When the moon rise forward into my room eyes change into rose colored
When the stars play in the sky with color power that I wish to join
There’s not anything in the sky, I gonna sky to sleep and spin a dream
when the night came washed to my body in the river like a fish.
I felt strength in the night like corocode in the sea.
When the night come my dream took me up saw a couple of wonderful hope.
Ummnusalma Nasir Mukhtar is a young poet, born, raised and studying in Gombe State , Nigeria. She lives with her family, her father Nasir Mukhtar and her lovely mother Rahama Muhammad and her beloved sisters Hauwa’u (jidda) and Zainab (Intisar). She is passionate about using words to inspire and connect people. Ummusalma writes poems that reflect everyday life, emotions, and the beauty of unity. As a student, she continues to grow her craft while balancing her studies and creative pursuits.
When we were teenagers, our parents would take us to Maui every four or five months for an extended holiday. In charter school we could get away with bending the attendance requirements more easily than in public school.
My father, Edward Crowley, was flush with riches from selling his software company, ‘ExQuizit,’ when he was fifty years old to some billionaire in Silicon Valley; my dad transitioning to high-end consulting for another few years. He was a superstar game maker with amazing brain power which was only overshadowed by my mom who worked as an aerospace Engineering Program Director at NASA; both of them retiring before they hit fifty-five. As soon as they retired, they purchased two luxury beachfront condos in West Maui.
Sally and I were the luckiest two teenagers in Northern California. As twins, although fraternal we looked much alike except she had wavy strawberry red hair and I had bark brown hair, a dullish color. Sally got the blue eyes from my mother and I inherited eyes like my father, so dark brown that they resembled some exotic animal eyes, with light amber flecks dotted around the centers; eyes noticeable to everyone who met me. So much so that I often wore sunglasses so people wouldn’t start up every conversation with “Are you wearing special contact lenses to get that look or is that your natural eye color?” I felt self-conscious and wanted to deflect the focus on me. My sister was the obvious beauty but I got the attention because of my eyes.
With the two Hawaii condos, Mom and Dad would stay in the spacious 2,000 sq foot one, while my sister and I would enjoy the cozier one next door. The condos were set so close to the sand that we could step out on our lanai and pitch ourselves over the short stone wall and be on the sand. It was a heavenly setting and allowed Sally and I to sneak out at night without my parents even suspecting. We’d be in Lahaina just down the road eager to catch a blues band or dance party in one of the local clubs, our favorite one just opposite the famous Banyan tree by the harbor. Our frequent trips to Maui as teens were during Lahaina’s heyday, years before the tragic fire which destroyed most of the town in August 2023.
I sit in my parents’ San Francisco home looking at my sister as she stands on the other side of the granite kitchen island and prepares to bake cookies. Bowls filled with sugar, flour and butter all around her as she kneads the dough with a rolling pin on a grand rectangular block of wood. A half dozen plastic cookie cutters are set near the cutting board. A star, a pineapple, a plumeria flower and a few others make up the assortment. I pick up one of the three largest lemons I’ve ever seen thanks to her garden which sit in a bowl close to me.
I pick up the biggest one and hold it up in the air. As if making an announcement at a competitive event, I say, “This one gets first prize. A State Fair record-breaker. The lemon to top all lemons.”
Sally looks up at me with her baby blues, the last of her red hair peeking out from under a stylish multicolored black, beautiful custom-designed head scarf. She seems to force a grin. She’s not prissy now with her appearance like she used to be when dating some of the best-looking guys I’d ever seen. She wears tan or black loose-fitting clothes now but she still likes to wear color on her head. Her skin has turned a grayish tone.
The circles under her eyes are darker than they were a month ago when I took her to see ‘The Lion King’ musical in San Francisco. It was three days after her sixth dose of chemo this time around. She wanted to see ‘The Lion King’ specifically to get ideas for creative and colorful head scarf fabrics. I surprised her with front row seats during breakfast the same day as the performance. The experience paid off as now she has at least ten African-inspired scarves to cover her almost bald head.
