People always think of food when they hear about fish. They imagine the splendor and magnificence of the ocean or that sweet film about a coming of age story in Finding Nemo. This is a story for the ages, concerning land development meeting natural resources and the bounty and abundance of Mother Nature.
The writing in this story is a masterful blend of the lyrical, fantastical and the dire realities of climate change and the extreme changes to the environment due to human interference when it concerns the delicate balance of the ecosystem of a lake. It is filled in the beginning with the wonderment of the animal world and even can be quite magical at times.
Life in a pond can be tricky to navigate at the best of times but life is good for the catfish Xi and his friend Joe in the tranquil waters of his lake. Xi turns a telescopic eye to a penetrating view of the environment. In the beginning there is a tolerant understanding of the outside world. Xi, a catfish, lives in the watery depths of a pond with his friend Joe.
This story stimulates interest around the subject matter of grief for a life lived without difficulties and challenges, and loss, how dangerous human intervention is when it comes to matters in the animal kingdom. It’s a sad story filled with the violence and brutality of man in the natural world.
Humanity soon comes to the lake and the lake soon becomes a tourist hotspot. A hospital for Covid-19 is built at the edge of the lake and a maritime museum. In the process, animal life is killed by pollutants and removed from the lake as well. Life as Xi knows it is coming to an end. There’s an imbalance that occurs at the lake as modern life creeps up upon the animals at the lake.
Xi begins traveling to Florida and hopes to make it his new home but undergoes a violent and jarring meeting with a ferocious and curious dog. Xi is rescued and taken care of by its owner. The owner, Fred, then travels to Florida to their lab where animals of all kinds undergo the horrific experiences of experimentation at the hands of human beings.
After every traumatic experience Xi undergoes he braces himself for what will happen to him next. The researchers and Fred have no qualms about eating hot fin soup in front of Xi. The Florida researchers win the Nobel Prize but it comes at a terrible cost. The fragility of plant life and the animal kingdom that co-exists interdependently in the lake is not taken into account and it is not understood by human life. Humanity fails to intervene to save nature and the environment.
They are eager to kill, maim, mutilate and destroy in the name of science, research and experimentation. The human beings in this story have no respect for the natural world. They think their research will lead them to getting acclaim, international prizes and that they are doing it for the glory of mankind. They think nothing of how valuable the life inside the lake is.
Here are a few quotes from this fascinating yet tragic story that reveals man’s greed and his need for power, control and total domination over the natural world.
“It was a lake – clear, serene and old as earth.”
“The lake was surrounded by big trees that attracted especially the migratory birds. In winter, it would become a meeting zone for numerous birds – from the bigger ones like geese, waders and storks to the tiny ones like warbles, wagtails and pipits.”
“Without protozoa, there was nothing left for zooplankton to eat; and while zooplankton couldn’t grow there, invertebrates had to starve and die. As there were no invertebrates, fishes were not required to make an effort to look for a prey.”
“Despite some caring masters having such concern for their finned subjects, Joe would feel rather offended that the catfish community was being disdained. No doubt, they could collect food from any level but were bottom feeders as well. Now, as the doctor suggested to the farmer to remain careful about throwing peas into the pond, the catfishes began to harbor a deep resentment against him.”
“Whether they ever reached Florida is another matter.”
“They saw objects resembling hooks containing delicious food, tied to lines coming down from above. All the fishes thought it to be a great feast offered by someone in the sky so they happily scrambled to swallow the hooks, only to get the hook points pierced into and anchored inside their mouths, gullets or gills.”
“Some investor decided to construct a 4-star hotel on the lake to attract even more tourists from home and abroad. For this purpose, pneumatic caissons were utilized, and an underground tunnel was built using the same technology. To implement the plans at minimum cost, the lake was drained, and the mud and silt thus collected were used to elevate the banks. An artificial island was made in the shape of a palm frond, upon which a multi-storied building was erected.”
“It had a height of five to six feet, two legs, two eyes, fingers and so on, but no tail, fins or gills. Since Xi had previously heard about the human physique from his dearest pal Joe, he could easily recognize that it must be a human.”
Here are a few words about the author.
Born in the village of Majkhuria in Bangladesh, Rehanul Hoque started by writing poems at an early age. Falling ‘upon the thorns of life,’ Rehanul takes refuge in the lap of nature. He also seeks pleasure in playing with words. He believes beauty is religion and literature can build a habitable earth by promoting harmony and truth together through the appreciation of beauty. He dreams of a future ruled only by love.
