FYI: Synchronized Chaos Magazine will hold an in-person event the afternoon of New Year’s Eve in conjunction with the Third Space Gallery in Davis, CA. Exact address and time to be announced.

This event is a concert, art show, and literary reading with the theme of Metamorphosis. What has changed over the past few decades? What can we learn from people of different generations about how to hold onto wisdom from the past while transforming and adapting to a new, and hopefully better, world? So far participants include the Davis High School Activist Club, speakers from Bet Haverim’s Social Justice group, and musicians Joseph Menke, Avery Burke, and the Electric Turtlez.

This event will be a benefit for Sacramento Take Back the Night and the Revolutionary Association of Women in Afghanistan, (which you may support online here) both of which are grassroots and anti-imperialist organizations working for all people to be able to safely participate fully in the cultural lives of their communities. We encourage attendees to donate what they can to support either or both organizations and then come enjoy the show!

For updates and reminders, please sign up here on Facebook or Eventbrite.

Also, Abdullah Al-Mamun announces Bangladesh’s search for high school creative talent.

Welcome, readers, to mid-October’s issue of Synchronized Chaos. This time around we explore the power and pitfalls of contemplation and various ways of understanding our world.

Henry Bladon harnesses insomnia to pose meandering questions about our existence. Similarly, Celeste Alisse’s protagonist ponders life by literally staring at the wall.

Yahia Lababidi relates the psychological insights he gained through his desert journeys. Mesfakus Salahin writes of embracing the mystery and the wildness of nature. Christina Chin and Uchechukwu Onyedikam highlight our inescapable connection to the broader natural world through images of light, water, and death in their poetic collaboration.

Ubali Ibrahim Hashimu finds his romantic emotions reflected by the beauty of the moonlight. Mahbub writes of a dignified love with an elegant sunset for a backdrop.

R.W. Stephens‘ photography dwarfs human subjects beneath trees and sky. On a more human scale, Kathleen Denizard celebrates the solace she finds in gardening and Channie Greenberg presents lush images of fruits on her kitchen.

Tanvir Islam presents a paean to birds, while the hero of Syed Tabin Ahbab’s science fiction tale harnesses trees to produce oxygen, the bane of robots gone wrong.

Gaurav Ojha opines that the best way to understand ourselves is through mindfully understanding our relationships rather than withdrawing from them, by isolating ourselves in the wilderness or anywhere else. Z.I. Mahmud probes a humanist way of connecting with the natural world along with our own society in his academic piece on Rachel Carson and David Attenborough.

Fernando Sorrentino’s short story takes a humane perspective as well. He humorously dramatizes the effects of rapid privatization of social services, in this case, criminal justice and mental health care, on a honeymooning couple.

Jack Galmitz observes the details of his kitchen as he cooks a fish stew. Maid Corbic presents a thoughtful paean to Prague and to Austria’s cultural heritage. Chimezie Ihekuna continues his countdown to Christmas with two pieces in which lovers and families eagerly await the holiday.

Oona Haskovec wonders about memory through an imagined photo. What might we be doing now, or soon, that will become important in the future? Sherzod Komil Khalil reminds modern city dwellers how foreign their lives and vocabulary would seem to outsiders in his short story.

David Topper honors his artist father’s memory by making observations about his life from his last painting. Christopher Bernard contributes a more ambiguous tribute to both Queen Elizabeth and to the earth in the time of climate change.

Ridwanullah Solahudeen acknowledges that the gifts of nature and the divine come and go, in our unpredictable world. Md. Tanvir Hossain reminds us that even our own actions are to some extent out of our control, while Faroq Faisal writes of human frailty and mortality.

Chloe Schoenfeld illustrates the senselessness of real-life violence through the metaphor of mangled dramatic productions.

In her other two poetic collaborations, with James Young and Kimberly Kuchar, Christina Chin draws upon fall, death, and Halloween imagery, again reminding us of our inevitable journeys to the grave.

Babatimehin Asiwaju’s poem relates the psychological distress of a lonely man who has barely survived great trauma. Mobarak Saed’s piece is of a trapped soul’s quest for escape.