“So, Dizzy,” she says, “what shape of cookie would you prefer today? Star fish? Plumeria flower? Pineapple? Wait, how about this Dolphin?” She holds up the powder blue cookie mold.
Sally was the only human on Earth that I permitted to address me as ‘Dizzy.’ To everyone else, I was Desiree, whether I was at work or socializing. But since I grew up as ‘Dizzy’ in our family household, Sally still had the a-ok to use the nickname except as we agreed, never in front of other people. She respected my wishes most of the time. But Sally was a sassy girl and woman, and on occasion would slip up and shout out “Hey Dizzy” in a crowded department store or movie theatre, and then make fun of my soured reaction.
“Oops,” she’d claim. “I totally forgot that you don’t like that,” then flash me her apologetic protruding top lip. I look at my sister as she dances around the kitchen, Blondie playing on Alexa in the background. Sally is twirling holding up the dolphin cookie mold in one hand and the starfish in the other.
“Which one strikes your fancy, Dizzy girl?” Both of us are thirty-six years old now, and both of us, unwed. Sally was engaged two years ago until the uterine cancer entered the scene. And then our parents were killed shortly thereafter in a small plane crash off their treasured island of Maui. Dad’s Cessna 172 Skyhawk, which he called ‘Kitty,’ went down in the Pacific Ocean close to a beach in Hana which was situated at the far Eastern end of Maui. He flew his plane at least two or three times a week, and on that fateful day had taken Mom with him, something he rarely did since she frequently got migraines when flying.
The shocking tragedy occurred on one of their trips to the island where they’d typically spend more than half the year. Dad possessed a pilot’s license which he had for over fifteen years when the fatal accident occurred.
We never really found out the exact cause of the crash. Operator error or mechanical failure? The results of the NTSB investigation were fuzzy at best.
A part of me thought maybe Dad, who was almost 77 years old and my mom who was a year older, had actually pre-planned their demise. Why would they have done such a thing? I struggled thinking about it.
But I was good at puzzles and this one I felt I had figured out. For one thing, they had done everything there was to do in life; toured the world several times over, owned a beautiful spacious house in San Francisco and two luxury condos in Maui, donated and led charity events for endangered animals throughout their retirement and were committed to their marriage until their dying day; including renewing their vows in a formal ceremony.
They knew that Sally had uterine cancer which was diagnosed a year before Sally’s planned wedding. It crushed them to see their daughter in constant pain and going through half a dozen surgeries as the cancer spread from her uterus to her stomach. But Sally went into remission for a few months until the cancer came back with a vengeance. As soon as she found out she broke it off with Doug, her fiancée, a successful high-tech venture capitalist, a few weeks before Mom and Dad were killed. She said she had fallen out of love with Doug but I knew the resurgence of the cancer played a key role in her decision.
As her twin, I felt what she felt. I knew she was secretly broken-hearted and didn’t want Doug to be tied to her long-term health issues. He didn’t seem shattered enough to beg her to re-consider. The wedding was cancelled and she gave back the two-carat engagement ring.
Mom and Dad were worried sick about Sally; both of them, eyes red with grief every time I saw them, fighting tears in front of their sick daughter. Away from my sister, I sat in their living room one afternoon and tried to comfort them which proved useless.
“You guys doing okay?” I asked. “What can I do to help you through this? It’s tough on you, I know.”
“She’ll be fine,” Mom said. “We just know it.”
“Sally’s strong as an ox,” Dad added. “You don’t need to worry about us.”
They didn’t want to admit the degree of their concern but it was written on their faces. I suspected that they thought that if they talked about it too much, it might be a jinx to Sally getting healthy again. And I knew that Mom in particular, although brilliant, was superstitious.
