodied in the Neocortical Human Brain individually and collectively. 

This global ecosystem of perpetual negativity has become the major cause of the human suffering from the cruel and callous human actions of violence, vendetta, destruction, hatred, intolerance, dishonesty, deceit and dehumanization.

Being mindful of terrible human suffering, I founded the “Global Literary Society” to eradicate the rampant global negativity by promoting the global positivity through Positive Literature. I founded the “Global Movement of Positive Literature” (GMPL) inviting and invoking the 20,700 + GLSians and global literary fraternity around the world for writing living letters highlighting the mental attributes and attitudes of universal benevolence like universal empathy,  peace, justice equality, human solidarity,  human rights, tolerance, cooperation, unconditional love and compassion to build a global ecosystem of human positivity which needs to result in the perpetual world peace, progress and prosperity for one and all upon earth.

3. How many books have you written

And where can we find your books

Answer – I have written 12 books about Evolutionary Cosmic Humanism, Transformative Poetry for healing earth and humanity, Short stories and Essays which can be accessed on the  Academia.edu and can be bought through online marketing platforms like Amazon, Flipkart etc. 

4. The book. E book or Hardcover book

What will be the future?

Ans – The future belongs to digital format like E books because of the ease of its accessibility, transportation and reading anywhere anytime. 

But the Hardcover book will be always there as a chosen collection of personal and family library as a preserved reference book for generations.

5. A wish for 2025

My ardent wish for 2025 is to invite and invoke humanity to align her consciousness with the evolutionary mandate of the Life Principle which has worked for millions of years distilling the evolutionary wisdom through the long chain of sentient beings and finally getting it embodied in a human body and being. In the same breath, I seek to emphasize that the evolutionary process gave a man NO organs of violence like horns, thorns, stings, spines, poisonous fangs, flesh tearing canines but it has made a human being into an *Apostle of Nonviolence*. This means the human violence is an illusion and there is NO evolutionary sanction for violence to humanity! 

A phrase from my book “The Evolutionary Cosmic Humanism” –

Man begins where nature stops!

The Nature has completed its evolutionary task of the genetic immortality through biological reproduction where parents live in their children as their own biologically extended selves.

After completing the basic genetic evolution, the Nature handed over the “Baton of Evolutionary Relay Race” to man asking him to work with the applied logic and reason of the Neocortical Human Brain (NHB) for the required Mental Evolution of humanity.

The Mental Evolution of man is the new evolutionary mandate for humanity! 

In other words, man needs to clean up the mental pollution caused by the animal attributes of animal nature like anger, jealousy, hatred, violence, vengeance, doubt which disable the Neocortical Human Brain downgrading a man into animal mode of existence again!

Therefore, a man needs to build an internal epigenetic environment by practicing the charitable humanitarian mental attributes of truth, empathy, honesty, justice, equality, cooperation, unconditional love and compassion to awaken the genes required for the future Mental Evolution.  

Nature performed the Genetic Evolution of Human Body, now man needs to perform the Epigenetic Evolution of Human Mind through dedicated steadfast discipline and self efforts!

After transcending the victimhood of the survival mode, man needs to reach to the universally benevolent state of a sovereign cosmic volunteer attaining the Bodhisattva Consciousness who suspends his own nirvana for helping other sentient beings to achieve and attain their nirvana. In other words, a man needs to be and become a cosmic volunteer like the God’s commandment in the Chapter of Genesis of Bible – “Be the tree of life”.

He is a lifelong Scientist and Yogi seeking to build bridges between the knowledge systems of Science and Spirituality. He is an internationally acknowledged poet, writer, social activist, evolutionary cosmic humanist, global activist for responsible earth citizenship, responsible parenthood, world peace and environment activist based in New Delhi, India.

He is the founder of Global Literary Society with 20,700+ members. He is the founding father of the “Global Movement of Positive Literature” (GMPL), urging world poetic fraternity to create a Global Wave of Positive Literature for building a planetary ecosystem of collective human positivity for perpetual world peace, progress and prosperity for one and all. 

He has published 12 books of Evolutionary Cosmic Humanism, Poetry, Short stories, Essays and his poems have been published in many international anthologies. He is recipient of the Honorary Doctorate in Literature from The Institute of European Roma Studies and Research into Crimes Against Humanity and International Law, Belgrade, Republic of Serbia and he has received many international awards as well. 

The Season of Friendship and love

     Spring is a dawn. A dawn that awakens the entire world and gifts warmth, joy, and delight to every heart. With the arrival of spring, nature revives: trees begin to bud, and the earth’s green attire refreshes the soul. New plans, dreams, and sincere intentions blossom within the human heart. One of the most beautiful aspects of spring is how its brightness manifests itself in people’s moods. Not only the world around us, but our inner selves also become lighter and more radiant. Today, every corner of our country breathes spring. Parks, gardens, and recreation areas are filled with people. Everyone rushes to enjoy the season and spend time with loved ones.

