Candy Bill


Meryl stood with her two sisters, peeping through the display window of the candy shop, and silently observing the striking array of sweets which were perched upon beautiful crystal dishes and vivid red skirting. Meryl licked her pale pink lips. At her side stood Wendy who, at seven, was three years younger. And next to Wendy and leaning with her nose against the window, was Karen, the baby, at four years of age. All three girls' mouths were watering.

On a step ladder next to, but totally ignored by, the girls was Albert Weissmann, AKA Candy Bill, the proprietor for whom the shop was eponymously named. Bill was busily squirting the already shiny glass with glass cleaner and wiping it even cleaner. Meryl fretted that they were creating a nuisance. Her father had told her to steer clear of Mr. Weissmann; he was a cranky old guy. According to her papa, he had lost family in the war, years before. One never knew what might set him off.

"Do you think we'll get some candy for Christmas," Wendy asked, turning to regard her older sibling. Karen hung on Meryl's reply.

"Don't be silly," scolded Meryl. "We're Jewish," she reminded the other two girls. "We don't believe in Christmas."

Little Karen's face puckered up and she looked as if she might cry. "Not  fair," she said, pouting. Her faded print dress hung limply from thin shoulders.

"You're forgetting," Meryl reminded them, "that we have Hanukkah."

"Yay!" shrilled Karen happily. "We'll have gelt! Then we can buy candy!"

"But," said Meryl, pointing an admonishing forefinger at her younger sister, "we have to give part of our gelt to charity."

Karen instantly grew sober and nodded. "Yes," she agreed half- heartedly, "to charity."

"Can't we buy some candy now?" implored Wendy, dying to bite into a piece of chocolate.

"We don't have our gelt yet," replied Meryl. "We get it on the fifth day of Hanukkah, remember? This is just December 19th. The fifth day isn't until the 21st."

"But, Ruth gets gelt every night of Hanukkah," protested Wendy, referencing her best friend.

"Ruth's parents are rich," remarked Meryl a little sharply. "Mother and father have to work hard to earn what little we have." Bill glanced surreptitiously at the children.

Wendy remembered that Mr. Kaplan, Ruth's father, owned a string of shoe stores in the city, whereas Wendy's mother and father worked as a tailor and a housekeeper, respectively. Wendy dug the toe of her shoe into the pavement. "Yeah...."

Suddenly, Candy Bill descended from the ladder and nudged the girls back from the window. Spraying where they'd left smudges on the glass, he wiped the surface clean and glared pointedly at the sisters.

"C'mon," murmured Meryl, taking charge as she always did. "We hafta' get home. We have latkes tonight," she said with feigned enthusiasm. Even though she loved them, she knew they were a poor substitute for Candy Bill's home made chocolate, for her sisters. She placed a hand round each of her sisters and began to steer them away.

"Come back here," growled a stern voice over their shoulders. The girls froze and looked back to find Candy Bill standing formidably in the doorway to his candy shop.

"We were just leaving, Mr. Weissmann," squeaked Meryl at the imposing figure before them. Wendy's eyes grew large and Karen actually began to tremble with fear.

"Get in here," he ordered, holding wide the door. Terrified out of their wits, the children complied with the directive and filed timidly through the portal. Once inside, they breathed in the intoxicating aroma of fresh made candy: chocolate-covered caramels, sugar wafers, and Meryl's favorite, enormous bars of pure brown chocolate.

"We...we didn't do anything," murmured Meryl fearfully, wondering what offense the trio had committed.

"You were standing at the display window," charged Bill wrathfully. "Blocking my paying customers from getting into my shop. How am I supposed to make an honest living?" he demanded, and furrowed his silver brows menacingly.

"We...we...I," replied Meryl in bewilderment. Now Karen began to whimper.

Taking notice of her, Candy Bill's face suddenly creased into an enormous smile. "There, there, hertzele, cooed the bear of a man, gently touching her cheek. From a shelf he pulled three bright white bags loaded with candy. He presented the gifts to the little girls and smiled warmly at them. They stood, agape, until Bill, suddenly embarrassed by his own largesse, shooed them out of the shop. The two younger children danced merrily away, but Meryl paused for a moment and glanced back at her benefactor and gave him a dazzling smile of gratitude. He merely flicked his fingers in the opposite direction, and she likewise fled.

Candy Bill, his always busy shop now empty, walked back of the ice cream counter, past the many confectionery displays, and laid his hand on a photo, nearly twenty years old and fading. Across the photo, in the unsteady hand of a child, was written, "Love you, papa. Your sweet hertzele, Miriam."