So, in family gatherings they both smiled, and talked about everything under the sun, avoiding Sally’s cancer. Yet Mom accompanied Sally routinely to her doctor’s appointments and Dad to all of her chemo sessions. He’d hold her hand as he sat for hours in a side chair while she received the chemo. He’d talked to her about trips he’d like Sally to go on with them to places like China, Africa, Rio de Janeiro and maybe even Lithuania. Sally told me about their chemo conversations and how his bad jokes made her smile while the infusion pump did its job.
And then my mom leaked it to me privately that Dad was in an early stage of Alzheimer’s and had wanted to keep it from us until after Sally’s wedding.
When my parents booked a trip to Maui halfway through Sally’s run of chemotherapy sessions, I felt ambivalent. But Sally encouraged them to go, not to worry about her. I promised to sit in for Mom and Dad, and take time off from work which was part of my company’s benefit plan. So, off they went. Mom hadn’t told my sister about Dad’s Alzheimer’s since she felt Sally had enough to contend with in the coming weeks. Eventually, she’d share that with my sister and requested that I be quiet about it in the meantime.
With Dad’s Alzheimer’s and Sally’s cancer, it felt unnatural for them to leave California, and frankly, it wasn’t like them to disappear during such an intense time in our family. And so, the whole picture led me to consider that perhaps my parents were done with living and wanted Sally to inherit their fortune including their spacious home in San Francisco, so she’d be set for hopefully a longer life. I didn’t think either of them could bear to see their daughter die or go through Dad’s descent into his illness. Sally didn’t have solid medical insurance because of her self-employment, thinking she’d be healthy forever.
Sally and I never discussed my hypothesis about our parents’ deaths but I knew this possibility had also crossed her mind, especially after I told her about Dad’s Alzheimer’s diagnosis. My parents left almost all their savings and one of their Maui condos to Sally who moved back into our birth house within a couple of weeks after they were killed. I received $150K, and the smaller condo. I understood what had motivated their decision-making process. And, my career as an employment law attorney was flourishing. I was up for full partner in a high-profile firm in Silicon Valley. My townhouse in Palo Alto was more than two-thirds paid in full. At 37, I felt more than financially secure.
When Sally and I locked eyes at the funeral there was that unspoken understanding between us. The crash may have been intentional, pre-planned. She was my twin and we often communicated without spoken words.
In Sally’s San Francisco kitchen where my mom had prepared all of our holiday meals and baked us lavish birthday cakes over the years, I watch my sister rolling out the dough for the cookies she’ll bake, while her body is filled with cancer.
“Dizzy girl, which cookie shape do you prefer? She asks. You listening to me, Sis? We’ve got all these choices, so…” “Wait, I have something for you,” I blurt out. Rushing to my purse sitting on the sofa, I pull out a small flowered paper bag, and hand it to Sally.
“Chocolates for me?”
“No, something better,” I say.
She wipes her hands on a kitchen towel and opens the small bag. “A cookie cutter. Oh!” She places it on the counter-top. “It’s a Banyan tree. Wow.”
“Just like the one in Lahaina,” I say. “Yeah, now destroyed.” “No, I heard it’s growing back little by little. It’s still fragile but it even has some long branches now.”
“Well, thank you. I love this.”
“Me too. I saw it in a shop in Santa Cruz last weekend, a shop full of Hawaiian products called The Banyan Tree. I had to get that cookie cutter for you. It’s a sign, Sally.”
“A sign, she says. “I think it’s a Banyan tree Dizzy girl, not a sign.” She looks down at the dough, sprinkles more flour and pushes the rolling pin back and forth.
“It’s a sign of hope for your recovery. Your wellness,” I say.
She looks up at me, her moist blue eyes glistening.
“You want this one, then?” She holds up my gifted blue metal cookie cutter.
“Yes Sis,” I say. “Bake me a Banyan tree.”
