You can always achieve your dreams. You just have to believe and act. It’s true that sometimes you get depressed, things may not seem like it, but your efforts will pay off one day. You just have to sincerely believe in dreams.
I also have many dreams and I am gradually achieving these dreams.
You know, many years ago, when I was 6 or 7 years old, my parents used to take us to many festivals and theaters, and I was envious of those who participated in the festival or those who acted on stage. I used to say to myself that I wish I could go to the stage and take part in the celebrations. I dreamed of being like them, thinking that maybe I would be like them when I grow up. I had forgotten this dream of mine. But when I was young, I was so envious that I was able to play a role in the theater at the age of 14 and at the age of 15 to perform on the big stage at the festival. After a long time, I achieved my dream.
True, some people may say that this is both a job and a dream, but I am very happy that I have achieved my dream from my youth and I once again believed that if a person really wants something, that dream will come true. Your dream may not come true when you want it, but your dream may come true at an unexpected time.
Believe in your dreams and keep moving. Because you can’t make dreams come true.
Bizarro horror laced with black humor, [Alex S. Johnson’s] Wicked Candy is shocking, perverse, and, at times, funny as hell”–Lucy Taylor, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of The Safety of Unknown Cities, “Queen of Erotic Horror”
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.
Mother, a colorful phenomenon, magical and bright.
A faultless projection of paradise, a wondrous sight.
As the Quran says, “Show gratitude to Me and to your parents dear” (31:14).
And the Prophet’s words, “Paradise lies at the feet of your mother”.
So dear.
She offers glassfuls of love to all.
A nurturing spirit that stands tall.
With a heart full of affection, she guides us through life.
A mother’s love, a precious gift, a treasure so bright.
She’s a multi-dimensional mirror, reflecting divine beauty, rare.
A reliable blessing for humanity, beyond compare.
In her presence, hearts find peace and rest.
A mother’s love, forever etched in our breasts.
So let’s cherish and honour our mothers with glee.
For their love and care, are blessings to you and I.
Hassan Musa Dakasku, is a Nigerian writer, a passionate advocate for youth well-being and a performance poet, He is an author based on vulnerability and of a personal blog.
SCIENCE REQUIRES OBJECTIVITY, PRECISION, AND ETHICAL RESPONSIBILITY
Today’s interlocutor is Doctor of Philology, Professor, People’s Poet of Turan, Academician of the International Academy of Sciences, Head of the Department of Press History and Journalism at the Nizami Ganjavi Institute of Literature, Azerbaijan National Academy of Sciences, laureate of numerous international awards, distinguished literary scholar, well-known poet and publicist, and a member of the Azerbaijan Writers’ and Journalists’ Union, Vuqar Akhmed.
Childhood is the happiest and purest season of our lives. All future dreams start in childhood. So let’s begin our conversation from your childhood…
— I always remember my childhood with particular reverence. Childhood is the first stage of a person’s emotional world and imagination; it is the first school where the soul is formed. The desires, fears, and simple joys that arise there form the foundation of future creativity and perception of the world. That is why it is appropriate to begin our conversation from my childhood — both my poetic and scientific interests can be traced back to that period.
Childhood dreams come to mind, My mischief and playful charms. Crying and laughing, Being upset with adults over anything.***It was full of sweets, I would wear gloves when it snowed. The last night of childhood was beautiful, It was a mugham, a ghazal for me.***Childhood dreams come to mind, Frightful winter tales, Little gifts in Novruz trays, The boys and girls of those years.
My first freedom ran and hid, In hide-and-seek my joy was plenty, The taste of sweet tea and salty bread, I still recall the delight of my first appetite.***We were very happy, lucky then, I never thought of the beginning or the end. Childhood dreams remain in my memory, And there was a child named Vuqar.—
Your poems and songs are full of delicate emotions. For you, what is the greatest source of inspiration — people, nature, love, or history?
— The sources of inspiration are diverse. For me, the strongest is the human being themselves — their inner world and love. Yet, the memory of the people, national spirit, and history also give poetry a rich context. Nature can sometimes be a simple metaphor or sometimes a profound silence for the soul. Inspiration cannot be tied to a single source — these elements complement each other and synthesize in poetry.— The true value of a human life is not measured by the years lived but by what one creates and the impact left on others’ hearts.
