Zee exited the Lavender Day Spa and decided to walk down Primrose Street to the Stone Coffee Pot for a pumpkin latte. It was late October in Silicon Valley. The clouds had turned dark, a steel gray, and the temperature chilly, several degrees colder than at the start of her 50-minute massage; a birthday gift from Barb, one of her best friends.
“I know you never treat yourself to a ‘pamper,’ but my masseuse is more than special,” Barb had said with a wink. “You’ll want to go back. I promise.”
Zee had resisted spending money on any type of self-pampering. For some reason, she felt guilty inside when on the rare occasion she’d splurge on a manicure or pedicure, pricey haircut or facial. It had been a few years since she had indulged in any of that. But today she had let herself completely submit, welcoming the promised loving care from Zane, Barb’s twenty-something Aussie masseuse.
It was the extra care Zee needed after having just learned that her sister’s husband Gus was diagnosed with brain cancer. With two kids and a third one on the way, her sister sobbed on the phone two nights ago. Gus was scheduled for surgery next week. Zee planned take time off from work to be there with her in San Francisco, and already cleared with her employer.
Zipping up her sweatshirt, Zee stepped down the Spa’s stone staircase to the pavement, and started the half block walk. A few drops hit the top of her head. She picked up her pace hoping to beat the rain that she suddenly recalled had been predicted on the news the night before. Stopping dead in her tracks, she quickly pivoted, but not without tripping over a gap in the pavement. Rushing back up the steps to the spa’s entrance and into the shadow of the entryway, she pressed her back against the stone wall, hoping she was out of sight. He walked by. Peeking out she saw the tails of Reed’s khaki raincoat flapping in the wind, his shoulder length dark hair flying in the wind. She watched him turn up the collar of his coat.
Her mind drifted to the ‘once upon a time’ code they had between them. ‘Gitchi goo.’ It had been their private signal, their private language. If they were out at a dragging social event or family gathering that seemed to go on for too long, one of them would whisper the two words. “Gitchi goo.” The other would nod and echo back the same two words. “Gitchi goo.”
Within a few minutes, Reed would typically be the one to make the excuse to the host as to why they needed to depart. “Early meeting in the morning” or “unfortunately, the only choice of dental appointments was at sunrise” were the apologetic words he’d offer with a smile and a smooth handshake. Then Zee and Reed would go home and make love. This happened every time following their “gitchi goo’s.” Zee had even made the password to her iPhone, gitchygoo.
Zee’s full birth name was Zelda Sayre Fitzsimmons, named after Zelda Sayre Fitzgerald, who was her mother’s favorite historical figure from the 1920’s and 30’s. Zelda had been a notorious flapper who had married F Scott Fitzgerald and then drove him crazy with her wild ways and high emotions. Zee’s divorced mother, Greta was a zealous enthusiast and had modeled her own life as wildly as Zelda Fitzgerald’s. Zee was embarrassed by her mother’s behavior and often scolded Greta for being out at least 2 or 3 nights a week getting drunk with her friends at the corner bar. Often Greta would bring home a man late at night, and dance to loud music in the living room, often on school nights. Zee and her sister would be forced to listen to their antics through thin walls, to the moans and giggles that would go on until early morning when the sisters would sneak to get a peak from their bedroom door. They’d see a man hurdling out of the apartment door, a stranger they’d never see again. Zee hated her given name, Zelda Sayre Fitzsimmons while her older sister enjoyed the more ordinary name of Barbara Ann, a name Zee wished she had.
She had called herself Zee since she was eleven-years old, and then legally changed her name the day following her high school graduation from Zelda Sayre Fitzsimmons to Zee Fitzsimmons. She spent her first day of college in the Administration office equipped with all required documentation proving the legal name change.
Out of sight, up against the stone wall of the day spa, she watched him walk down the street and turn right at the corner. She had lived with Reed for almost four years. It had been three years since their nasty break up; the break up that had shaken her to the core.
Zee walked down the street, the patter of rain picking up. She raised the hood of her sweatshirt unable to shake the thought of Reed out of her head.