Rehanul’s works have appeared in different journals, magazines and anthologies like The Wagon Magazine, Scarlet Leaf Review, The Penwood Review, The Pangolin Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, The Piker Press, Cacti Fur, LUMMOX 9, Literary Yard, NAT SCAMMACCA CULTURAL MAGAZINE, AZAHAR REVISTA POETICA, Asian Signature, North Dakota Quarterly, The Cyclone will End, and Love in Summer.
A promotional video for “The Immigrant Catfish”:
This review was previously published on the website Modern Diplomacy on September 2, 2024.
Hayley sat silently on the sofa in her living room; a shiny brass pole lamp scattered illumination over the four walls and the television was on but muted. The colorful figures on the television danced in confusion in reflections on the linoleum floor. Hayley was slender, almost petite; she had raven black hair and attractive features: a pretty face, bright blue eyes and an old-fashioned rosy complexion. But her eyes were clouded. She sat quietly, still as a statue, except for her hands, which twitched furiously, Hayley had just turned forty and had had Parkinson’s Disease for the past twenty years.
She continued sitting because standing and walking was such an unwelcome adventure, frequently resulting in missteps, staggering collisions with the furniture or walls, even falls. At length, the telephone rang–the land line, not the cell she kept at hand–and she was forced to get up off the sofa. As she rose, her head swam, she saw little white spots in front of her and she teetered on her feet. She was unalarmed, for the dizziness often came and went. The phone rang again. She hurried a little, struggled to put one foot unsteadily before the other. She brought her cane into play. The telephone continued to bleat.
It was like walking through deep water, thought Hayley, as she reeled and staggered to the telephone table. It was always worse when she had been sitting or reclining for a while. Reaching a trembling hand out, she grasped the phone just as it stopped ringing. She put the receiver to her ear and listened intently. She spoke hello into dead air, frowned, and slammed up the phone. She glanced at the Caller I.D. screen and scowled. No number or message appeared.
Another hallucination! she thought bitterly. She’d cancel the land- line, except she never knew when her cell might lose power or malfunction; and she needed a reliable connection to emergency services. She’d have to get an extension wire in order to place the phone nearer the sofa. She sighed. The hallucinations were a new addition to her condition. The tremors and the difficulty in standing and walking was one thing, but the delusions were something else again. She couldn’t trust what she heard, what she saw.
Suddenly Hayley glanced at her cell, noted the time “I’ve got to get going,” she murmured aloud. “I’ve got a date, and that doesn’t happen every night!” Indeed it didn’t. Hayley hadn’t dated regularly in ten years, ever since her disease began worsening. The half dozen dates she’d had over the last couple years or so didn’t count, she decided. They had all been unspeakable disasters, blind dates set up by friends or family. They clearly hadn’t been expecting the cane or the hand tremors or the clumsiness. Oh, they were nice enough guys, just not prepared for a woman with disabilities. She sighed, shook her head at the disappointing memories.
This time, however, she had covered all the bases: she used a computer dating service that catered to clients with “special circumstances,” such as age or, in her own case, a disability. She had listed Parkinson’s on her app and been contacted by a man about her age, who also had the disease. The man–Roger–had had the condition, he said, for about nine years. Not as long as she, but then, Parkinson’s progressed at different rates in different people; at any rate, he could at least relate to her situation, surely. They’d settled on dinner, at a moderately-priced restaurant and they would go “Dutch.” That suited her right down to the ground; this last year, particularly, had been difficult. The lonleiness was often discomfiting, sometimes simply overwhelming. Oh, Hayley had girl friends, but they couldn’t really relate to her situation; they were all married or dating in serious relationships. They were always trying to set her up, but the few resultant dates had been unmitigated disasters. She resolved to just hope for the best. Roger had sounded nice on the telephone.
Two Hours Later
Hayley arrived at the restaurant a little early, so she wouldn’t make a spectacle of herself walking in and stumbling into a chair. In spite of Roger’s similar affliction, she felt almost helplessly self-conscious around other people. She shooed the waitress away, telling her she was waiting for someone. Her date! She felt curiously giddy. Hayley watched the other patrons, all dressed fairly casually: sports jackets and blazars and off-the-rack outfits. The men all looked handsome and the women were pretty as well. It was a young crowd. They stood at the bar talking and sipping drinks, lurid concoctions with umbrellas for the women and shots of some amber liquid–whiskey?–for most of the men. She noticed pointedly that as they all drew their drinks to their lips, not a hand shook. Hayley placed her own hands in her lap, out of sight.