James Whitehead’s intellectual poems probe mortality, innocence, and the development of a person’s character.

J.J. Campbell returns with a mixture of psychological determination and resignation, while Adepoju Timileyin writes of prophecy and destiny, concepts which may sound exciting, but also convey a lack of control and choice over one’s own life.

Sayani Mukherjee’s piece regales us with its bold life force, triumphant over misunderstanding and ignorance. J.D. DeHart’s speakers declare their own intellectual identity in the face of the obvious and subtle dangers of everyday life, including the pressure to conform. J.K. Durick also writes of social contracts and conformity, of self-expression through traditional and sanctioned channels.

Md. Nurujjamman’s detective tale shows a crime solved by one brave, conscientious and observant person. Richard LeDue shares his personal dreams of transformation, of building a better world.

John Culp sends up Dickinsonian odes to laying fear to rest, while Patricia Walsh urges us not to overlook the power misfits and introverts have, whether for good or ill.

Sayani Mukherjee, in a second piece, takes solace in her poetry and in the passage of time.

Aisha MLabo shares her artistic inspiration and aspirations, while Jaylan Salah celebrates the eccentric genius of loner and film director Jim Jarmusch.

Jim Meirose’s writing takes an unusual approach, with a surrealist reflection on the pope fish, while Peter Cherches renders up writing prompts as “not quite stories.”

Alan Catlin gives poems of discovery: found poems from book titles and postcards. But also pieces of minimalism and loss, of the power and cruelty of cultural and aesthetic erasure.

Robert Fleming creates “mathematical” renditions of human relationships and Queen music, while Kenny Johannson presents a stained and typed manifesto as a work of art.

We hope the diverse artworks in this issue will inspire you to contemplate and create as well.

Jim Jarmusch, who are you?

"If aliens watched us make a film, they would think we were ridiculous,"
- Jim Jarmusch, the New York Times, 1992

In one episode of the Simpsons, they meet Jim Jarmusch to ask him who he is. He replies that he tries to answer that question in his films.
So, watching Jim Jarmusch’s films may lead the viewer to understand who he is.
Who could that be?

A loner, a poet, a musician, a socially-awkward artist, reluctant to the spotlight, determined to create art as long as it takes him, a stranger, a philosopher, and a spiritual creation.
All this is obvious, but who is Jim Jarmusch anyways?

He is a weirdo who embraces weirdness to the fullest. All comments and descriptions of him emphasize the halo that surrounds him everywhere. Longtime friend Tom Waits called him,
“The key, I think, to Jim, is that he went gray when he was 15 … As a result, he always felt like an immigrant in the teenage world. He’s been an immigrant — a benign, fascinated foreigner — ever since.”

Juan A. Suárez described Jim Jarmusch in one of the Contemporary Film Director book series. He wrote that Jarmusch was: "An endearing eccentric slightly at odds with his surroundings whose presence is at once self-effacing and subtly pervasive".

Jarmusch enjoys odd pairings of people who sometimes can’t communicate what and how they feel because they either speak a different language or their backgrounds are entirely different. Isn’t this Jarmusch trying to communicate with people all his life? He is trying to be understood by a world that rarely understands him and treats him with caution, probably leaving the sign “Handle with Care” taped to his forehead.

Jarmusch is not concerned with film time. He wants to approximate real-time as much as possible, whether in an awkward café, a room where someone spends too many nights playing guitar, a bus route, or woods mimicking Purgatory. Jarmusch tries to decipher the time code and what it means in real life or on screen. His films are long shots of people breaking the ice of distant relationships and communication methods that miss the spot. 

Is he simply a filmmaker or a true artist? How does that show in his movies?

French and Japanese cinema has had a significant influence on Jarmusch. It shows in his deep interest in character analysis and the use of black and white. 