Have you ever asked yourself how you have lived your life so far?
I always carry such questions with me. I measure the value of life not by the number of years, but by the significance of the marks left. Science, teaching, literature, and family — these are activities that become history for me.— Some people want to possess everything, as if their life were enough to claim it all.
To what extent have you been able to cherish and use the blessings and opportunities given to you?
Opportunities have never been perfect, but I have tried to make the most of what was given: scientific research, publications, journalistic activity, and poetry. Particularly, I have worked in the fields of children’s literature, press history, and the topics of Southern Azerbaijan and Karabakh, achieving certain results. I consider this work a duty and a responsibility to preserve the national spirit.
To live with science requires patience, because it destroys illusions that cannot be restored. Especially, living in accordance with science is very challenging. In your opinion, what responsibilities does carrying the burden of science entail?
Science demands objectivity, precision, and ethical responsibility. It also carries a social responsibility: acquired knowledge must be shared with society and the younger generation. Patience, humility, and consistent professionalism are essential on this path.
What conclusions have you drawn from your scientific work on children’s literature? How does children’s literature contribute to forming the national spirit?
Children’s literature is a key factor influencing the early development of the national spirit. The first images, values, language, and stories given to children lay the foundation of their national consciousness. My research also shows that children’s literature is a strategic field for transmitting language, cultural values, and historical memory, which is why it deserves special attention.
You also conduct scientific work in journalism and press history. How responsible or dangerous do you consider modern journalism compared to classical journalism?
Classical journalism ideally emphasizes responsibility and objectivity. Modern journalism, however, faces rapid information flow, commercial pressures, and short-term sensationalism. These changes may sometimes weaken responsibility and lower content quality. Nevertheless, professional and ethical media still uphold classical journalism principles.
At the Nizami Ganjavi Institute of Literature, the Department of Press History and Journalism, which I lead, has achieved significant success in researching national press history and producing new scientific results. One of our achievements is the first publication of the Molla Nasreddin Encyclopedia under the leadership of academician Isa Khabibbeyli.
What needs of society does poetry satisfy today — spiritual consolation, social struggle, philosophical inquiry, or personal expression?
Poetry meets various needs: it can provide spiritual comfort, voice social-political arguments, raise philosophical questions, and express personal emotions. Each era’s poetry highlights one or several of these functions depending on its context. The most effective poem is one that resonates within the reader and stimulates thought.— In the history of Azerbaijani poetry, there are geniuses like Nizami, Khagani, and Fuzuli.
How do modern poets use their legacy? Do they study it sufficiently?
Learning from the great classics is essential — their aesthetic, philosophical, and linguistic capacities provide rich resources for contemporary poetry. Many modern Azerbaijani poets draw from this legacy, yet it requires both deep study and creative transformation. In my observation, deep analysis of the classics remains relevant, and many approach this legacy with new layers of meaning.
— Today’s Azerbaijani poetry: Rainy is my winter, my spring,My stringed saz plays a sorrowful tune,It is my soul, my dear flag.Both smiling and crying,Azerbaijan, Azerbaijan.We are Majnun, she is Leyli,We poured love into her, freely,Both from the North and South,Karabakh’s hair turned gray,Azerbaijan, Azerbaijan.Flying high, flying high,I travel the road to Savalan,Praying to the Creator.I say to my Tabriz: “Life!”Azerbaijan, Azerbaijan.Wounded in wars,Ripped apart its lands,Divided into two.When will it be united again?Azerbaijan, Azerbaijan.Sixty million compatriots,Our Azer-Turk brothers,Separated, our tears remain.God above, Quran on Earth,Victory, Azerbaijan.
Your poems convey spiritual quest and inner elevation. How do Sufis like Rumi, Shams Tabrizi, Nasimi, and Yassavi influence your worldview?