At length, Roger walked in, not self-conscious at all, thought Hayley. He was standing straight, walking smoothly and as he got nearer she noticed that his hands didn’t shake at all. What was his secret, she wondered. He looked just as handsome as his computer image had been. Blond hair, tall, around six one, nothing extra around his middle. He was rather nattily attired, keeping with the unofficial dress code. She met his eyes and smiled. She really was very pretty, she told herself, and Roger seemed to pick up on that right away. “Hi, Hayley, how are you?” He offered his hand. She reluctantly pulled her own hand from her lap and clasped his hand in a firm grip. “I’m fine, Roger, how are you?” He seated himself opposite her. “I’m good; it’s nice to finally meet you–in person, I mean,” he returned, then fixing his eyes on her glass, asked, “What are you drinking?” “Just water,” she answered, taking a sip.
“Well,” he said in a jolly voice “we’ll have to change that.” He signaled for the waitress. When she turned up, he said, “Scotch and water; Hayley?” he turned to her. “I’m fine,” she said. “Oh, c’mon, don’t make me drink alone,” he said persuasively. “Well, Seven-Up,” she said. “Make it a Seagram’s Seven,” he added.
“No, Roger, I don’t want any alcohol.” Turning to the bewildered waitress, she corrected, “Just a plain Seven-Up.” The waitress hurried off. Hayley looked up; Roger was staring at her blankly. “My medication,” she explained. “I can’t have any alcohol with my medicine.” “Oh,” he said, genuinely surprised. “None at all?” he asked her, incredulous. Silently she shook her head no. The waitress returned with their drinks.
“Don’t you take any medication?” It was her turn to be surprised. Roger took a heavy slug of his scotch before shaking his head and saying, “Nope. Nothing.” “How do you manage that?” Hayley wanted to know. “You seem so…normal. Look at that,” she indicated the hand holding his drink, which he was fast polishing off. “You don’t have a tremor at all!” Roger raised a finger at the waitress, pointed at his now empty glass. He waited until the waitress returned with his new drink before replying,
“Well, the truth, Hayley, is that I don’t have Parkinson’s Disease at all.” He took another big gulp of his scotch. Hayley blinked, utterly surprised. “You mean…you mean you’re not sick at all?” Roger frowned. “You make it sound like that’s a bad thing,” he complained.
But…why did you say you did? What was the point of that?” While Hayley had been speaking, Roger had silently ordered yet another drink and was half-way through it already. Hayley observed that Roger wasn’t nearly as attractive as he’d been when he first arrived. Perhaps the alcohol was revealing his true self. And he was thoroughly in his cups now, obviously something of a lightweight. “Answer me,” she said sharply, surprising even herself.
“Well,” he replied, slurring his words a little, “I figured I take one of them disabled chicks, I might get lucky, you know,” he grinned lecherously. Hayley’s stomach roiled. “I mean,” he said more expansively, his voice rising, you get a girl who’s got something wrong with her, that don’t get around much, maybe doesn’t get much action.” He winked grotesquely, ordered still another drink. How many drinks could he hold? wondered Hayley. Already he seemed drunk. Hayley was feeling a little ill herself now.
Their waitress appeared again, asked if they were ready to order. “I…I’m not hungry,” said Hayley, waving her hand at the girl. “Well, I am,” insisted Roger, pushing away the menu. “I want a big steak, rare, baked potato, sour cream, and asparagus!” he demanded. The waitress turned back to Hayley. “Nothing for me,” she murmured. The waitress withdrew.
“One other thing, Hayley,” said Roger, slurring his words anew. “Can you…you know,” he pointed at the table, made a circling motion with his finger. “Take care of this?” She stared at him blankly. “I’m a little short,” he explained. She regarded him coolly, then said, “I’m not interested in your sexual inadequacies. But pay for your own meal; you drank it, you pay for it!” And with that, she was on her feet, headed for the door. Roger, chagrinned, called after her, “I would have made it worth your while!” Hayley turned back only long enough to reply, “I doubt that; I really, really do.” She continued toward the exit, her cane accidentally knocking against a diner’s chair. “If I knew how bad you were, I never would have taken you out!” Roger shouted at her back. She made her way through the exit, out to an available taxi, where a man was just getting in. He halted, looked her way.