The shock to her system happened at lunch one day three years ago, when her friend Edith, a friend Zee hadn’t seen for quite a while. Edith mentioned that she had attended a Silicon Valley Marketing Communications conference the week before. And not only was Reed at the same conference but he was the recipient of the coveted Brightest Star Award honoring his exemplary achievements in Marketing and Public Relations work. Edith was the leader of a much smaller PR firm than Reed’s mega company and was excited to meet Reed following his acceptance speech. It was at the champagne party at the end of the day where she had a chance to meet him in person and talk with him for a few short minutes. He was surrounded by several colleagues and admirers, all congratulating him as he held up his award. “One of his colleagues, her name was Lisa something or other I think,” Edith described. “Well, in the midst of the cocktail conversation Reed looked over at the woman and said “gitchi goo” or something like that. “It was kind of weird,” Edith said, with a shrug. “I bet it was some kind of marketing campaign slogan. Evidently.” The young woman turned to him and responded with those two same words, “gitchi goo.”
Zee stared down her crème brulee, as Edith continued.
“Then he and Lisa made a brisk exit saying that they both needed to get back to the office and prepare for the next day of marathon meetings with some new client.
Edith giggled. “I mean, you are one lucky woman. Snagging Reed Comack. He’s a gladiator. And, I didn’t realize how attractive he was until I was standing there less than a foot away from him.”
Zee pulled out her cell phone, and said, “Oh no.” She quickly made some excuse Edith about an important academic meeting she had completely forgotten about. She handed Edith a 50-dollar bill and politely extricated herself from her lunch table, the words “gitchie goo” echoed in her head. Zee knew most of Reed’s work colleagues, especially those he worked closely with. There was Ben – CFO, Dan – VP of Sales, Connie – his HR Director, Rudy from Product Development, and Jennifer, his executive admin. Zee had never heard him mention anyone named Lisa.
When she lived with Reed, Zee was instructor of Sociology at a local community college, and was simultaneously finishing up a Masters degree in Social Justice. She had been accepted into a PhD program and had started writing a book she titled FAIRNESS – A SAFE HARBOR (Re-discovering balance in an unbalanced world).
The day after Edith dropped the bomb at lunch, Zee launched an amateur investigation of Reed’s comings and goings to and from his Silicon Valley office. At home, she tried to act normal with him, avoiding too much time together, and feigning sleep when she was wide awake.
Distressed, she found him canoodling in a wine bar a day later with the tall young blonde at lunchtime. The day after that, at the end of his work day, she followed him to the same woman’s apartment in Palo Alto. The mailbox tag read, Lisa Cannon. On the third day of her trailing him, she spotted the two lovers fondling each other in his car at the north forty of his company parking lot. Zee’s whole world crumbled in three short days. She had trusted him. Then she confronted him, flashing an array of revealing photos.
Three years had dragged by since their split and there he was looking as swag as ever rushing down the street. Thank God he had turned the corner and hopefully she’d never see him again.
She dropped the idea of a pumpkin latte and instead headed to the parking lot for her car. She had agreed to a date with Chris that night, a man she had met at the gym. He was in Sales and talked a lot about his job as they stepped side by side on the stair master on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. After a month of chit chat, he asked her for a date. This weekend was the start of his company’s annual conference at a hotel in San Mateo. She was sorry she had said yes to their date. He picked her up at 6:30, wearing a royal blue crew neck sweater and black khaki’s; and drove them to his favorite restaurant in south San Francisco. It was a well-known Mexican restaurant, known for its gourmet cuisine. She had always wanted to go. Along the way, they listened to a country western music station, and sang along. Zee didn’t mind the music as much as the fact he didn’t inquire at all about her musical genre preferences.