Linda S. Gunther is the author of six suspense novels: Ten Steps from the Hotel Inglaterra, Endangered Witness, Lost in the Wake, Finding Sandy Stonemeyer, Dream Beach and Death is a Great Disguiser. Most recently, Ms. Gunther’s memoir titled A Bronx Girl was released and is available on Amazon. Her essays and short stories have also been featured in a variety of literary publications across the globe. In April 2025, her play titled Listen While You Work was produced and performed by Inclusive Theater in Buffalo, New York. www.lindasgunther.com
THE LAUNDRY JUNCTION OF TIME & THE UNDER BELLY OF HUMAN EXISTENCE
Dr. Jernail S Anand
Where three rivers meet, we call it Triveni. Time, too, is a river that keeps flowing interrupted. Past, present, and future are human constructs that help us understand it better. These three rivers of time meet at a juncture called present which acts as a laundry junction where the waters after the wash, are released into the lake of the past.
We celebrate life when people are born and also the moment of marriage when they can create more life, and finally, the time when they part away from the stream. I was looking at a recently watered field from which water had evaporated, leaving the earth dry. Where is the water that has evaporated? It is in the air because air sucks the water from the earth and deposits it somewhere else. Life too is taken away from a person here, and supplied at some other unknown place. The forces which are overseeing these operations are not only precise and perfect, but also, ever present, though always invisible.
As soon as we hit the earth, the first thing that we do is to forget that we are here on an errand. He who sends us here is always watching our progress. When we go wrong, he pulls the strings and brings us to woe.
Is suffering an equalizer and a synthesizer?
When we suffer for our wrong actions, how can we presume that there is no Big Brother always watching us? It is a very uncomfortable thought to realize that we are under a CCTV camera, and all our movements are being recorded. Even when we are at our worst in our loneliness.
The only thing that off sets this adverse situation, and nearly balances it is the fact that men are given to believe that they have wits and they can use them no end. As a consequence, they make calculations, buy properties, sell shares, and when they make millions, celebrate ‘their’ success. When they lose, they curse gods. Here lies their ‘error’ [remember: to err is human] If all the losses can be ascribed to the invisible forces, why not the success?
The Underbelly of Existence
Men nurture huge reserves of hubris. Individuality is for which we wage wars. Freedom is another ornament for which young men have laid down their lives. Our only problem is, we understand these things in the context of our physical life and the political conditions. The fact is, we are much more than that. We have to understand man in his ‘viraat rupa’. We try to see him in his ‘aviraat avtara’. We try to create him into a person who looks after his family, creates wealth, raises skyscrapers, and finally like Zymandias, is reduced to dust. We never look into that stuff in man which is indestructible, of which Lord Krishna talked to Arjuna. We forget that when we die, it is not more than drying of up water from a field which stays in the air. Similarly, we too are in the air, and can be deposited back in some other place.
Man’s ‘Viraat Rupa’
What is the ‘viraat rupa’ [cosmic identity] of man? He is simultaneously connected with the entire past that stands behind him and provides him a background, like a series of mountains. In that backdrop, he is here to perform certain deeds which are already scripted for him. Here we err. We err in thinking that we are independent, we have nothing to do with the past, we have nothing to do with the future. We are present, we have a free will, and we can do what we like. This is the error mankind is prone to commit, and which we people often make, and then, it is a saga of suffering all through.
Malovian Overreach
The genesis of the error lies in the knowledge which helped to make man proud of his bearing, and think of himself as an independent entity, a demi-god who can run parallel to god’s creation. What is happening today, it is annoying to gods, because, man has distanced himself from nature, and is headed on a self-destructive march into the heart of the mystery trying to undo its mystical mechanism. In trying to prove himself equal to God in creative prowess, he has actually shrunk into a small entity, who can be upset if there is no electricity to charge his mobile and laptop. He is a laptop genii, or bottled ‘Jinn’ of Aladdin. The marvels of man’s creative power mock at reality from the ramparts of fantasy. Man is fast receding into that fantasy, that virtuality, and while he thinks he has garnered heaps of knowledge, he has failed to realize what his past holds out as a lesson of life. Ravana still remains an epitome of knowledge in its greatest perversion. The Kalyuga has failed to see a man of his stature in whom we could see wisdom gone on furlough. We have yet to see a man like Duryodhana, whose ‘wisdom’ leaves on a pilgrimage of non-sense from where, there is no return. AI cannot replace the Gita, nor can it de-arm Arjuna. Man is under grave threat because he has chosen to isolate himself from the benign powers of nature and aligned himself with the toxic universe of the laptop. AI has the potential to make man far greater than himself. But the more his size increases, the more he dwindles in his humanity as well as his divinity.