“Hayley?” he said. She stopped, surprised. It was Mr. Beasley, a man who lived in her building. “Hi, Mr. Beasley,” she managed, clearly upset. “Do you want to share a taxi?” he asked. “Uh…sure. Thanks.” They both climbed in. Mr. Beasley gave the driver the address and they sped away. She sat slumped in her seat. Beasley looked over and said, “Are you alright, Hayley?” She shook her head no. “You want to talk about it?” She took a shuddering breath. “I just had the most awful date I’ve had…in years,” she exclaimed. He nodded encouragingly. “I met him online, at a dating service. It was a site where if you have a disability, they hook you up with someone similar…you know, my Parkinson’s. I have Parkinson’s.” “Yes,” he said. “I thought you did.” They hadn’t talked much, he’d lived for years on the floor above her. He was at least fifteen years older than Hayley and she hadn’t given much thought to him before. She glanced at him, noticed that his hand shook a little and his head darted to the left, then to the right. It wasn’t pronounced, but noticeable.
“You…you don’t have it too, do you, Mr. Beasley?” she asked hesitantly. “Oh, you don’t have to answer me if you’d rather not,” she hurried on. “No, it’s alright. No, my own cross to bear is Tourette’s Syndrome; you’ve heard of it?” he asked. “Oh, yes, of course. I didn’t know you had it, though.” “Usually it’s controlled by medication; this is one of my ‘unfortunate days,’ however.” Hayley nodded.
“What happened inside?” Beasley asked. She rolled her eyes. “My ‘date’ was some predator who pretended he was disabled, just to prey on women he thought would be easy.” She went on to describe the scene inside the restaurant. “How about you?” she asked him. “Just on my way home from work,” he replied. They rode in companionable silence for a few moments. He’s not at all unattractive, she thought. And she knew he lived alone. Maybe he’s gay, she thought. Not that that would make him a bad person, but as far as boyfriend material, it would be a little limiting. Still, he had always seemed very nice. “Well, did you at least get a decent meal out of it?” Beasley asked. She frowned.
“No. I was so mad that I walked out without even eating.” “Well, you know, I’m pretty hungry right now myself.” She looked across the seat at him. “And I’m a pretty good cook,” he continued with a smile. She smiled back at him. “And call me Ron, won’t you Hayley?”
A collaboration between myself and internationally renowned poet Sourav Sarkar of India. The book presents us both as “2 Poets of the Common Era Literature Period” (a term Sarkar claims to have coined himself on Oct. 24, 2021 and is celebrated worldwide on its founding date yearly) and allows the reader an opportunity to “sample” our poetic styles and substance. It is at times a supple staccato or eroticism, at times mesmerizingly musical of humanism, at times visceral to its soul core but eventually reaches a crescendo to volcanic eruption of literary passion, hope and inspiration for our seemingly crumbling humanity. Here is a sample of one of MY poems from the book. Hope you check it out on Amazon. Merci beaucoup!
This month’s issue focuses on what’s going on inside of all of us, and how that shapes who we are. We’re going Beneath the Surface.
Image c/o Stella Kwon
Stella Kwon’s paintings explore dreams, childhood, fantasy, and the interiority needed for a creative life. Jacques Fleury’s sample poem from his new book Immortal Lines of Poetry looks into dreams and internal inspiration. Debabrata Maji’s poem traces his heart’s inner journey. Damon Hubbs tracks the odds and ends running through his mind while watching competitive tennis. Annabel Kim’s artwork explores and celebrates human and natural creativity. Ma Yongbo evokes the change of seasons, nature, and mortality.
Mark Young renders maps and nature into works of art in his ‘geographies.’ J.K. Durick speaks to intellectual experiences – the news, books, museums – and how we communicate ourselves to ourselves. Jasmina Saidova honors an inspirational teacher as Abdirashidova Ozoda explores possibilities for digital technology in early childhood education. Eshmamatova Shabbona traces the history and evolution of Uzbek literature and Munira Xolmirzayeva traces the history of Russian writing.