First of all, contributor Jeff Rasley invites people to consider this opportunity to further education in Basa Village, where he has spent much time.

From Jeff: The people of Basa Village, Nepal, have requested our Foundation’s help with two projects commencing in 2025. Funds are needed to help pay the salaries of three of the village school’s teachers. If private funding is not provided, the school’s English, Science, and Social Studies & Computer Literacy teachers will have to work for no pay or resign. Because the village’s family farms are all subsistence farms, many of the 85 elementary school students will eventually leave Basa. Acquiring education that will help to make the village’s youth employable in a city may be vital to their future. The Foundation is seeking contributions to fund those three teachers’ salaries for one year.

The second project is the development of a commercially viable herd of goats and pigs. The villagers are dependent on subsistence farming and money earned by some of the adults working in the tourist industry as support staff for treks and mountaineering expeditions. Disastrous earthquakes in 2015 and the 2020 COVID pandemic virtually shut down tourism for two years following each of those catastrophes. The village leaders realized that a sustainable business is needed to support village families, when jobs in tourism are not available. The first animals were purchased this year, but to make the endeavor profitable, more animals must be purchased and cared for. The goal is to have a profitable co-op business of selling goat milk, cheese, and yoghurt and pork within two years after the requisite number of animals are acquired. Money earned above costs will support the village school and provide assistance to any families in need.

Please consider contributing to our fundraiser for the school and farm projects via our website at https://www.bvfusa.org/donate

Or, send a check to our corporate treasurer David Culp 2322 E. 66th St. Indianapolis, IN 46220. Let me know if you have any questions about the projects or the BVF. The Basa Village Foundation USA, Inc. is a 501(C)(3) organization, and financial contributions to it are charitable donations, per the US Internal Revenue Code.

Now, for this month’s first issue: Who Will We Become?

John Edward Culp personifies the human journey through life as a child learning to walk under a giant sky. On the other hand, Ilhomova Mohichehra’s work honors the beauty and longevity of a tree.

Sayani Mukherjee communes with the hidden longings and feelings layered within a landscape as Rubina Anis melds colors into gentle natural scenes. Christina Chin and Jerome Berglund’s collaborative tan-renga highlight vignettes and observations of humans co-existing with nature. Raquel Barbeito’s art zooms in on pieces of nature – flowers, spiders, a skull – in black and white. O’tkir Mulikboyev wishes to become part of his natural environment and bring nutriments to those around him.

Alan Catlin presents human and animal wildness in its feral glory: hunger, fear, crashing ocean spray, animal eyes in the dark, earthworm trails. Sidnei Rosa da Silva’s prose poetry depicts the lonely calm of a northern winter. Christina Chin and Kimberly Olmtak’s collaborative tan-renga becomes more personal and domestic, presenting cozy tea and houseplants.

Duane Vorhees furthers his poetic exploration of sensuality, fecundity, and history. Brooks Lindberg’s poem probes the linkages between older mysticism and newer beliefs given our understanding of physics.

Isabel Gomez de Diego’s photography positions youth and new life as a continuation of the world’s cultural and natural history. Kylian Cubilla Gomez captures the off-center wonder and mystery of childhood through his photographic close-ups of toys.

Mashhura Ahmadjonova sends in a piece on how quickly life passes and Akmalova Zebokhan Akobirkhan reflects on the steady stream of life, one day after another, as Rashidova Shahrizoda Zarshidovna urges us to live with intent and purpose.

Jacques Fleury’s pieces address awakening, surprise, and discovery. JoyAnne O’Donnell celebrates the manifold ways ordinary people can find joy in our everyday lives, including love and close relationships. Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa conveys the deep joy of intimacy, friendship, and love. Mesfakus Salahin evokes quiet moments of peace brought by a tender love. Sara Goyceli Serifova wishes to live a long time with her beloved partner, as her grandmother did.

Z.I. Mahmud examines the characters’ journeys out of self-absorption toward empathy and wonder in Antoine Saint-Exupery’s The Little Prince.

Layla Adhamova suggests that happiness is accessible to many people, not just the wealthy. Gullola Nuriddinova laments the betrayal of a lover who chose money over their beloved. Bill Tope’s short story illustrates a youthful form of justice against family favoritism and classism around the holidays.

Brian Barbeito conveys the wisdom of age in his piece on a friendship between a young boy and a kind elderly neighbor.

Haitmurodov Ismoil reflects on how a father’s love can sustain you throughout life. Azimbayeva Dilrabo gives a tribute to a caring father who passed away, Iroda Sherzod offers up a tribute to her caring and selfless father, and Rahmiddinova Mushtariy pays tribute to her father’s wisdom. Olimjonova Muslima pays tribute to her parents’ continued support all along her academic and personal journey.