Jarmusch’s movies are minimal and austere, strangers on a strange land where nothing is hospitable or inviting. Nothing seems familiar, not the Lower East Side, not Detroit, not Tangier, and not the western town Machine. He is deeply affected by film noir where the traces of a mysterious story where goodness or badness doesn’t matter shows in most of his films. There is no classic good guy/bad guy in a Jarmusch movie, even the ones minding their own business may face a situation where their morality is tested. Still, they don’t end up as heroes or villains but merely humans counting their steps and making the necessary movie one at a time. 

Jarmusch is not concerned with breaking that eerie feeling of otherness. He embraces otherness in his films through his protagonists or -more or less- the lack of an actual hero on whom to build a film. He is fascinated by musicians and music. It is his source of inspiration as most of his movies seem like meditative pieces on life, like lengthy guitar solos or jazz improvisations. 

Viewers don’t feel his films are meticulously-structured narrative-wise, although his command of the technique shows. Listening to actors talk about Jim Jarmusch shows how they feel that it is genuine and unrestrained to be working on a Jim Jarmusch film. Tilda Swinton called it “like Christmas every day”. Johnny Depp described him as “one of his best friends”. Austin Butler mentioned how he discussed red carpet style with him. Iggy Pop explained how trusting he was of Jarmusch’s artistic choices that he asked him to make a movie about The Stooges regardless of his appearance in it.

In his interviews, Jarmusch speaks slowly, taking his time with answers and elaborations. It doesn’t seem like he is in a hurry, and he seems oblivious to the surroundings, the crowd and the attendees matter least to him, and neither does the one interviewing him or engaging him in a discussion. With Jim Jarmusch, one becomes in Jim Jarmusch's land, where senses collide and coalesce to create a feeling and evoke emotion in the viewer. 

However, sometimes, Jarmuschian films may not need to be watched. They can be music compositions on their own. The music takes centerstage more times than often, with soundtracks ranging from grungy electric guitars to ambient electronic music relying heavily on analog synthesizers. 

For Jarmusch, music comes first. A love for a musician or a sound could build an entire movie, which is why his films might seem strange without the soundtrack context. His movies are not for the people who cannot immerse themselves in an artistic experience. 

But since movies have differed gravely in context and content from before, this eccentric artist has seen a surge in popularity with younger audiences who may or may not be looking for a way to disconnect from the average top 10 on a streaming service experience.

Jim Jarmusch may have been the rockstar of American indie filmmakers, but an aloof one at that, the Thom Yorke of the scene, adding his musician status to the mix, Jarmusch chose a life of secrecy rather than bathing in the much-welcomed attention that stars and star makers revel. His identity remained the same throughout his career, and his state of weirdness proved not to be an act, but an authentic personality trait, as his films grew further apart and his filmography grew more eclectic. 

Although his latest film, “The Dead Don’t Die” is an asymmetric, sublime, zombie post-apocalyptic, star-studded tale, it still had some  Jarmusch-ian elements. 

A collector of music, photographs, poetry, and people before starting any project, Jarmusch is the American hunter, going out on expeditions to capture gems that pass unnoticed by others, dismissed as mundane. He is the ultimate hoarder, but a poetic one at that. His career in retrospect was not concerned with the aesthetic star beauty of charisma. 

“Stranger than Paradise” and “Down by Law” had more unknowns than known actors. Iggy Pop made more than one appearance in a Jarmusch movie, and Yasmine Hamdan appeared in a magical scene to steal the spotlight from Tom Hiddleston and Tilda Swinton. 

The thing with Jarmusch is that he experiments with actors all the time. He allows them to surprise him. He retains that curious kid fascinated by art deep and doesn’t let go in favor of the director’s ego. 

Jarmusch dismisses the traditional storytelling structure. Like a jazz musician, he improvises, creates scenes on the spot, and changes dialogue constantly. The ending result is a bit chaotic but within a frame of synchronicity. His style doesn’t overshadow his characters’ triumphs and misgivings, lost as they are in big cities, woods, or within the walls of their own homes, they go on aimless journeys not to follow a dream or set on a hero’s route, like the flow of the river, as they move, stillness would only mean stagnancy and Jim Jarmusch is by no means a static artist.