Seated at a corner table in the back of the restaurant, Latin music played softly in the background. Chris ordered a pitcher of margaritas. Once their glasses were filled, he started to talk about himself. It went on non-stop from the time they ordered until they were served and then didn’t stop jabbering throughout the meal, pausing only to finish the pitcher and order another margarita, only this time a single Cadillac version for himself. Zee barely touched the first one he poured for her. At first, he went on about his job, the big deals he was doing as Director of Sales, then about the four bedroom-house he purchased three months ago. He moved on to his passion for downhill skiing, and the new Cyber truck he was set to buy. Zee attempted to insert a few things about herself but without any success. He spoke over her whenever she spoke. As if in the midst of auditioning for a lead role in a stage play, he spewed a monologue that seemed like it would never end. She wanted to escape, regretted that she had agreed to a date with a narcissist. It was a mistake. She had enough experience with that type in the past. She noticed that her head was starting to ache. The walls of the spacious restaurant seemed to be closing in on her. Her brain jammed with the events of the last 24 hours: her sister’s tragic news, the morning at the spa where she allowed herself to have a few minutes of ecstasy after the massage, and then having spotted Reed on the street. It was all too much for her to handle. She closed her eyes for a moment. Her head was pounding, Chris’ voice hammered away on his achievements without a pause.
Zee reached out to the small wicker basket at the center of their table. Inserting her hand under the red cloth napkin, she snatched up a warm over-sized flour tortilla. She held it high above her head, flicked her wrist and pitched the tortilla across the high-ceilinged dining room. It sailed through the air and landed on the top edge of the elaborate wood entry door which had been left slightly ajar. In awe at the height she had achieved with the flying tortilla, she was more astounded at what she saw as her eyes came back to table level. There he was again, Reed, sitting just a few tables away. It was the second time she’d seen him in last eight hours. But this time he was staring at her.
Zee hadn’t been in the same room with Reed since the day she walked out the front door of his townhouse three years ago. A memory flashed before her eyes, the moment when she had confronted him with the photographs, the ones she had secretly captured of him and his blonde-haired lover. She recalled how he looked baffled, then shoved his hands in his sweatpants pockets, shrugging his shoulders, and dropping his head to avoid eye contact.
“I’m a bum, Zee. I’m just a bum,” he had said, looking down at his bare feet. “I don’t deserve you.”
His reaction to her accusation had been almost more devastating to her than his infidelity. It stung. She had stormed into their bedroom to pack her three suitcases. He didn’t go after her or have any words to offer while she rushed to get her things together. Instead, he wandered into his study, sat in his leather swivel chair, his back to the open door. Once she made the three trips to load her car with boxes, suitcases and the two framed museum posters she had hung on the bedroom wall, she walked into his study. “I’ll be back tomorrow to get the rest,” she said. “While you’re at work,” she emphasized. “I know how busy you are with your work.” He didn’t turn to look at her.
Now here he was, Reed Comack, less than ten feet away in the Mexican restaurant. He sat across from a beefy man wearing a dark suit and red tie. Sporting his signature preppy look, Reed wore a black turtleneck and herring bone wool blazer. The lock of dark hair, a long curl that fell below his left eye still hung there, like it had three years ago, the same curl she’d brush away from his eyes when they were in bed making love. She had often teased him often about that lazy curl. It was the only lazy thing about him.
They locked eyes across the restaurant for at least three beats of Zee’s still wounded heart. Then he looked away back to the man across the table. Zee’s date had finally stopped talking.
“Geesh. That was kind of disruptive, don’t you think?” Chris said, pushing his chair back from the table. The three seniors at the table next to them stared.
“I don’t know what came over me,” she said. “I-I…” She looked up at the tortilla dangling at the top left edge of the high arched entry door. The door opened wide and the tortilla Zee had pitched hit the well-dressed young woman on the top of her head. The woman’s mouth gaped wide open as she looked up. A busboy quickly retrieved the tortilla from the tiled floor and tossed it into a plastic bin set at the side of the wood-carved restaurant bar.
“Oh my God,” Chris put a hand to his forehead, trying to shrink himself in the cane chair. “This is some date.”
“Oh, sorry for that,” Zee said apologetically. She glanced back at Reed and could him sign for the check.