Sobirjonova Rayhona shares tributes to beloved teachers here, here, and here. Shahnoza Ochildiyeva’s story illustrates how a teacher brought about justice in the classroom without shaming anyone. Shoxijaxon Urunov’s essay highlights how teachers accomplish so much more than imparting information.

Dilbar Koldoshova Nuraliyevna reflects on the difficulties and hard work of the creative life and her determination to pursue that path, as Kass probes the solitary inner drives of a literary artist.

Rick Reut tinkers with the arrangement of words in concrete poetry exploring time, memory, and language. Vernon Frazer’s words pop out of juxtaposed shapes and images while Mark Young serves up a heady word-marinade. Maftuna Yusufboyeva looks into a different way of using language, examining the role, goals, and purposes of advertising. Texas Fontanella links ideas and words and bursts of thought together in his Pound-inspired modern canto.

Federico Wardal spotlights the elegance and cultural history of Andrea Ceccomori’s San Francisco flute performances. David Sapp illuminates a moment of rapturous ecstasy in the view of sublime art. Dr. Jernail S. Anand’s poetry reminds us that the truth about history and humanity is often difficult to stomach and that art helps us process our knowledge. Thus, the literary arts are a worthy calling, despite the lack of remuneration.

Farangiz Abduvohidova analyzes the ancient Greek influence on some words in the Uzbek language. Muslima Murodova contributes a patriotic piece about Uzbekistan as Ismailov Shukurillo offers a paean to his Uzbek heritage and Jasmina Makhmasalayeva conveys her pride and joy in her Uzbek homeland.

Norova Zulfizar outlines various historical sites in Uzbekistan while Rustambekova Nozimakhon sketches life in her neighborhood, showing her pride in her community. Khalida Nuray’s poem urges people of Turkish ancestry to rise up and defend and protect their homeland and culture.

S.C. Flynn’s poetry illustrates the tragedies of incomplete journeys and transformations: beautiful thoughts, creatures, and relationships that never develop into what they are meant to be.

Taylor Dibbert’s poem reflects the quiet anxiety many Americans felt over the 2024 presidential election. In a similar vein, Daniel De Culla satirizes Donald Trump’s values and personality through poetry and a photo. Pat Doyne bitterly calls out the United States’ less welcoming attitudes towards immigrants. John Ebute poetically seeks signs of life in his native and troubled Nigeria. Abigail George mourns the loss of life and the obfuscations of international politics in her poems on the war in Gaza. Alexander Kabishev ends his saga of the trauma of living in St. Petersburg under siege. David Woodward reflects on broken American political systems with concrete poetry using absurdist forms.

In a more general vein, Anvarova Nilufar laments the harsh state of the world and human nature. Goyibnazarov Abdulla reminds us how people often overestimate their abilities and knowledge.

Mykyta Ryzhykh’s undercapitalized works evoke the barren, alienated landscape of modern life. J.J. Campbell offers up a bah-humbug to the festive season, showing overworked cashiers, commercialism, pain, racism, and loneliness behind the holiday mood. Jim Meirose sends up a quirky tale for the season of online electronics shopping.

Tempest Miller explores memory, trauma, and the absurdity of existence through his pieces on zebras, crocodiles, industry, and nature. Jake Cosmos Aller revels in the surreal wild spirit of a crazy night of passion and booze. Paul Costa uses the language of Western-style adventures to highlight struggles within and among people.

Ilhomova Mohichehra reflects on human vulnerability and on gratitude for her health. Graciela Noemi Villaverde reflects poetically on the loss of a great love. Mahbub Alam also mourns an absence that has become visceral and inescapable. Philip Butera’s poetry explores personal and relational grief, loneliness, and the desire to escape from oneself. Christopher Bernard expresses similar sentiments in his poetic tribute to writer Marvin R. Hiemstra and other deceased writers, which focuses less on than on the individuals who passed and more on the implacability and universality of death.

Christina Chin presents a third round of collaborative tan-renga, this time with M.R. Defibaugh. Its protagonists bring a quiet determination to face unexpected twists of fate.

Maja Milojkovic presents a glorious vision for the world, where everyone enjoys peace, freedom, and mutual respect. We hope that this publication brings Earth a step closer to that goal. Please enjoy the issue!

(Photo of a Central Asian teen girl in a white blouse and black coat with dark hair up in a bun).

My dear teacher who made us dear!!! 

This day is in the bosom of a clear sky, 

Navo sounds very long, 

Thank you my kind teacher, 

For giving us your knowledge. 

