Emily as Men of Science Waste Their Lives
No matter the reward
of knowing,
the incredible things
can only nurse us
when they’re in
our mouths.
I cannot chorus
with any other man.
I’m busy, with Emily.
Emily as a Suit of Gold
Whenever
I’m given
an opportunity
to wear Emily
I am to be
witnessed
& remembered
for the excess
of her love.
Emily as an Owl in the Morning
The light is staggering,
but she can still see me
even when I hide from her.
I write from the slit. From the altar. From the lipstick-smeared mouth of the wound. My horror is femme, feral, and sovereign. It’s Queer in the way glitter is Queer: loud, unapologetic, and impossible to ignore. I write transfemme because I am. I write horror because it lets me scream in stilettos and bleed with intention. I write Queer because I refuse to be anything less than electric.
My protagonists are women. Slutty, sacred, contradictory, and divine. They are not victims. They are perpetrators, lovers, monsters, saints. They fuck like gods and cry like poets, often simultaneously. They are soft and they are brutal. They are tender and they are merciless. One thing they never do is ask permission to be who they are.
I write from the place Judith Butler named: where gender is not essence but performance, not fixed but fluid, not passive but political. My horror is a stage where femininity is weaponized, eroticized, and ritualized. My women perform gender with lipstick and knives.
I write from the borderlands Gloria Anzaldúa mapped: the space between, the space beyond, the space that refuses to be named. My horror is mestiza consciousness in stilettos. It’s hybrid, haunted, and holy. It’s the scream of the in-between. My stories live in the rupture/rapture between binaries—between victim and perpetrator, between sacred and profane, between Queer and monstrous.
I’ve stood beside the torture porn boys, have even been published alongside them. I’ve read their work. I’ve seen their mobs. I’ve felt their eyes. I don’t flinch. I don’t blink. I don’t apologize.
Matt Shaw writes from the meat hook. From the gallows. From the dungeon. His books—Rotten, Sick B, The Cabin—are full of women torn apart, raped, mutilated, discarded. Pain isn’t merely a function of the violence. It’s the point. Women are the spectacle. There is no joy, no reclamation, no complexity. His protagonists are not people—they’re props. His eroticism is domination. His violence is spectacle. His tone is grim, brutal, and hollow. His purpose is provocation, not transformation.
Mine is the opposite. My protagonists are sovereign. They are slutty without shame. They love rough sex and tenderness. They revel in being women—not as objects of pity or punishment, but as architects of their own mythos. My eroticism is sacred. My violence is ritual. My tone is satirical, poetic, glamorously grotesque. My purpose is reclamation, rupture, celebration.
Matt Shaw attacked me. He joined mobs. He tried to erase me. He’s done it to others too—Hailey Hughes, a trauma therapist and BookTuber, critiqued his portrayal of women and he retaliated with a mocking book dedication, social media rants, and a swarm of followers. That’s his pattern: defensiveness, aggression, refusal to engage with critique, especially from Queer and femme voices.
But I don’t write to be palatable. I write to be unforgettable.
My horror is lipstick and knives. It’s sacred and slutty. It’s Queer and loud. It’s the kind of story that doesn’t ask if you’re ready. It kicks the door in and dances on the table.
I write in the lineage of Lucy Taylor—whose work is lush, erotic, and unafraid. Her women are complex, her sex is sacred and savage, her horror is sensual and sharp. Like her, I write bodies that bleed and bloom. I write desire that bites. I write monstrosity that seduces.
Writing transfemme means writing with every part of me that was told to stay silent. Writing horror means turning that silence into a scream that echoes through the bones. Writing Queer means kissing the monster and becoming it. I do not ask for the reader’s comfort. I offer them transformation.
Matt Shaw can keep his meat grinder. I’ll keep my lipstick, my stilettos, and my monsters. And I’ll keep writing stories that make the genre gasp, gag, and grow.
— Kandy Fontaine
The Rule of Law — The Foundation of a Just Society
Abstract
The rule of law is one of the most important principles that guarantees justice, equality, and stability in any society. It serves as the foundation of democracy and human rights, ensuring that every individual, regardless of their position or wealth, is subject to the same legal standards.
Introduction
A society cannot be considered truly fair and developed unless it is governed by the rule of law. This principle means that laws, not individuals, hold the ultimate authority. The rule of law protects people’s rights and freedoms, prevents tyranny, and promotes equality before the law. It is the key to building public trust in state institutions and creating an environment where justice prevails.