Jaylan Salah Salman is an Egyptian poet, translator, two-time national literary award winner, animal lover, feminist, film critic, and philanthropist.
She received her BSc in pharmacy in 2011, and has published film criticism articles, short stories, poems, and translations in many websites and offline publications such as “Al Ahram”, “Vagues Visages”, “Synchronized Chaos”, “The Gay Gaze”, “Cinema Femme Magazine”, ” Eye on Cinema” and “Guardian Liberty Voice”. Her first short story collection, “Thus Spoke La Loba”, was published in 2016 by the Egyptian Supreme Council of Culture. Her first poetry collection in English, “Work Station Blues”, was published by PoetsIN, a British publishing house with the purpose of destigmatizing mental illness and supporting international artists. Her debut novel “Bogart Play me a Classic Melody” has made wide critical acclaim and was recently chosen as one of the 32 novels in the “Arab Voices” initiative at the virtual Frankfurt Bookfair in 2020. Her second poetry book “Bury my Womb on the West Bank”, was published in 2021 by Third Eye Butterfly Press and available on Amazon in both ebook and paperback formats. Her second novel “Rita’s Dance” was published in 2022 by Noon for Publishing and available for purchase both in paperback and ebook formats.

Re-Entry into Society

By Fernando Sorrentino


Translated from the Spanish by Mary Esther Díaz

We spent our honeymoon in Bariloche and returned to Buenos Aires on a Saturday at dusk, eager to spend our first night together in our cozy one-bedroom apartment.
We found a cage in our bedroom.

It looked just like a parrot cage, only larger. It had a round base, nearly 3 yards in diameter, and vertical bars that came together at the top like meridians, forming a pointed dome that touched the ceiling.

To make room for the cage in the bedroom, our bed and our nightstands had been moved into the dining room, where the dining table and its four chairs had been pushed against the wall. It would be hard to open the cabinets, blocked as they were by the bed. Furniture, floors, and walls were badly scratched.

In the cage, there was a pale man with reddish hair. He seemed to be very clean and a bit anachronistic. He was wearing a black, double-breasted suit with gray pinstripes, a white, starched shirt, a dark tie, and well-shined black shoes. He held a gray hat on his knees; it was as clean, old-fashioned, and new as the rest of his person. Those period pieces, which looked newly-made, gave the odd impression of being props, a disguise, or some archaeological reconstruction.

We noticed all this a bit later. At first, Susana and I were shocked. The man waited for us to calm down, then said in a monotone:

“I wasn’t expecting you today. According to my information (he consulted a booklet) you were supposed to return tomorrow night. The time line is quite clear: ‘Friday the Twelfth, induction of the mentees; Saturday the Thirteenth, physical and mental adaptation; Sunday the Fourteenth, arrival of mentors.’ And today, if I’m not mistaken, is Saturday the Thirteenth.”

“You’re right,” I said, “We came back a day early. It’s not very pleasant to be back to work just a few hours after returning home.”
“What’s even less pleasant is receiving guests early. Mr. Rocchi will not be happy about this breach of etiquette, which, by the way, will also upset my plans for the night.”

“Mr. Rocchi? The owner of the real estate firm?”
“Who else? He, personally, made all the necessary arrangements, and they weren’t quick or easy. But Mr. Rocchi believes that all citizens should be extremely zealous about observing the laws and making sure they’re observed by others.”
I decided to set him straight.

“Laws? Which laws are those? And since when does that so-called Mr. Rocchi, a mere businessman, have any right to enforce the law?”

The man continued, still in a monotone:
“You, obviously, are someone who has not yet learned about life. Furthermore, your wedding celebration has prevented you from learning about certain changes introduced in real estate legislation. For example, Mr. Rocchi is now a magistrate. You’re a magistrate, too, within certain limits.”

“Me, a magistrate?” I gave an incredulous chuckle.
“Not quite: more of a magistrate’s assistant.”
“An assistant to Mr. Rocchi, then?”

“It would be unwise of me to get ahead of the official decision. However (and here he lowered his voice) I trust you to keep this information in strictest confidence.”
“And why are you telling me this confidential information?”