“Are you feeling alright?” Chris asked her, with a hint of sarcasm.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Now, what was I just talking about?’ he said. “Oh yeah, I was telling you about my biz trip to Switzerland which turned into an unforgettable ski trip. I was on the summit, skis pointed downhill, goggles on, gazing up at the glorious sky when…”
The server appeared at their table interrupting. She was ready for a likely reprimand from the restaurant staff.
“Miss, I was asked to hand you this note,” their dark-haired server said. He placed the note by her dinner plate and rushed away.
Zee read the hand-written note.
Zee, you still know how to steal a scene. BTW I still have your high school yearbook and what looks like your grade school diary. Been saving them for you. Reed. 408 723 1414.
“Someone wanting to sign you for the Giants team?” Chris said jokingly, then rolled his eyes, placing his napkin on the table. “That’s quite an arm you got there.”
“No, it’s a note from the restaurant manager requesting that I have the server discard items from the table instead of me doing it.” She stuffed the note in her purse.
Chris narrowed his eyes and signaled for the check. Zee kept still and quiet. He quickly paid with a credit card, not even waiting to see the total on the bill. As they exited the restaurant, she resisted the urge to look over at Reed. Chris was quiet on their drive back. No music. No talking. No boasting. She had achieved her desired outcome from her date. He turned into a hotel parking lot, slowing into a space close to the hotel entrance. “Spend the night with me,” he said, taking her hand. “I have a beautiful suite overlooking the bay.”
“What?” she said. “But you…”
“I’ll get you home early in the morning,” he interrupted. “We’ll have a nice breakfast first.”
And that’s when Zee dished back her own monologue, letting him know that the tortilla thing was her reaction to his non-stop bragging without giving one God-damn to learn one thing about her life. “Take me home now or I’ll call an Uber.” He obeyed without another word. At her door, she uttered a curt “good night.”
“See you at the gym,” he said. She slammed the car door. She wanted to kick his passenger door before she walked away, but resisted.
In bed, Zee had trouble relaxing. She realized that she wanted her high school yearbook and diary back, and she couldn’t stop thinking of Reed. Awaking the next morning, she pulled out the note she had zipped into her wallet the night before and phoned Reed to arrange to meet. His voice was playful and he said he was happy to reunite her with her two nostalgic two items. She agreed to having a quick coffee with him. Sipping her pumpkin latte at the coffee spot opposite the man she once considered her soul mate, she had the jitters. As Reed sipped on his coffee, he confessed not only to the love affair with Lisa, who had been a college hire at his company but that he had actually fallen in love with the young woman and they had married two years ago. When she heard the words, Zee was felt traumatized and wanted to bolt but then quickly noticed that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.
“Lisa passed away,” he whispered.
“She died?”
“Five months ago,” he said, and brushed away the curl which usually hung over his right eye like a perfect half-moon. “Car crash. I’ve been trying to focus on work. But…but, I can’t get her off my mind. She was everything to me.”
“Reed. I’m so sorry.”
“I shouldn’t have said all that,” he said, pushing his coffee cup away. “Let’s change the subject. Tell me about your PhD. Should I be calling you Dr. Fitzsimmons?”
“No, I didn’t pursue it after we…”
“Because of us? Damn it, Zee. You still teaching Sociology at the college? Did you finish your book?”
She stared down at the cinnamon bits floating on the latte, the white foam having disappeared into the now light brown liquid. “No, I quit teaching and never picked up with working on the book again.”
“So, you’re doing what now?”
Zee squirmed, feeling guilty to focus on anything to do with her life after his devastating news. “I’m actually a private investigator,” she said. “Worker’s compensation cases mostly but the occasional wayward husband, grand theft and maybe a dozen embezzlement cases now under my belt. I work three days a week for a small firm. I also run my own private business on the side.”
“That’s fucking amazing,” Reed said. His cellphone chimed. “Please excuse me,” he said. “Don’t leave, ok? This will only take ten seconds. I promise.”
Zee nodded. “No prob. I’ll get another latte. You?”