Eva Petropoulou Lianou praises the delicate elegance of Lily Swarn’s new poetry collection A Drop of Cosmos. Uralova Gulmira highlights themes of personal experience and motherhood in the patriotic writings of Uzbek poet Saida Zunnunova. Sayani Mukherjee reflects on being driven towards poetry in a full and changing world. Dr. Rasmiyya Sabir writes of romantic love, poetic inspiration, and the irrepressible drive to be heard.
Jakhongir Nomozov interviews poet Rustam Bekhrudi, who intends to capture and convey the resilient Turkish spirit in his writing. Mesfakus Salahin speaks to human psychology and the drive to live amid the allure of death. Mahbub Alam describes a night of discomfort due to mosquitoes, which he endures by thinking of people who have it much worse. Abdisattorova Hurshida’s short story highlights the dignity and self-determination and patience of the hardworking rural poor in Uzbekistan, even when facing death.
Hanen Marouani probes our internal emotional life with tenderness. Bill Tope uncovers the veil of a past sixth grade classroom where the students and teacher are full of inner and outer turmoil. Alan Catlin continues his surreal examination of the physical manifestations of work anxiety as Elbekova Nilufar warns of the danger to our eyes and psyches posed by Internet addiction. Emeniano Somoza Jr. reflects on what we lose by lessening the ups and downs of our emotional nature. Donia Sahab’s poetry probes the psychological torment and confusion Dr. Alaa Basheer alludes to in his painting. J.J. Campbell navigates loneliness with his trademark wit and cynicism.
Joana L.J. Milovanovic’s words bear witness to the psychological and physical damage domestic abusers inflict. Mykyta Ryzhykh’s characters find themselves subsumed by the crushing violence of a metaphorical “leviathan.” Alex S. Johnson reflects on his friendship with Runaways band member and visionary Kari Lee Krome and how the music industry elevates and chews people up.
Jakhongir Nomozov’s speaker reasserts himself after intense seasons of emotional pain and rejection. Soumen Roy highlights the importance of respect and patience in true love. Munisa Rustamova expresses gratitude for her mother’s constant love in a harsh world full of fake people. Alex S. Johnson and Kandy Fontaine assert their confidence in their way of living and loving and show how power is expressed through service and care, not abuse. Liderqiz demonstrates this ethic of service through a profile of Uzbek Information Service leader Dilbar Ashilbayeva.
Andela Bunos speaks of the universal human grief of lost love. Kristy Raines’ poetry expresses commitment to a romantic relationship despite being separated. Lola Ijbrater outlines the rise and fall of a romance through a series of flowers. Ken Gosse describes heartbreak through clever poems with increasing numbers of lines. Eva Petropoulou’s lines address intimate love and the beauty of forgiveness. Annamurodov Umarbek reflects on coming of age after losing his father.
Taylor Dibbert reflects on the impression Americans make while traveling abroad. Doug Hawley and Bill Tope present a humorous tale of unintended interplanetary cooperation. Duane Vorhees’ poetry deals with our humanity, the roles we play in life and who we choose to become to each other.
Abdel Iatif Moubarak’s words express solitude and the hopes and dreams of individuals and communities in an uncertain world. Abigail George reviews Nadine AuCoin’s horror novel Tucked Inn, a tale of survival and good overcoming evil. Justin Faisal, a Rohingya refugee from Myanmar and advocate for his fellow refugees, writes of his inner journey of perseverance and finding beauty in life. Sharifova Saidaxon reflects on similar sentiments, finding forgiveness and acceptance through her faith.
We hope this issue inspires you to dig into your inner psyche and uncover strength and reach for your hopes and dreams.
See how butterflies drift away in silence when they find no flower in the garden to play with its colors.
And how the breezes sigh when the trees ignore them, searching, in vain, for a branch to cradle them…
See how a melody falls mute when the words abandon it—lost between presence and absence,
between being and nothingness.
Childhood glimmers alone in the world of grown-ups
mocked by cunning fingers, watched by eyes that whisper farewell.
Look at the birds, how they changed their path when orchards no longer danced to the rhythm of their songs.
There, in the corners of longing, a small dream scatters despite the pain of separation—racing with time, playing with its shadow, and dozing off in its embrace…
It redraws old meetings—will they ever return?
There, in the corners of longing, a face still lingers on the horizon,
a beating heart bleeding in silence,
words dwelling in untold tales—seeking the echo of a breeze, a voice to return to them the sigh of memory.
And a rose, whose fragrance is the whisper of a wish.