“My golden rule, sir, is knowing how to get along. Since we’ll be spending a lot of time under the same roof ….”
“A lot of time under the same roof?!”

“That’s right, sir. I’m older than you by at least 30 years. I have made very little progress; I’m at the lowest rung of the ladder of incarceration: I’m only an inmate. On the other hand, you are a free man who has already achieved the first promotion on the ladder of incarceration: the rank of assistant.”

Susana then exploded:
“I have never heard so much nonsense in my whole life! Simply put, the problem is this, ‘What the hell is this man doing here with his horrible cage in our bedroom?!’ Furthermore, who and why have they taken the bed and nightstands to the dining room, and who will pay for the damage caused by the movers?”

“My dear lady, I cannot condone the abrasive tone of your complaint. There are practical issues here. The bed had to be moved because, otherwise, the cell could not have been installed according to regulations. As for who will pay for the damages, the authorities plan to gather a team of laborers of various trades who will, for a small sum, return your furniture and walls to their original condition. But you asked, what the hell I am doing with my horrible cage here in your room. In turn, I would ask you, do you think I’m here of my own free will? Do you think I like being a prisoner?”

“I don’t care whether you are a prisoner of your own will or someone else’s. All I know is that I want your cage out of our bedroom!”

“It is not a cage. That term carries the disagreeable connotation of captive animals, which is just the opposite of the humanitarian spirit that guides our governmental authorities. Nor is it a cell or a dungeon. Its technical name is re-entry receptacle.”
This correction irritated Susana even more.

“Why should it be in our bedroom? Why in our bedroom? Why in our bedroom? Why? Why? Why?”
“Our Argentinian representatives and senators are very intelligent, educated, industrious, honest, austere, and altruistic people. In light of these virtues, they have ratified new laws that are jointly known as the Social Re-Entry Regulations and that .…”
"Do you expect me to believe,” I interrupted, “that you’re in our bedroom because of some new regulations?”
He placed his hat on his left index finger and, grasping the brim with his right hand, gave it a twirl as he shook his head.

“I am only an inmate. Within the system of incarceration, I fulfill the smallest of roles. You enjoy a rank one notch higher than mine and, in theory, should be better informed about such matters than I. Yet, in practice, it never works that way, as I have been in the system for many years, whereas you have just been admitted. You should be glad for your admittance, but you’re not. This phenomenon is not, by any means, initially present in the majority of people, but it always comes. When you have read the new regulations, you will feel not only joy, but also pride.”

Susana’s hands were balled into fists.
“If you will allow me,” the man added, “I could share some information about the Social Re-Entry Regulations ….”
“I’m anxious to hear them”—his leisurely manner was hard to take.

“The authorities, after examining the old system, found that it did not meet the needs of modern society. Therefore, they did not delay in replacing it with another one based on a consensus of ideas. Are you following ...?”

"Yes, yes, go on,” I said, waving my hand impatiently.
“The Social Re-Entry Regulation is based on two interrelated principles: A and B. The purpose of A is the progressive re-entry of the prisoner into society. The purpose of B is to replace the old system of collective incarceration units with individual incarceration units. Real estate firms distribute the prisoners among new domiciles and, thanks to this policy, the old jails are demolished and replaced by parks and plazas.”

“But why in new domiciles?”
“Old domiciles don’t always have a pleasant appearance and can negatively influence the prisoner’s psyche. On the other hand, a modern prison environment has a very positive effect on his or her re-entry into society. Besides, housing a prisoner brings great joy to the homeowners. It’s as if .…”

“Hang on a second: Susana and I are supposed to be your guards and you’re our prisoner?”
He shook his head in disappointment.

“The authorities no longer use the terms guards and prisoners. They use mentors and mentees, which are words better suited to Principle A of the system: the progressive re-entry of the prisoner into society. Don’t you agree?”
“But I see that both you and the authorities use the term prisoner.”