“No thanks, I’m good,” he said and walked away speaking into the phone.
Zee ordered at the counter while Reed stepped outside the entry door to take the call. Settled down at the table with her drink, she felt confused, processing the fact that her ex had fallen in love with his young lover enough to actually propose and get married. How could she blame him after the poor woman died? But he had been a liar and a cheat, and there was no excuse for that.
Reed sat down. “You really are a private eye, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean?” she said, taking a sip.
“I just googled you. You’re with Harker Day. Good firm.”
“You didn’t believe me? Thought I was lying? Like someone else we know? Fuck you.” Her buried anger spilled.
“I want to hire you,” he said.
“What?” She started buttoning up her coat.
“I think someone killed my wife,” he said. “She was targeted. A truck hit her Mustang and the fucking driver disappeared off the face of the earth.”
Reed reached down into his black leather laptop bag and placed her old diary and tattered school yearbook on the table.
“What you left behind,” he said.
She noticed the tiny hairline scar under his left eye, the product of a third-grade schoolyard accident he had told her about some years ago.
“Will you do an investigation? I’ll pay you well.”
“Reed, I can’t. Anyway, I’m off for two weeks starting this Monday. I’ll be in San Francisco. My brother-in-law is having brain surgery to remove a malignant tumor. I’ll be watching my sister’s two young kids while she goes back and forth to the hospital.
“Oh god, I’m sorry,” he said. “Beth’s husband, Greg?”
“Beth’s husband Gus, not Greg.”
“Oh yeah, I knew his name started with a ‘g.’ He was a good guy. I mean, he’s still a good guy. But you won’t be wrapped up every minute watching those kids, right?”
Zee shook her head and look down at the latte.
“You still have that wild red hair,” he said.
She looked up at him and wanted to reply with: and you still have those chocolate brown eyes that could melt a woman’s heart.
“Not my fault,” Zee replied instead.
“It was all my fault, Zee.”
“Reed, I meant my wild red frizzy hair. Not my fault.” She grinned. “It’s the legacy my dear mother left me. You still think I’m holding a grudge, don’t you? Look, I moved on from us. Very quickly!”
“I-I didn’t mean to offend you,” he murmured.
“Reed, I’m very sorry for your loss but I can’t possibly help you with this.”
“$10K cash up front and no matter what, even if you find nothing in a week or so, you keep the money. No, make that $15k up front. Like I said, no refund back to me after a week of you investigating.”
“Are you trying to make reparations for what you did years ago with a cash settlement now?” She peered into her second pumpkin latte which sat on the table, the light foam topping she had requested having disappeared entirely.
“No, that’s not my goal. I want you to do this,” he whispered, his voice scratchy.
“You’re a rich man. Why not hire a big-time firm to investigate? Why me?”
“Because I want to keep this on the down low. That’s the main reason. And, I trust you.”
“You trust me. Thanks for the compliment,” she said, looking away. “Let me think about it.” She I’ll call you tomorrow.” She knew that she was opening the gate to the devil’s garden. She could hear the rattle of the rusty hinges, as she left the table and walked out the door.
The next day she didn’t call him back and by close to 5 p.m. she had successfully changed her phone number with Verizon. She tapped in a new phone password which was now ‘nomoregitchygoo.’
Linda S. Gunther is the author of six published 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, her memoir titled A Bronx Girl (growing up in the Bronx in the 1960’s) was released in late 2023. Ms. Gunther’s short stories, poetry, book reviews and essays have been published in a variety of literary journals across the world. Website: www.lindasgunther.com
blue light shows through. the world awakens from slumber. inside dreams the soul was around others once known, but they did not recognize the soul and the soul did not reach out to them. some kind of auditorium. just the filtering and remnants of the far past perhaps. the mind has its own time, and is time. identify the dream but ignore. like when your foot is asleep. it will go away, through time, or be walked and healed. the blue gets lighter. it had snowed all night. the snow had its own beauty and nuance. on eaves. on branches. on rooftops. even on cars. somewhere a solitary fox perhaps walks, looking at the world, the grounds, fluffy tailed and red. there was a field immense and if the soul glanced at it, well just sometimes there would be a coyote near the middle standing.