The spiritual search, inner purification, and ideas of compassion from Sufis have shaped my worldview. Their symbolic language and spiritual quest appear in my poetry as metaphorical layers. For me, the most valuable aspect of Sufism is its emphasis on individual responsibility and the elevation of morality.
You have participated in international scientific journals and congresses. How is Azerbaijani poetry perceived in the context of global literature?
Azerbaijani poetry is increasingly recognized in international forums — especially for contemporary topics, national motifs, and translations. Based on my experience in congresses and journals, Azerbaijani poetry is recognized for its unique voice and attracts attention abroad.— Works that provide pleasure, spiritual nourishment, and invite reflection on life and the human soul are rare today.
How do 20th–21st century Azerbaijani poetry and prose differ?
The 20th–21st centuries demanded flexible literary forms due to national liberation, social, and ideological upheavals; the 21st century provides a more magical and multifaceted expression within globalization, new media, and individual freedom. In prose, the transition from realist and modernist traditions to postmodern and experimental techniques is evident. In both eras, the dialogue between content and form enriches the literary language.
Are works being created today that will endure in eternity?
Yes. Works that reflect deep human issues, the spirit of the times, and original aesthetic search are created in every era. Both form and content must hold value for literature to endure.— Writing about masters is both easy and difficult. Easy because you know their creative path and friends well.
Could you share your thoughts on your mentors and their place in your creative and life journey?
My mentors include both classical and contemporary scholars and poets. Their lessons, critiques, and personal guidance have taught me scientific methodology and poetic taste. Each mentor has left an imprint on my creative and pedagogical work, enriching my worldview.— As A. Krylov said: “A critic shows the flaw with one hand and crowns the beauty with the other, refining taste.”
As a professor and poet, what criteria do you rely on when analyzing and critiquing a work?
Firstly, I consider the text’s aesthetic quality, linguistic accuracy, and conceptual coherence. Then context: the author’s intent, historical-cultural background, and genre conventions. Critique must be constructive and objective — the aim is not to destroy the work but to reveal its potential. Academic requirements, sources, and fact-checking are also essential.
Jakhongir NOMOZOV, is a young poet and journalist from Uzbekistan. He is also a Member of the Union of Journalists of Azerbaijan and the World Young Turkic Writers Union.
O Human, master of all creation, Why do you ignite the malice within them? No plant is safe from your evils, Nor bird, nor land, nor human being, Even the universe complains of your arrogance.
*****O Human, be mindful! All that your hands destroy will demolish you. Return to your senses, and let us come together to build bridges of love for tomorrow. How many nights were lost in wars, And how many eyes spill tears, And hearts beg for safety, Pleading for peace to prevail upon the Earth. A peace that irrigates every heart, Dispels fear, and summons delight. If love spreads throughout the universe, goodness will reign. For in the palm of Peace, the gardens of happiness sprout.
******Come, let us plant the olive tree as a symbol, And release the white dove, the symbol of peace, And strive for harmony with every effort, To mend what we have corrupted with our own hands. And let us pray to God to grant every heart, A pure, endless peace. A peace that fills the universe with light, And overwhelms the Earth with joys and protection.
tethered to the whims and folly of the men who came before me.
Then they set me loose
and called me a free woman.
My mother taught me how to live in ignorance
to pretend my anklets were made of gold,
and the chime of their trailing chain
nothing but the sound of love.
For what else, if not love,
would ground a bird
whose wings ache
only to soar?
My mother
she is a time traveller
with no particular destination.
She carved time capsules
out of the living flesh of her daughters
and bid them stay in place
With muffled shrouds of her love.
Her daughters held her chains still.
She forgot her need to wander.
My mothers’ anklets were not made of surrender
My mothers mother
linked her daughters chains with memories
and the resonance of duty
She did not teach her ignorance.
For my mothers mother was a placid lake with deep burrows.
she buried calmly any hints of dissonance In the music of her anklets.
Her chains were long
Buried deep she thought them nonexistent
But my mothers chains They were shorter
Her generation was adorned with brighter lengths that shimmered
Lengthens and shortens at the whims
Of a man’s fickle heart
So they taught themselves the art of forgetting
My mother told me I was born with anklets
Gaudy beautiful things forged to sing the world into order
But here they lay unpolished
Their bells broken at birth
Their song stilled
Only their chains stretching at the whims of unchained monsters.