In spite of the past offering a variety of intense wisdom, and the future holding out great promise, man’s present is locked in a futile search for himself. In fact, he has opened too many windows on his physical existence, that keep him confused and confined to his physical existence. The wisdom that he used to get from proximity to nature has been replaced with knowledge-based perceptions of reality. Passion for success and pursuit of pleasure have divested the divine aura that stuck to a human being. We are now ordinary persons, a subhuman race, even below the animals and vegetation, who talks of stars but has lost touch with the ground.
Dr. Jernail Singh Anand, [the Seneca, Charter of Morava, Franz Kafka, Maxim Gorky and Signs Peace awards Laureate, with an opus of 180 books, whose name adorns the Poets’ Rock in Serbia] is a towering literary figure whose work embodies a rare fusion of creativity, intellect, and moral vision.
Spring is a dawn. A dawn that awakens the entire world and gifts warmth, joy, and delight to every heart. With the arrival of spring, nature revives: trees begin to bud, and the earth’s green attire refreshes the soul. New plans, dreams, and sincere intentions blossom within the human heart. One of the most beautiful aspects of spring is how its brightness manifests itself in people’s moods. Not only the world around us, but our inner selves also become lighter and more radiant. Today, every corner of our country breathes spring. Parks, gardens, and recreation areas are filled with people. Everyone rushes to enjoy the season and spend time with loved ones.
Especially the youth — they fill every green field with laughter. They eat together, play games, laugh, take photos. Such scenes inspire a deeper appreciation for life. On one such inspiring day, we — 35-24 group students , under the guidance of our teacher Ma’mura Erkinovna — set out for a picnic in Anhor Park. The warm sunlight, the fresh air infused with the spirit of spring, the presence of dear friends, and heartfelt conversations all became part of an unforgettable memory. Some unexpected moments, little mistakes and imperfections only added more color to our day. Indeed, it is such seemingly simple moments that nourish the heart and soothe the soul.
A picnic with close friends is not merely a break — it is a heartfelt ceremony that binds hearts together. Not only food is shared, but also joy, affection, and loyalty. In today’s fast-paced world, with time rushing by, we often struggle to find even a moment for ourselves or to reach out to our loved ones. But fleeting minutes on the clock ask us to appreciate them, to enjoy love and the beautiful memories it brings. Truly, in this temporary world where everything eventually fades, only emotions, inner wealth, spiritual growth, and precious memories belong to us.
And the moments spent with sincere friends seem to pause time itself. They create lasting memories that live on in the heart — becoming part of our soul’s deepest core. The picnic we had with our group of nearly twenty coursemates and our beloved teacher is one of those moments — unforgettable and forever engraved in photos and hearts. We are thankful to our teacher, Ma’mura Erkinovna, for bringing us together, encouraging unity, and helping us experience the beauty of nature in its purest form. Indeed, going out into nature with good friends is not a mere outing. That’s why many young people choose to adorn their spring days with such picnics. To some, a picnic may seem like a common activity — something anyone can plan anytime. But for me, it is a ceremony of strengthening trust, loyalty, and affection. And spring is the most exquisite season that nurtures such sincerity.