“Only as a poetic metaphor so the mentors will understand their obligations.”
“Obligations …?”
“Or shall we say, duties. These are simple and few. You need only provide me with food, clothing, medical and psychological assistance, exercise, toiletries, etc., of appropriate quality and quantity. In short, the material accouterments a human being as such deserves. The mentee’s spiritual rehabilitation is also provided for through recreation and information. I’m entitled to newspapers, magazines, books, television, and audio equipment .… Two nights a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays, friends of a certain age visit me. These gentlemen enjoy playing cards and dice, and it is expected that you shall offer them an assortment of snacks and beverages.”
“How many people would that be?”

“Never more than eight or ten. Likewise, I have not given up my sex life: on Saturday nights I am visited by Miss Cuqui, a pretty, charming, and educated young woman. A young woman of such merit naturally could never fall in love with me, so you must compensate her for her favors. I’m unaware of the exact fee, as I detest handling anything so banal as money. Instead, I enjoy art and, three times a week (Monday, Wednesday and Friday), I take drum lessons from a young rock musician who enjoys soft music and whose fees are not very high.”

“But,” Susana interrupted, “How are we supposed to manage so many expenses?”
“That's just my luck,” he said, shaking his head. “My other colleagues were housed in homes with good financial backing …. Alas, life can be so unfair …. I would suggest that you document the situation in an official letter, attaching a separate sheet in annex, in original and four copies, on official, sealed paper, which must be signed by a public accountant and a notary. The annex should bear a detailed account of income and expenses so that the mentors can prove financial hardship. The authorities take great pains to resolve any otherwise irremediable problems sustained by the mentors, and they may even be able to give you a mentoring grant.”

He suddenly fell silent, making it clear that he had gone too far by revealing this benefit. I had to ask:
"What does the mentoring grant entail?”

“It entails rights and responsibilities. As to the former, the authorities will try to find you both night jobs. For example, the gentleman could be a railroad employee at one of the suburban commuter railway stations. As for the lady, I don’t think Miss Cuqui would be opposed to initiating her in the art of her ministry. In exchange for these privileges, you will have to attend Comprehensive Mentor Improvement Training. The cost of this training is very low and is offered in the city of Luján.”

“Luján?!” I stammered stupidly. “It’s so far!”
“You are not required to request the grant,” he recovered. Then, with a yawn, he added, “It’s almost dinner time. I don’t have any special preferences; I will eat any kind of food, as long as it is abundant, varied, appropriately spiced, and accompanied by a red wine of excellent quality.”

Susana ran to the kitchen.
“I always take a bath before dinner. Here is the key to the cell.”

He handed me the key through the bars. I opened the door and he emerged. He was carrying a small duffel bag, in marked contrast to his formal dress. And now a paradoxical sense of health, strength, and well-being burst forth from this walking anachronism.

“You needn’t hold on to the key. I keep it to come and go, as I wouldn’t want to be a bother to anyone. Madam!” he called out, “Would you kindly turn up the heater a bit for me, please?”

“And you,” he said as he turned to me, “bring me a clean towel and, in preparation for tomorrow’s activities, don’t forget to buy me a large bottle of shampoo formulated expressly for dyed or tinted hair.”

I did as he said. He draped the towel around his neck. We left the bedroom and stopped in front of the bathroom.

“I would like to remind you that today, Saturday, is the day that Miss Cuqui comes. As shy as she is, it would be unsettling for her to meet with strangers. So, if you please, you and your wife should retire no later than eleven-thirty.”

Resting his hand on the doorknob, he added, “I shall be using the full-size bed. The authorities have failed to notice how very uncomfortable the regulation cot is. Oh, and clean sheets, if you please.”

“Um … and how long will all this … take?”
"You may return between three-thirty and four in the morning. Ring the doorbell once; if there’s no answer, do not ring again. Miss Cuqui is very energetic and, when she finishes her work, I usually fall into a deep and well-deserved sleep. In that case, check back in the morning at ten o’clock sharp – not before because I will still be resting and not after ten, as I usually take my breakfast at ten-fifteen.”

As he entered the bathroom, I managed to ask him:
“How long is your sentence?”
“It’s a life sentence,” he answered, as his words were drowned out by the sound of running bath water.