Main Body
In a country where the rule of law is respected, no one is above the law — not even government officials. Such societies ensure that power is exercised responsibly and transparently. Independent courts, accountable governance, and active civil participation are the main pillars of a lawful state.
The rule of law also plays a crucial role in protecting human rights. It ensures that justice is served in every sphere — from political and economic life to education and social welfare. When citizens believe that laws are fair and applied equally, they become more motivated to follow them and contribute positively to their nation’s progress. On the other hand, the absence of the rule of law leads to corruption, injustice, and social inequality. When laws are applied selectively or ignored, people lose faith in justice and the state. Therefore, strengthening legal culture and promoting awareness of citizens’ rights is essential to building a just and prosperous society.
Conclusion
The rule of law is not merely a legal concept — it is a moral and social necessity. It ensures peace, equality, and justice, forming the solid foundation of a fair and democratic state. A society guided by law is a society where every person’s dignity is respected, and justice always stands above power.
Sotvoldiyeva Muslima Akmaljon qizi was born on September 27, 2009, in Bulung‘ur district of Samarkand region. She studied at Secondary School No. 1 in Termez city, Surkhandarya region, until the 6th grade, and continued her education from grades 7 to 9 at Secondary School No. 1 in Oltiariq district, Fergana region.Currently, she is a second-year student at the Namangan Regional Academic Lyceum under Tashkent State University of Law. Since childhood, Muslima has had a great passion for reading books. She has won numerous diplomas in chess competitions and achieved first place in the “Barkamol Avlod” tournament.Muslima holds a B1-level Turkish language certificate and speaks several foreign languages. Her main goal is to become a qualified lawyer and make a meaningful contribution to society.
Purgatory
I sit in circles
I think in spirals
Never Ending
Never somewhere new
Life is a cage
After is purgatory
Freedom is fake
Peace is dead
I sit on an empty train
It’s cold
Never reaching a
Stop.
I haven’t eaten in months
Nor have I drank
Not since I arrived
A loaded gun lay
Taunting me for months
The thought of oblivion
Cold steel against my head
A scythe against my neck
“I am already dead,”
I say to myself
“So what comes after?”
No reply
I put the gun down
Fear
Despite
Despite Starvation
Despite Thirst
Despite Boredom
Fear
Rustamova Shakhnoza Umidbek qizi, 1st-year Master’s student at Webster University. Photo above is of a young Central Asian woman with a long dark ponytail, gray coat, and white top.
Tree of Patience
In a small village lived a young man named Qudrat. His family was poor but rich in love. Qudrat’s childhood was filled with hard work — in summer he worked in the fields, in winter he gathered firewood. From an early age, he understood one thing: life never hands you happiness ready-made; everything must be earned through patience and effort.
In that village, most people believed that “a good education is only for the rich,” and poor children simply accepted their fate. But Qudrat was different. He held his old books close and studied late into the night by lamplight — sometimes even in darkness when the candle burned out.
His mother often said:
— “Son, don’t strain your eyes. Accept your fate. You’ll never achieve much.”
But Qudrat would smile and answer:
— “Mother, a person’s fate is like a tree of patience. If you don’t plant it and water it, it will never bear fruit. I will take care of my tree.”
Years passed. Qudrat finished school and dreamed of studying in the big city — but he needed money. Still, he didn’t give up: he worked on construction sites by day and read books at night. His friends shook their heads at him.
— “You’re wasting your time,” they said. “The city’s doors will never open for you.”
But Qudrat whispered to himself:
— “With enough patience, even mountains will move.”
Life tested him. One day, he injured his leg at work and couldn’t walk for months. But even then, he didn’t abandon his books. “The body may hurt, but if the spirit is strong, the path will be found,” he told himself.
Finally, his dream came true — he was admitted to university. Life in the city was hard: paying rent, saving money for food… Sometimes bread and water were all he had. But whenever hunger made his vision blur, he remembered one phrase:
— “The tree of patience does not bear fruit in a single day.”
Years went by. Qudrat learned not only knowledge but also patience. Each difficulty became a lesson: a delayed stipend taught endurance, a cold room taught resilience, loneliness taught self-belief.
After graduation, he returned to his village with big dreams. The village children now looked at him differently — the poor boy who once planted his “tree of patience” had grown into a wise, educated man.