This world is short, dear teacher, 

You teach the necessary subjects, 

I am great today because of you

Browsing books, the world of knowledge. 

You know me, hold my hand 

If I don’t come, you will wait for my way anyway

Sacrificed everything for me 

Like my mother, the world has swallowed sorrows. 

My dear teacher is as great as my father, 

I love you 

My teacher Madina is my best teacher, 

My blossoming spring, you sweet summer. 

I can’t live without you

One day I will definitely be like you 

People all over the world are envious,

I will send you flowers

You will always be in my heart, 

I learn a lot from you,

My body lives with you

My heart flutters every time I see you.

Sobirjonova Rayhona, a 10th-grade student of the 8th general secondary school in Vobkent district, Bukhara region. She was born in December 2008 in the village of Chorikalon, Vobkent district, in a family of intellectuals. Her parents supported her from a young age. She started writing in the 3rd grade. Her first creative poem was published in the newspaper “Vobkent Hayot”. She has also published extensively in Synchronized Chaos, India’s Namaste India Magazine, Gulkhan Magazine, Germany’s RavenCage Magazine and many other magazines and newspapers. She has actively participated in many competitions, won high ranks and many prizes. She is still busy creating.

A plea

Beloved like my mother
God gave you to me
I live as your child
I give my life to you, my country.

Let me lean on you, my wing
I will say it will not pass
I am sorry for the ingratitude
I give my life to you, my country

Don't be offended by me
If you are sad, I will be the one
Do not be humiliated in the hands of Yav
My life is devoted to you, my country

My sister, brother, don't shed tears
I will never leave you
May the sun not leave your head
My life is devoted to you, my country.


Running to your service
Be the only one for you
Pulling out my heart
Homeland, I give my life to you.

I will finish it before I die
Yozai senchun epic cry
My eyes are a charm for you
My life is devoted to you, my country.

The throne of other countries is not needed
It's okay if I'm in your arms
A heart that does not love you is heartless
My life is devoted to you, my country.



Member of the "Yosh kalamkashlar" club of the Barkamol Avlod children's school, Kogon district, Bukhara region, 9th grade student of the 17th school in the district, "I bow to those who know you", regional stage 1_place winner.

I'm leaving...

I'm leaving...
The end of my path is not in sight
A beautiful end of life.
Cheats discover lies
Let there be evil in the heart.

I'm leaving...
It's supposed to be in the grand corridor 
They put a shoe on my leg.
When I look back, my past
Sins will remain.

I'm leaving...
Stopping is a stranger to me,
And or no one is a friend.
Pains, sufferings please,
Leave it alone, leave it alone, that's it.

I'm leaving...
It's like in a grand corridor...


Anvarova Nilufar, a student of the 7th grade of the creative school named after Erkin Vahidov, Margilan city.

Daddy, I miss you, I miss you

He fills the fireplace without stopping because of his family.

I can’t stop being a child, I don’t know.

My dear father, my heaven is mine.

Daddy, I miss you, I miss you.

My mother burned her hands when she baked bread.

We were arguing by the side of the oven.

We all walked together, feeling his love.

Daddy, I miss you, I miss you.

His hands are full of hard work.

White in his restless hair.

I look at the picture and miss every moment.

Daddy, I miss you, I miss you

My neighborhood

At dawn in my neighborhood

Birds are chirping

My neighborhood is a sight to see

The hearts will break.

Brooms are yards

They open their hands to prayer

My neighbors

Light shines from his face.

The neighbor comes to visit

People to each other

Saying sweet words

The rays of the sun.

Children on the streets

They run happily

In the symbol of friendship, this

They scream and laugh.

Both women and men

They don’t sit down

“Idleness is bad!”

They say or.

Young people also aspire

Knowledge, knowledge for work

Thanks to our leader

For all your hard work.

Chairman and activists

They do a lot of work

That’s why we also them

A lot of respect in our country…

You will see in my neighborhood

Beauty and beauty

Affection, consequence, friendship

Religion, modesty, orni.

What about me, I will search

The inspiration of my poems

We need to justify

The name of our neighborhood!

Rustambekova Nozimakhon is the daughter of Jahangir. Khorezm region of the Republic of Uzbekistan. She is an active participant and winner of “Yosh kitobxon”, “Zukko kitobxon” and a number of other republican contests. The author of the fairy tale “Yumronchaning sarguzashtlari”. Samples of creativity are being published in “Gulxan” and “G’uncha” magazines. She is a member of the “Oydin Ozylar” circle organized under the Writers’ Union of Khorezm region. Currently, she is a 8th grade student of IDUM No. 30.