and if the soul stared long the coyote would notice and look back. but this had not happened in a long time. the field seemed to be without anything but the snow reeds here and there and the lines like small narrow swaths some farmer must have made with a tractor in the brighter warmer days. the soul still imagined that the coyote was somewhere, and took refuge in the thought. why? because the world around there was so hum-drum-glum,- mediocre, full of sameness. sometimes a hawk watched the fields though. the blue that turned light blue had become almost a white firmament. to be a poet is to be invisible for better or worse, mused the soul passively. to be a poet is akin to being a ghost. ‘You are like a ghost,’ someone had said. but it wasn’t positive or pejorative, it had just been a statement. a stationary tractor sat forever by a field. in the late spring or summer the tractors moved again, like bees come to life buzzing and when they did, it could be incessantly. make way air. make way field. make way. there was a place on the outskirts of towns not overtaken by progress. once the soul knew the people there. they liked the soul but the soul was solitary and aloof from birth and this must have been written in a natal chart. somewhere. in the Akashic. not on anything in life as the time was unrecorded, unknown. and the birth time was needed for a proper chart. journey. the dawn. the snow. the times. the opacity of the upwards air. ah well. good enough. step and step. one day spring would see fit to show itself again.
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia, plotting his escape. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, The Dope Fiend Daily, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, The Beatnik Cowboy and Disturb the Universe Magazine. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
Poet Pat Doyne invites writers to enter the Tor House poetry contest. Submissions must be sent via snail mail to the address in the link and postmarked by March 15th.
Poet Eva Petropoulou shares that Our Poetry Association, an international writers’ collective, has opened submissions for its spring contest, with a theme of justice.
Poet and essayist Abigail George, whom we’ve published many times, shares the fundraiser her book’s press has created for her. She’s seeking contributions for office supplies and resources to be able to serve as a speaker and advocate for others who have experienced trauma or deal with mental health issues.
Synchronized Chaos Magazine also encourages you to watch short videos of international authors, artists, and activists interviewed on the Xena World chat show, including several of our contributors.
Poet Annie Finchseeks assistance with training a new app that will identify and teach different forms of poetic scansion. She’s looking for people who know how to do scansion manually to go over the collection of poems in the training set.
Essayist and poetChimezie Ihekuna seeks a publisherfor his children’s story collection Family Time. Family Time! is a series that is aimed at educating, entertaining and inspiring children between the ages of two and seven years of age. It is intended to engage parents, teachers and children with stories that bring a healthy learning relationship among them.
Essayist Jeff Rasley’s new book is out: It’s a story inspired by my own experience of a sophisticated California kid transferring to my grade school in the small town of Goshen, Indiana in 1965. It did not go well, when the new kid challenged the “gang” of kids who thought they were the cool kids who ruled the playground. For most of us, it was a blip in our lives. But one boy never recovered.
It is a short story, just 25 pages. So it only costs $2.99 for the ebook and $9.99 for the paperback. For some of you, it may evoke nostalgia for a time gone by (like using Juno instead of gmail). For others, it will be historical fiction from a strange time and place. Check it out at https://www.amazon.com/Came-Parkside-School-Jack-Thriller-Mystery-Romance -ebook/dp/B0DY9TKL6V
Contributor Kelly Moyer has a new book out, Mother Pomegranate and Other Fairy Tales for Grown-Ups. It includes the piece “The Pussy Whip” which she sent to Synchronized Chaos, as well as many other stories. It’s available here.
Contributing poet and Pushcart nominee Kurt Nimmo’s new book Texas and New Mexico: Selected Poems 2015-2025 is out and available here.
Our April 1st issue will be crafted by co-editor Kahlil Crawford. He’s a poet, musician, and essayist who has put together previous issues on Latin Culture and Electronic Music.