Especially the youth — they fill every green field with laughter. They eat together, play games, laugh, take photos. Such scenes inspire a deeper appreciation for life. On one such inspiring day, we — 35-24 group students , under the guidance of our teacher Ma’mura Erkinovna — set out for a picnic in Anhor Park. The warm sunlight, the fresh air infused with the spirit of spring, the presence of dear friends, and heartfelt conversations all became part of an unforgettable memory. Some unexpected moments, little mistakes and imperfections only added more color to our day. Indeed, it is such seemingly simple moments that nourish the heart and soothe the soul. 

A picnic with close friends is not merely a break — it is a heartfelt ceremony that binds hearts together. Not only food is shared, but also joy, affection, and loyalty. In today’s fast-paced world, with time rushing by, we often struggle to find even a moment for ourselves or to reach out to our loved ones. But fleeting minutes on the clock ask us to appreciate them, to enjoy love and the beautiful memories it brings. Truly, in this temporary world where everything eventually fades, only emotions, inner wealth, spiritual growth, and precious memories belong to us.

And the moments spent with sincere friends seem to pause time itself. They create lasting memories that live on in the heart — becoming part of our soul’s deepest core. The picnic we had with our group of nearly twenty coursemates and our beloved teacher is one of those moments — unforgettable and forever engraved in photos and hearts. We are thankful to our teacher, Ma’mura Erkinovna, for bringing us together, encouraging unity, and helping us experience the beauty of nature in its purest form. Indeed, going out into nature with good friends is not a mere outing. That’s why many young people choose to adorn their spring days with such picnics. To some, a picnic may seem like a common activity — something anyone can plan anytime. But for me, it is a ceremony of strengthening trust, loyalty, and affection. And spring is the most exquisite season that nurtures such sincerity.

Ochildiyeva Shahnoza

1^st year student at Uzbekistan Journalism and Mass Communications university

English philology and teaching languages faculty

Sky Fall into Sticks

(1)

3 hours after midnight

not caring about the absence of sleep

on a bare mattress left behind

in a room with the ceiling blown off

from when they struck nightly raids

the weather staying the same

a forever stillness waiting

for bombs to fall again and again.

(2)

Pretending candles floating in the air

sweet scents of yesterday

when all was good

seemingly

our kiss-locks squeezing into ecstasy

glowing with no fear

a gift of confidence

with chains quietly attaching.

(3)

Now a prisoner left to rot

drunk with nostrils baked with smoke

college stoned years ago

ego believing

truth expanding

since that’s all there is

on the beginner’s level

which I will rise above when my wings grow.

(4)

Chest hurting

aligning with my backbone

headaches from bubbles in the brain

memories of child and teenage

wet rags on hilltops of rage

dripping down between my legs

consciousness welling into inner storms

capable of winning wars.

(5)

I kick my feet up and out

with a snarl

ready to fight

storm clouds making a fuss above

but I am now

not afraid

out into the world

biting off the head of the snake!

The Last View

The last view I like to ask

The world is composed of music

The blood always stirs with this tune of the varieties of musical tastes

The nature itself a bond for love in every opposite the male – female

 Everything sings together, sings for each other, the teaching of love

As the teacher always teaches us to be sympathized with the sorrowful

And be happy to see the other’s happiness

The eyes will come to close its sight

The world may say us ‘Good Bye’

We must smile over the last thought or sigh

The view may show the glory for both of us we live in love

In cry and laugh

What’s the most feature of the reality nowadays?

There is no water to play the boat

The view, not vivid can give us relief, the foggy night

The tigers do not the matter for eating their cubs

On the other hand the view of devouring humanity

What brings up the ending?

Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh

26 April, 2025.

Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times the Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been published in Synchronized Chaos for seven years.

The Myth of the Last Shelter

AI GENERATION

The world was a graveyard of metal and dust. Once, it had been a thriving ecosystem—a place of green forests, blue skies, and quiet lakes. Now, all that remained were ruins. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burning plastic and oil, and the ground was cracked, barren, like a wound that refused to heal.

Three piglets—small and fragile in the face of this post-apocalyptic landscape—struggled to survive. Each had their vision of how life could continue in the ruins, each had their own idea of shelter, safety, and salvation. But the truth was simple: none of them were truly safe.