Ochildiyeva Shahnoza
1st year student at Uzbekistan Journalism and Mass Communications university
“As the Orpheus of all secret misery, he is greater than anyone:”-Friedrich Nietzsche, Die fröhliche Wissenschaft
Standing in the moon drop shadow’s hidden alcove
Watching the spiders of the rain disintegrate and turn to smoke
I admire the solemn procession of marble angels that sweep their
brooms diagonally across the looking glass
Involuted architecture, frost giants with the glazed eyes of
Galactic law
The fatal symmetry of a rainbow cutter ship
Odysseus’ swift fleet notwithstanding
In Circe’s lair he pollinated witch nations
In the eye of Polyphemus he discovered the glyphs of demonic altars
Cave paintings of the Orphic mystery rites
Bacchus torn apart and recreated
as a stand-alone objet d’art, his head crowned with an
aurora of violence, misty violet dawns from
Arthur Rimbaud
As the rotting Leviathan drifts in star sperm
As the empire of blood-crusted widows draws eyes in the
moon’s shy footprint
As the bleeding deer shudders in split-second Cubist increments but obeys the high ritual of Diana and does not die
Not yet
Not eternally yet
Our hearts draw oxygen from the secret sails of the sun
We respire with lungs made from the winds of the
wings of
Madness
We fly to a Hell sitting balanced on a small planet juggled along
with stars
with rippled stripes of radical freedom
with what queer jesters they have to do
With black-eyed Oedipus they seek the cause
they disregard the Sphinx’s leonine muscles, glistening
pelt that roars with lies
that fools crash, the Siren’s cove where sailors drown
the fortunes of heroes shorn like the head of Orpheus
Descending beneath the earth, as the jaws of destiny
close about him…
An alchemist of sorrow, he turns the Midas touch
against itself, mourning perpetual dawns.
και εμπνευσμένου μετά του Μπωντλέρ
“As the Orpheus of all secret misery,
he is greater than anyone:”-
Friedrich Nietzsche, Die fröhliche Wissenschaft
Στέκεται ως σταγόνα φεγγαριού
Κόντρα στον κρυφό σηκό σκιάς.
τις αράχνες εγκαθορεί, όπως διασπώνται
στην καπνισμένη ομίχλη της βροχής.
Αποθαυμάζει την πανηγυρική λιτανεία
μαρμάρινων αγγέλων που παρασύρουν
ανάποδα τον κόσμο σκουπίζοντας
διαγώνια το είδωλο καθρέπτη.
Πεπλεγμένη αρχιτεκτονική από γίγαντες
παγετώνες με στιλβωμένο βλέμμα
Καταπάνω στο γαλακτικό μάτι του νόμου.
Η μοιραία συμμετρία στο ουράνιο τόξο
παγοθραυστικού, αλματώδης πάραυτα
και γοργόπλοος ο στόλος τ’ Οδυσσέα.
Τ’ άνθη επικονίασε με έθνη μαγισσών
μες απ’ τη δόκιμο φωλιά της Κίρκης
Στον μονόφθαλμο Πολύφημο ανακάλυψε το
μάτι και τη γλυφή ενός βωμού κακοδαίμονος.
Οι σπηλαιογραφίες τελετουργούν ακόμα
τα Ορφικά Μυστήρια, το ξέσκισμα
του διαμελισμένου Βάκχου, και την
επανένωση του κορμιού εις σάρκα μία
Ως ένα αυτεξούσιο έργο τέχνης, το
κεφάλι του εστεφανώθη την κορώνη
Από την εωθινή Ηώ της βίας,
Απ’ τη μενεξελί πορφύρα της αυγής
Απ’ το λυκόφως του Αρθούρου Ρεμπώ,
Όπως το κουφάρι του Λεβιάθαν σάπιο
παρασύρεται στ’ αγγειόσπερμα αστεριών
Όπως μια αυτοκρατορία μαυροφορεμένων
που πήζουν τον θρόμβο παλαιών πληγών
θωρώντας τα τρυφερά χνάρια στα φεγγάρια
Όπως το πληγωμένο ελάφι τρέμει από τις
αιρετικές προσαυξήσεις των μετακυβιστών
Όμως, υπάκουο υπομένει στη μέγα τελετή μύησης
-τη Θεά Αρτέμη- σώνοντας εν τέλει τη ζωή του
Όχι. ακόμα. Όχι. στην αιωνιότητα του ακόμα.