          In memory of my beloved K.

Merry Christmas!

( The Phone conversation between James and Jane)

Jane: James, it’s been over eleven months in the waiting for Christmas
James: Jane, in as much as we’ve been waiting for this period to come; now it has. You know how time flies.

Jane: You’re right! I’ve been waiting for us to meet. You know what James?
James (sounding anxious): Jane, What’s that? You know I’m not good at guessing rightly
Jane: Just guess….
James (a bit upset): Just can’t!!

Jane: Okay. You know I miss you a lot.
James (Indifferent): Yea. Is that all you have to tell me, Jane?
Jane: So, what’s wrong with that? You know how upset I could be…when you sound that way

James: Oh! I’m so sorry. It was never intended.
Jane (jokingly): You’d better be. Anyway, apologies accepted. We are about being ushered into a season of love, merry-making and harmony. So, no need to harbor bitterness.

James: I agree. You’re right! Will be great meeting you after missing you…
Jane: I can’t wait to have my arms around your shoulders so tightly. You know what I mean
James: You can say that again, sweetheart. I roger that! (Smiles) It won’t be long, honey. Just two weeks to the time.

Jane:  I will be on leave before then and before your eyes would twinkle, I’ll be with you, saying, ‘Merry Christmas!’
James: Jane, I’ll be glad to reciprocate this. I dream of seeing you…like now! Merry Christmas, my dearest Jane! 

Jane: Merry Christmas to my darling, James. Again, Merry Christmas!
James: Got to go, Jane. Will call you back later.

Jane (concerned): Hope no problem…
James: Nah! It’s just that I got some other tasks on my work plate to attend. Hmmm…wished we could keep talking every day. Just have to go back to work. Merry Christmas in advance!

Jane: Merry Christmas in Advance, darling. Miss you!!! (Kisses the phone)
THE PHONE HANGS UP
The End


The Month of December

Welcome to the ‘December’ month
There are three other ‘’ber’’ months-September, October and November
But the month of December is different

It is a period for the season of Christmas;
the celebration of the yuletide
the month where the first day would be counted as a build-up to the celebration date-Christmas Day
the preparation of gifts items, other presents, food varieties and several decoration tastes starts long before the December 25th deadline

the month of December houses the ‘’Merry Christmas’’ celebration and paves way for the ‘’Happy New Year’’ wish.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

where did it all go wrong

 

i see my reflection

in the window

 

where did it all go

so wrong?

 

this woman wonders

where i lost my smile

 

i start telling a story

about a bathroom

floor and a horror

that visits my dreams

to this day

 

she tells me the name

of a great therapist

 

i give her the names

of all the drugs that

never worked for me

---------------------------------------------------------------

years of decay

 

loneliness

is a weapon

 

sometimes

a broken heart

never heels

 

these old bones

have seen the

horror of endless

years of decay

 

pain is the only

companion that

doesn't have plans

in the middle of

the day

------------------------------------------------------------

a kiss and a bottle of wine

 

whispers

in the rain

 

long lost lovers

realizing time

can't be made

up over a kiss

and a bottle

of wine

 

it's that cold feeling

of what could have

been that haunts every

soul that ever dared

to love or be loved

 

the scars come with

the territory

 

those that can't take

the pain i would advise

to learn to take the baby

steps first

 

love yourself

 

sometimes,

that is the

hardest

of all

----------------------------------------------------------

to deal with anxiety

 

i guess the easiest

way to deal with

anxiety is to no

longer give a shit

 

be careful applying

this to all aspects

of your life

 

most people won't

understand and label

you an asshole

 

the joy is that other

assholes will recognize

you and give you that

nod of approval

 

look there, a whole

new set of friends

----------------------------------------------------------

another morning appointment

 

my mother hates

the mornings about

as much as i do

 

yet here we

are again

 

another morning

appointment, this

time at the dentist

 

she swears she

only takes these

appointments if

they are the only

time the place

has

 

i beg to differ

and casually

remind her of

all the mornings

she had to wake

up early for work

 

you are retired

now

 