One day, a group of young people approached him and asked:
— “Brother Qudrat, how did you achieve all this? Life is hard for us too — we have dreams, but we can’t find the way.”
He smiled and pointed to a young sapling growing under the willow tree.
— “Do you see this tree? I planted it when I was a child. Every spring, I watered it, protected it from the wind, and covered it during the cold. Years passed, and now it stands strong and bears fruit. Dreams are the same — if you don’t nurture them with patience, they’ll wither.”
The young people listened and felt inspired.
Years later, Qudrat’s tree of patience became a symbol of the whole village. People rested beneath its shade, young folks gathered to talk, and in every fruit the tree seemed to whisper:
> “Hardship is not meant to stop you, but to strengthen you.
Patience turns struggle into happiness.”
“THE SWALLOW THAT NEVER RETURNED”
The spring breeze blew softly, moving the white clouds across the village sky. The branches of trees were again covered with green leaves, and the pleasant earthy scent rising from the fields filled the air. In that same village, near the river, there lived an old man named Hamro.
Hamro had traveled to many places in his youth — he had seen both cities and the countryside. Yet, he chose to spend the last season of his life in his native village, where his childhood memories were preserved. Every day, he sat under the big willow tree in front of his house, gazing into the distance — as if waiting for someone.
One early morning, swallows rose into the sky. They chirped, circled over the yard, and then flew away toward the mountains. Watching them, Hamro smiled gently, as if talking to them:
— “Oh swallows, you come every spring and leave every autumn. But I still remain here. Perhaps one day, I will fly away with you,” he whispered softly.
That morning, his granddaughter Asal came out into the yard and approached him.
— “Grandpa, you’re watching the swallows again?” she said, smiling.
— “Yes, my dear. Seeing them leave is wisdom, but waiting for their return is hope,” replied Hamro.
Asal didn’t fully understand her grandfather’s words but nodded affectionately.
The Mysterious Encounter
One day, as Hamro dozed off under the willow tree, he had a dream. In the dream, he was a young boy again, watching a swallow’s nest by the river. Suddenly, a woman dressed in white appeared before him. Her face was bright, and her voice was gentle.
— “Hamro,” she said, “your life is drawing to an end. But don’t be afraid. A swallow will come to accompany you — it will guide you to the other world.”
Hamro woke up in a sweat, his heart pounding. “Could this dream be a sign?” he wondered.
A week later, a single swallow flew into his yard and began to build a nest on the roof. Strangely, all the other swallows had already migrated to the mountains — this one had stayed behind.
Hamro looked at it with wonder.
— “So, you’re the swallow that never returned,” he said with a soft smile.
Departure and Return
Days passed, and Hamro grew weaker. Yet every day, he sat under the willow, watching the swallow. It seemed as if there was now a silent bond between them.
One night, under the moonlight shining into the yard, the swallow flew into his room. Hamro was awake, lying quietly on his bed. The bird perched gently on his shoulder. In that moment, Hamro closed his eyes, and a peaceful smile appeared on his face.
When Asal entered the room in the morning, her grandfather looked as if he were sleeping peacefully — but he never woke again. Outside, a lone swallow circled above the yard and then soared into the sky until it vanished.
From that day on, the villagers remembered Hamro as “the man who left with the swallow.” Every spring, when they saw a swallow flying over the village, they would say:
— “Look, Hamro has come back.”
Dreams
He still has dreams
About London
His furry daughter
His soulmate
His everything.
Taylor Dibbert is a poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of, most recently, “On the Rocks.”
The Mountain’s Cry
The mountain was robbed of its companionship,
the trees were razed, the grass withered.
The barren earth, without leaves, flowers, or insects,
cries out to the heavens in its sorrow, but no one hears it.
On the summit remains a living being,
a bird has walked.
has traveled in search of someone
to hear its song,
only the echo answers it in a distant sound.
The grass, in its fervor, grows again,
it has not lost hope,
it dresses in green, shows off its attire
and longs to bloom.
The motionless snow watches
a flower and a bird
that walks without rest,
while the white flower
grows in its silence.
Aura Echeverri Uribe, Colombian. Writer of novels, short stories, and poems. I have published fourteen books: Six novels and eight books of short stories. My first book of poems is with the publisher and will be published soon, and I am currently writing a novel.