Οι καρδιές μας αντλούν οξυγόνο απ’ τα
αφανέρωτα ιστία του μυστικού ήλιου
Αναπνέουμε με πνεύμονες φτιαγμένους
απ’ τους ασκούς του Αιόλου με τα φτερά
μας κόντρα στον κουρνιαχτό της τρέλας
Πετάμε στην άβυσσο της κόλασης καθιστοί
σε ισορροπία πάνω σ’ έναν μικρό πλανήτη,
Ταχυδακτυλουργώντας με κρίκους αστεριών.
με ριγέ κυματισμούς ριζοσπαστικής ελευθερίας
για την κατάντια του ετεροδιαφορετικού ζογκλέρ
για την αιτία στα μαυρισμένα μάτια του Οιδίποδα
Γιατί οι ανόητοι αγνοούν τα λιονταρίσια μούσκουλα
της Σφίγγας, που με αστραφτερή δορά ψεύτικα βρυχάται
Καθώς, συντρίβονται οι μωροί, στον όρμο της Σειρήνας
Πνίγονται, εκεί, οι ναυτικοί με την κοντοκουρεμένη
ειμαρμένη των ηρώων, σαν το κεφάλι του Ορφέα
που σκύβει κατεβαίνοντας στον Κάτω Κόσμο, τα
σαγόνια του πεπρωμένου συνθλίβονται σιμά του
Ο Αλχημιστής της θλίψης, αποστρέφει το
άγγιγμα του Μίδα ενάντια στον εαυτό του,
εις το διηνεκές θρηνεί για τη χαραυγή του…
Cassandra Alogoskoufi is a distinguished Greek artist whose extensive talents span writing, poetry, playwriting, and visual arts. Born in Athens, she currently resides on the picturesque island of Salamis while working as a shipyard clerk in the nearby area of Perama. Cassandra’s academic credentials include two notable degrees: one in Informatics and Telecommunications from the Kapodistrian University of Athens, earned in 2009, and another in International and European Studies from Piraeus University, completed in 2023. This academic background provides her with a unique intersection of technical and cultural knowledge, enriching her artistic endeavors.
Her creative output is broad and multifaceted. She has actively contributed to approximately 50 anthologies, showcasing her poetry, short stories, and prose across a diverse array of themes and stylistic approaches. Her literary work is characterized by magical realism and a deep exploration of narratives that bridge reality and imagination. Cassandra’s poetic voice captures emotions and human experiences with eloquence and originality, while her prose adds layers of complexity and nuance.
Beyond writing, Cassandra is a skilled visual artist, working primarily with acrylic painting and other mediums. Her artworks have been featured in various magazines, reflecting her ability to convey narratives and emotions visually as well as through words. Cassandra’s talent has received international recognition; she represented Greece at the BJCEM Biennial of Young Creators in 2009, a prestigious festival that unites artists from 27 countries working across seven artistic disciplines.
Her artistic development has been nurtured through significant scholarships and residency grants. She was awarded a two-year scholarship from the Institution of Takis Sinopoulos (2007–2009), a Cimo scholarship from Finland in 2009, and a residential scholarship at the Literature House of Paros, known for its European Center of Literary Translation. Cassandra has also apprenticed under numerous respected mentors in literature, theater, translation, and dance, shaping her versatile artistic identity.
Living with her family and a pet parrot named Tito, Cassandra continues to balance her professional work with a vibrant creative life. Her artistic journey is marked by continual growth, cross-disciplinary engagement, and contributions that resonate within and beyond Greek cultural spheres. Her work not only enriches contemporary Greek literature and art but also leaves a lasting impression as an innovative and dedicated creator.
Alex S. Johnson is a prolific American author and multidisciplinary artist whose creative legacy spans genres including Bizarro fiction, erotica, horror, and science fiction. At 57 years old, Johnson has amassed a diverse professional background encompassing roles as a college English instructor, music journalist, editor, publisher, songwriter, human rights activist, poet, and visual artist. He resides in Sacramento, California, carrying a rich blend of cultural experiences and artistic influences.