you are allowed

to enjoy it

 

she tends to forget

that

 

and i wish i wasn't

the one to have to

remind her

---------------------------------------------------

J.J. Campbell

jcampb4593@aol.com

https://evildelights.blogspot.com



https://goodreads.com/jjthepoet


J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is old enough to know where the bodies are buried. He's been widely published over the years, most recently in Jellyfish Whispers, Dumpster Fire Press, Terror House Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash and The Rye Whiskey Review. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Dyunlekan was born in a place that is covered with deep woods. That place was still covered with white snow. Reddish-grey ground will be seen only in summer. What saw Dyulecan in the world is his father’s wooden cabin, green fir trees and nut trees, flannel dogs and deer that pull sledges, sky, cloudes and frog. He also knew polar fox, blue wolfe, brown and black bear and bogs of the thicket. Although his father, Mirgachan, told him about marvelous things of other worlds, he hardly believed that they existed. How could he believe the things he hadn’t seen?

One day a helicopter landed on the thicket. As every child Dyulekan was surprised looking at helicopter. His hair was as brown as bear and his eyes were as blue as the lake. He was coming towards Mirgachan, Dyulekan’s father, also was hurried: “ –At last you came, Victor – he said.

“ –Mirgachan, it has passed 12 years since we last met”, – a white man slightly beated on Mirgachan’s shoulder. “ – Where is your son, at that time he was a new born child. The time flies.”

Mirgachan met Victor, when Dyulecan was born. This all because adventurous Victor fifteen years before visited this village and got lost in the wood. Fortunately, Mirgachan on the sledge ran into him. He took Victor to his wooden home and gave him to warm himself. He made healing tea by verdures and gave him. These were the reasons of their making friendship. Uncle Victor told him about the world, where he lived and Mirgachan wanted to go to that world. So, uncle Victor took him to Moscow. Mirgachan came back with a lot of impressions and would always tell about another world with pleasure. Because no one expect Mirgachan had been there. Uncle Victor lived a week at Dyulecan’s cabin. During this week Mirgachan took him for hunting on the sledge with dogs. Mirgachan also went for a trip on the sledge with deer. Uncle Victor was very happy. Near to his leaving, uncle Victor invited Mirgachan to Moscow again.

“ – No, thank you,’ – he refused seriously, ”– I have been there. I won’t go again. Impressions which I’ve taken are enough for me to the rest of my life. Can my son Dyulecan go with you, if you don’t mind? I want him to have conception about another world. “

Uncle Victor listened to Mirgachan with a smile on his face and agreed to his offer. So, Dyulecan on the iron bird came to Moscow. To Dyulecan’s surprise, there weren’t any wooden houses. They lived as a flock of deer in the crowded square houses that reminded big stone boxes. Besides, there were glass building all around and they hang colorful lams everywhere. They shone day and night over noisy city. They cut the wood and build wide plains. They go in the cars, but not on the sledge. Just to please Dyulecan uncle Victor took him to places, where women have short hair like men’s and wear open closes. He saw uncountable new things like underground, internet, hypermarket, bar, disco clubs. They all were artificial and strange for Dyulecan. Because all people here talked using such senseless words as massage, “odnoklasniki”, “what’s app”, “facebook”, “office”. Dyulecan missed his own home. Because there people talked about sky, bread, wood and deer in his native language – tungus.




ABOUT THE AUTHOR: 


Sherzod Komil Khalil was born on 13th September in 1982 in Kitab  district, Kashkadarya region of Uzbekistan. He studied at Uzbekistan National  

University for Bachelor of philosophy from 1999 to 2003. Sherzod gained a master degree in Modern philosophy and history of the West from 2003 to  2005. 

He also studied for Higher Literature Course. In 2016, Sherzod Kamil Khalil’s book “Ileft Poetry” was published in the United States. His works have been published in more than twenty languages. Sherzod Kamil Khalil is the brightest figure of young writers of Central Asian literature.He currently lives in the Writers' Town in Peredelkino, Moscow.

 Now Sherzod Komil Khalil is a freelance writer