In March we will have a presence at the Association of Writing Programs conference in L.A. which will include an offsite reading at Chevalier’s Books on Saturday, March 29th at 6 pm. All are welcome to attend!
So far the lineup for our reading includes Asha Dore, Douglas Cole, Scott Ferry, Linda Michel-Cassidy, Aimee Suzara, Reverie Fey, Ava Homa, Michelle Gonzalez, Terry Tierney, Anisa Rahim, Katrina Byrd, Cindy Rinne, Norma Smith, and Kelliane Parker.
Author Justin Hamm is hosting a FREE online literary event the weekend of AWP, known as StayWP. This will include author talks, informative panels, book launches and networking!
Paul Tristram, like Whitman, sings of himself with easy confidence and exhilaration in life’s experiences. Philip Butera’s poetry speaks to the masks we wear and finding the courage to be authentic. Grzegorz Wroblewski digs deep into our fleshy reality, addressing the “meat” of our existence and our bodies’ undeniable needs. Tojiyeva Muxlisa also looks at our bodies, outlining common gynecological diseases and their treatments.
Dr. Prasanna Kumar Dalai’s poetry explores human emotion: romantic attraction, loneliness, grief, and confidence. Kendall Snipper speaks to the small and large sensations that bring back memories. Stephen Jarrell Williams looks back at the ‘paradise’ of his hometown in a moment of nostalgia. David Sapp recollects the wildness and local color of his boyhood days.
Kylian Cubilla Gomez’ photography captures a sense of whimsy and joy. A cat, Jean-Paul Moyer, partners with poet Kelly Moyer to create splashy, colorful paintings by moving paint around on canvas.
Life meets art in Alan Catlin’s work, as he recollects bits of his past and how he engaged with literary movements and cultural icons. Mark Young evokes moments of change, evolution, and decision in his poetry, as characters grapple with taking stock of themselves. Alaina Hammond’s drama explores the tension and commonalities behind practitioners of different art forms, and how and why they chose their crafts.
Umida Haydaraliyeva expresses the creative joy of an emerging author. Muhabbat Abdurahimova speaks to a poet’s quest for inspiration. Chris Foltopoulos’ guitar plucks out dulcet tones on his experimental music project Arpeggios. Chuck Taylor turns to writing as one of many ways to find solace during fits of insomnia.
Mahbub writes of a dream journey through gardens and his early childhood as Rus Khomutoff’s visual poetry takes us on a dreamlike quest through the beauty and mystery and riddle of our existence. Chuck Kramer’s work comes from a speaker of a certain age reflecting on their life and its meaning, finding purpose through experience teaching young children.
Ilhomova Mohichehra offers up her gratitude to her teacher. Bibikhanifa Jumanazarova poetizes about her mother’s wisdom and gentleness. Ibrahimova Halima Vahobjonovna celebrates the lifelong love and devotion of her mother as Sevinch Abirova contributes a piece of love and appreciation for a younger family member. Mirta Liliana Ramirez points out how she learned and got stronger from her past experiences, even from people who were not kind to her. Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa speaks to the power of kindness and friendship, even online friendship across the distance, to affect our lives.
Mesfakus Salahin recollects the joy of young love on a warm evening. Xavier Womack speaks of a crush and the desire for a deep connection with a classmate. Anna Keiko speaks to the joy, strength, and staying power of true love. Jeannette Tiburcio Marquez evokes the joy and sweet surrender of ballroom dance with a romantic partner.
Kristy Raines’ poetry explores both interpersonal romantic love and human compassion for the world. Peter Cherches’ short stories probe how much we owe each other as fellow inhabitants of the planet, how far we will go for each other. Graciela Noemi Villaverde expresses her hopes and dreams for international peace among humanity, and Eva Petropoulou does the same for the sake of the world’s children. She also pays tribute to her deceased father.
Dr. Adnan Ali Gujjar offers up a poetic tribute to the grace and mentorship of poet Eva Petropoulou Lianou and her advocacy for peace and global justice. Dr. Jernail Anand’s essay argues for the value of art and literature for a fully developed and moral society.