Calling Home
after all the years away
Mother calls from the deeps,
curled at the edge of that land’s healing cracks where now, the trees shed fruit with no prompting,
where Sister’s bloodied feet once painted love between the cloaking robes of monsters.
Where, beneath Mother’s watchful eyes, she spun over broken bones called Father.
She calls, she calls, says,“Come home, daughter.”
Home, to the taste of smoke on Grandmama’s soup,
the sweat that beads on her hilltop forehead, the smile that stains that craggy hard face when Father brings his broken laughs home.
Home
that belonged to a girl who saw monsters not beneath the bed but spinning past in Sister’s tear-soaked skin,
bloodied feet piercing the bones of Father’s love and care.
Home
that flows between nausea and nostalgia, the feel of stone and sand between toes.
Stone is stone and sand always sand but the sands of home, they hold the imprint of memory,
Of a 5-year-old palm pressed beneath the scorching red of a termite’s home, a 5-year-old tongue tasting what remains of the ancient one’s hold, learning the difference between concrete and clay.
Home smells of Mother’s miyan kuka, no fish or meat to wash the stickiness down,
only Mother’s voice carrying the dark away with tales of Bayajidda, Zulke, and Alhaji Imam in the light of a single candle on a bed in a mud house built on memories.
Memories of Brother, who once carried water for Mother on his back, the same way he hauled years of Father’s dreams to a country where faces stared at his melanin-spiked tone and learned to call it home.
To crank the heat up to 40, 45, inhale deeply when the new snow falls and try to remember when snow used to be red and winter was harmattan.
Now Brother plucks cherries from fruit stands, cherry that held no memory of sour hands or wild trees
Cherry that is too sweet, too soft, and smiles, swallows, and calls on Sister.
Sister who dances now on waves, where the sea salt sweeps the blood from her soles and seals into the wounds the broken bones of Father.
Her stamping feet screams over the waves and cover the thousand voices of Mother rising from the deeps,
the crags from that once crumbling pit at the edges of what used to be home for a cared soul who loved Mother.
Calling, Calling, Come home, daughter.
The Hive
I want to learn this world like a beloved book
Seek its every hidden crevice between the eyes of mother
The hands of daughter
Between a wife’s parted thighs that form the gateway to God’s greatest gift
I want to write this world into paper
Soak it in waters pulled from the hope that lives
In a first time mother
The hope that presses her hands against a swollen belly
Shares her body with alien life that could
take and take and take
swallow her whole and from her body to her mind
Take every inch every piece
drink it down and know
Know the meaning of love
And the love of meaning
Of knowing
Of letting go
Of your self
Of every part that makes you
Of becoming Maman amra
Matar Ahmad
Your being subsumed within the hive mind
That is wife Mother
I want to take the tears of daughter
Roll it within the black threads of duty
To create the blackest ink
That drips with expectations
I’ll call it Yar fari
Use it to draw this world to paper
Draw the blurring line that separates
Mother from daughter
That entrusts a child between frail arms
And calls it love
That cradles fear like newly found clay in a children’s playground
Rolls it between the fingers of an overeager child
And name it art
Lets it twist and fall in on itself
Try to mould its little wet handles into works of art
To make itself into art
Use Yar fari to paint art across the stained face of this world
Let daughter be daughter
Then sister
Before she subsumed into the hive
And become one with wife
With mother
I want to learn this funny world
That breaks before it ends you in all the wrong places
Chew it softly between clenched teeth
Like a
delicious soup spiced with maggots
Roll it under my tongue
Taste its fragrance
And spits it out
At your feet
And cook a better meal
To feed my cravings.
Habiba Malumfashi is a writer, podcaster, project manager and curator. She is the programs Officer and coordinator of the open arts development foundation, a creative hub for artists and writers in Kaduna. Her work revolves around womanhood, resilience and the inherent feminist ethos of northern Nigerian cultures. Her writings can be found on The Kalahari review, Beittle Paper, Ayamba Litcast among others.