The first piglet, named Ironhoof, built his fortress of steel. Tall spires of metal rose like the bones of a giant, sharp and cold, stretching toward the gray sky. He filled his walls with machines—giant gears that turned without purpose, engines that roared in the silence, weapons that gleamed with dangerous promise. To Ironhoof, survival was about control, about the power of human-made structures, about making a world where nothing could touch him. But the walls of his fortress did not protect him from the constant hum of emptiness. As the wind howled outside, he sat alone in his sterile tower, staring at the screen that flickered in the dark. He wanted power, but it was the lack of meaning that gnawed at him.

The second piglet, Greenwhisk, crafted a dwelling of glass and plants. Her structure was a delicate blend of bio-tech and nature—vines curled around the frames, and bio-luminescent moss lit the pathways at night. She dreamt of a world where harmony with nature could return, where the earth could heal itself. The winds whispered through the leaves of trees that grew in the heart of her shelter, their roots entwined with the very wires that powered her home. Yet, Greenwhisk found no peace in the rustling of leaves. The gentle hum of life outside her walls was tainted by the constant reminder of the world’s decay. She wondered if she was merely hiding in a fragile illusion—a fragile dream that would wither when the last resource ran dry.

The third piglet, named Wildtail, had built his home in the ruins of nature itself. His shelter was less a building than an extension of the land—a cavernous space woven into the roots of an ancient tree, where branches reached down like veins connecting the past to the future. His philosophy was that true survival lay in returning to the land, in living as one with the forgotten world, in surrendering to the rhythms of the earth. Yet, as he lay in his shelter, he could hear the groans of the land itself, the cracking of the trees, the faint whispers of extinction in every gust of wind. How long could the earth withstand the weight of their need?

The world outside was constantly shifting—storms brewed and passed, but each one left its mark. The threats were always there—bandits who roamed the broken roads, scavengers who preyed on the weak, and the unrelenting erosion of the planet’s resources. But as each attack came, each threat loomed larger, the piglets began to see a different truth.

One evening, as the sun fell beneath a sky the color of ash, a violent storm raged over the land. Ironhoof’s fortress shook as the winds slammed against its steel walls. His machines buzzed erratically, flickering in and out of power. Greenwhisk’s plants withered under the pressure, their bioluminescent glow dimming, leaves curling in defeat. Wildtail’s tree was bent, its branches snapped like bones under the force of the storm.

The piglets emerged from their shelters and met in the middle of the ruined land. They had survived the storm, but the cost was clear. Ironhoof’s walls were battered and rusting. Greenwhisk’s glass cracked under the pressure. Wildtail’s roots had begun to decay.

“We are losing,” Ironhoof said, his voice hollow. “None of our shelters stand up to this world. We build, and it is destroyed. Over and over again.”

Greenwhisk, staring at the shattered remnants of her plants, spoke softly, “Perhaps we were never meant to fight against the world. Maybe we were meant to live with it. But even that… it’s slipping away.”

Wildtail, his eyes reflecting the dying light of the storm, whispered, “Maybe we’re not meant to survive at all. Maybe we’ve already lost.”

The three piglets stood in silence, facing the crumbling ruins of their shelters, and in that silence, they realized the true destruction was not in the storm, not in the broken world—but in themselves. They had built their shelters to protect against the world, but they had never stopped to question their own hearts, their own contradictions.

Ironhoof had sought power, but in the end, he was trapped within his own fortress of isolation. Greenwhisk had sought harmony with nature, but had she been blinded by her idealism, too fragile to withstand the world’s cruelty? Wildtail had sought surrender to the earth, but the earth was already dying, and with it, so was he.

They stood there, each lost in the ruins of their beliefs. The world was no longer something they could fight against—it was something that had already claimed them. The storm had passed, but the true storm—the one within them—raged on.

In the end, there was no answer. There was only the wind, the empty sky, and the sound of their hearts slowly breaking, one beat at a time.

LETTER TO THE MUSE

Let us go, from where we have been sitting, words of abrasion, ashes of trampling. Tread this abandoned ground, only one suffers, to shatter the walls of artificiality that are supposedly closed. I am always your unqualified strength.

O muse, the festival of silence that blooms by the side of the railroad in spring. I am writing of red and yellow, those unannotated flowers. A stem from this earth. A single unannotated will. All that you do, O Muse.

I am the silent witness to the truth of the body you tell me. I must write on this paper, clutched tightly in my hand, that the supposedly closed walls of humanity are faith in a reality that has no substance to touch, that no one alone must suffer the illusion of this world.

Therefore, my footsteps since my return to the station of this land are shown by crushed rubble, and my high pressure strokes are plowed as ridges of black gloss, and here is my letter to you.

A land of white rubble. The polished iron road. A railroad that leads from you to the one who is now lost, for that very one person. Each stem that brings forth a flower, alongside the railroad that has received life, is revealed as you again, from your rough sketch.

Taro Hokkyo

Japan