Johnson’s educational foundation includes a Master’s degree in English literature with an emphasis on Rhetoric and Composition. His early fascination with writing began in elementary school, where he initially crafted stories about anthropomorphic fruits and vegetables. His literary tastes and writing style are heavily influenced by icons such as William S. Burroughs and Hunter S. Thompson, blending intense, hyperbolic narratives with layers of showmanship and cheekiness.
His bibliography includes novels such as “Bad Sunset,” a stylized Spaghetti Western infused with Bizarro and splatterpunk elements, and “Jason X IV: Death Moon,” a science fiction/horror tie-in for the Jason X movie series. Johnson’s collections like “Wicked Candy” and “Doctor Flesh: Director’s Cut” further showcase his unique approach to genre fiction. He also edited anthologies like “Axes of Evil,” which centers on horror stories connected to heavy metal music culture.
Johnson’s writing often explores profound human emotions and psychological depth beneath exaggerated or surreal premises. For example, “Bad Sunset” features Jesus Christ as a protagonist, blending archetypal and mythical characters to probe themes of spirituality, skepticism, and individual moral navigation. His works balance entertainment with philosophical undercurrents, reflecting his skepticism of religious institutions and emphasis on personal enlightenment.
Actively involved in the literary community, Johnson has contributed to specialty anthologies inspired by H.P. Lovecraft and William S. Burroughs and maintains an ongoing presence in both writing and editing within speculative fiction circles. Apart from writing, he enjoys drawing, playing guitar, and engaging with film and music cultures, which inform his artistic creativity. Johnson’s career is grounded in a love for words and storytelling more than commercial success, emphasizing a lifelong commitment to artistic exploration and sharing imaginative landscapes.
Lonely wings barely held her in the air as she searched
unable to find him on the ground below a gray sky
As a heart so wounded felt destined to give up
it discovers a fragrance in a Spring breeze calling…
She heard the tune of her love as he searched for her
longing for the caress that would comfort his heart
The song found her over the sounds of crashing waves
with words formed like a melody from a hollowed-out flute
His yearning heart found her beyond the clouds above
and sang her name through the tears rolling down his face…
Their embrace told a story no words could ever express.
Written in the Stars
When two beating hearts claim each other
no stranger can penetrate that powerful force
It was written in the stars from the beginning
and a golden ring of love surrounds us through eternity
I will never leave you, nor will I ever break our vows
for my passionate heart would break without you
All I cherish and want is what you have given me already
and through life and through death will our story remain
because some stories, like ours, were never meant to end.
Ours was a rare fairytale, made to be told through the ages…
My One True Love
Every beautiful memory has you in it
You fill my heart like an unforgettable melody
that plays over and over in my head
You are, and will always be my one true love
and in your arms will be where I will remain
In my darkest moments you are the light that saves me
and our life together is effortless and comfortable
I have no other wants in life but you
and my heart will never belong to anyone else
We have shared many dream over the years
and you have shielded me from any harm
I will never ask you for more than your love
You are the most beautiful colors of true love
which I will keep tucked in my heart through eternity.
With love always…
Kristy Ann Raines is an American poet and author born in Oakland California, In the United States of America.
She is an accomplished International Poet and Writer. Kristy has two published books on Amazon titled, “The Passion Within Me”, and also an anthology written with a prominent poet from India, Dr. Prasanna Kumar Dalai titled, “I Cross my Heart from East to West.”
Kristy has also written two fantasy books titled, “Rings, Things and Butterfly Wings” and “Princess and The Lion”, her biography and a collection of thoughts on her life called, “My Very Anomalous Life”, and a few books of children’s stories waiting to be published.
Kristy has received many literary awards for her unique style of writing and for her work as an activist and humanitarian.
Kristy is married, has two children, three beautiful granddaughters, and is awaiting the birth of a great-grandson due in July!