Saidqulova Nozima sings of her Uzbek homeland as Munisa Azimova celebrates her Uzbek heritage and homeland in tender verse. Still others focus on the nation’s many accomplished writers. Sevinch Shukurova illustrates how the genre of poetry allowed Uzbek writer Alexander Faynberg to concisely and directly express his message. Nilufar Anvarova sends up a poem on the creative legacy of Uzbek writer and statesman Erkin Vahidov.Odina Azamqulova highlights the contributions of writer and translator Ozod Sharafiddinov to Uzbekistan’s literary heritage.
Nosirova Surayyo offers up suggestions for becoming fluent speaking in a second language. Maftuna Bozorova encourages readers to learn about other cultures through learning foreign languages. Abduraximova Farida Khomiljon examines various methods for teaching English as a second language.
Lazzatoy Shukurillayeva translates a poem by historical Uzbek writer Alisher Navoi that considers the vagaries of fate. Duane Vorhees speaks with a gentle humor to both intimacy and mortality. J.K. Durick’s work comments on transience: money, moments in time, even our health will pass. Kurt Nimmo addresses forms of living death in his work alongside actual mortality: being stuck in a dead-end job, being addicted, having one’s life’s work erased.
Mykyta Ryzhykh crafts a somber, deathly world. Jacques Fleury’s protagonist drowns himself in a quest for oblivion after his mental illness drives his family away, missing some potential positive news after his passing. Alex S. Johnson’s short story character decides against suicide when he encounters “spirits” who wish they had had more time on Earth.
Paul Durand’s piece explores how Andy Warhol transcended his ordinary, vulnerable humanity through art and fame. Taylor Dibbert finds a kind of strange and transcendent solace in the fact that great authors have written about the kinds of travel mishaps he experiences.
Pat Doyne lambasts Donald Trump’s plan to take over and gentrify the Gaza Strip by displacing its impoverished residents. Bill Tope’s short story traces how casual prejudice and homophobia can lead to violence. Abeera Mirza’s poetry tells the tale of how a young wife escapes domestic violence. Bill Tope and Doug Hawley’s collaborative story also presents hope as a wife bravely confronts her husband about his behavior and he chooses accountability and sobriety.
DK Jammin’ turns to his faith for moments of grace and solace in ordinary life despite a complex and sometimes harsh world. Sara Hunt Florez recalls the constant passage of time and encourages us to make the most of what we have, even in small moments with those around us. Ma Yongbo speaks to shifting reality and impermanence, human limitations and death, and the immortality he finds through creativity.
Isabella Gomez de Diego’s photos reflect the simple joys of nature, family, home, children, and faith. Maja Milojkovic offers simple kindness to a ladybug, releasing the insect to fly and dream freely outside. Lidia Popa reaches deep inside her mind to find inner personal peace.
Sayani Mukherjee revels in the small pleasures of a spring tea party. Rasulova Rukhshona celebrates Central Asian spring Nowruz New Year with a poem about loving grandparents, flowers and birds.
Brian Barbeito’s prose piece evokes his youth and personal creative awakening. Mushtariy Tolanboyeva expresses the lament of an impatient tree who wanted to blossom, but bloomed too early before winter finished.
Daniel De Culla’s piece illuminates his love for all of the planet’s life and recognizes that each species’ existence is inter-related. Adaboyev Maqsad’s essay suggests pathways towards ecological sustainability, elucidating economic and legal means of addressing environmental issues.
Murodjon Asomidinov also discusses economics and global justice, calling for empowering the youth of the world through financial literacy education.
Z.I. Mahmud’s essay explores feminist Indian writer Amar Jiban’s writing about the struggles of older single and widowed women and the need for all women to have education as a pathway to independence and financial security. Nurmatova Aziza relates the tale of a young woman who bucks traditional gender expectations by traveling to the city for an advanced degree.
We hope that this issue will be a source of empowerment, commiseration, and merriment at the many facets of our shared humanity and our shared connection with the rest of Earth’s life.
