Kind people!

Pure nature,

I live in Chamanzar.

In my bright motherland,

I play and laugh.

People are kind

No denials.

He walks with a smile,

He always laughs.

Sparkling eyes,

Kind words.

They are sincere, honest,

Really kind people.

Ilhomova Mohichehra is a student of the 8th “K” grade of the 13th school, Zarafshan city, Navoi region.

There is No Happiness Here

There is no happiness here.

Mosquitos circle overhead like vultures.

Pain is here, with an eternal depression mixed in with a fear not dissimilar to a mouse in a cat cafe.

No familiar rules, just brand new cultures.

There in the earlier there but not the currant now, I wouldn’t and couldn’t get cold rain

as it was always hot, dousing us in a burning mental pain

God this sucks very much

Every night without noise, with every step, I must shush.

While I wallow in absolute disgust,

At these terrible terrifying tears leading too what feels like a spoonful of hell,

I’m forced into amounts of manual labor so crushing that it feels like I’m underfoot an elephant in a parade,

as I’m reminded of the issues my back suffers,

while it’s only made worse by the labor that the elephants crush me with.

In that unpleasant umber weald, where the vulturous mosquitoes play around with the little happiness that’s left

With trees growing larger like the broken promises as they say that they will make my life easier,

The trees growing under the warm wet skies, soaking the failed dreams of a treehouse.

Will

I may not believe in God

But I do believe in saviors

And I very much believe that you are mine.

You came into my life

Not like a wounded animal on my doorstep

Begging for me to save it,

But like a bird flying down from the sky

With an offering of peace.


No, in our story, I was the wounded animal,

And you were the one who saved me.

I fell down at the doorstep of your heart

Looking for a friend who could heal me,

Who could be there for me,

And you opened the door wide and

let

me

in.


And not only did you welcome me with open arms,

You shaped me.

You made me the person that I am, and

Although that person is far from perfect

– Very far, in fact –

He is better because of you.

You

are the one who keeps me holding on

You

are the one who gives me my courage

You

are the one who keeps the light inside of me,

The light that may sometimes flicker

But refuses to go out.


I pour out so much of my heart into you

And yet the amount of me I give

Never seems to be too much,

It’s always just the right amount,

As much as I want to give

And as much as you want to receive.


Whenever I am with you,

Sitting next to you

or

across from you

or

just anywhere

in the same room as you,

I feel at home –

Because for me, my home

Is wherever I am with you.


It’s something I can’t explain,

Can’t put into words,

But being with you

Is the best medicine

I’ve ever taken.

So I guess what I’m trying to say

Is that this is my incredibly cliche,

incredibly cheesy,

incredibly roundabout

way of saying

I love you,

I really love you,

and thank you so much

for everything

you have done.


Cameron Carter is a 9th-grade writer, artist, and amateur musician at Ruth Asawa School of the Arts in the Creative Writing department. He is passionate about using poetry and other forms of art to express himself and raise his voice. Through activities like writing, drawing, playing guitar and drums, and singing (or often doing metal screams), he pushes himself forward to achieve his goals and make himself known for who he truly is. 

Not Raining, Pouring

I was not yet

am not

yet will be

infinite in the ocean

tethered by my infinity

to the sand

tethered to red rock

my broken back strewn across

my face

pointed to myself

sewn across last nights sky

last night

alluding to myself.

poured into the ocean

anchored by infinity

to my inconjurable self.

tethered to the sand

bloodied bruised and waiting.

My mother tongue

Languages are beautiful, my Uzbek language,

If the creator of beings is resounding.

My Uzbek language seems to be unmatched in glory,

If the light shines in the hearts of those who hear.

My people proudly say on every front,

The anthem of the country, the bright gloss of the language.

If it increases the reputation,

Such is the power of words, oh well done.

If you love your tongue, blood flows in the veins,

My native language is inherited from my grandfathers.

If you love your language, you will find a place in any field.

If the world loves the Uzbek language, it will be my language.

I value my soul like gold,

I will give my life for my tongue.

We, the Asrayites, are our heritage, like our ancestors.

It is strong even for barley grain.

My Uzbek people, let’s celebrate the language holiday,

Let’s celebrate the birth of a beautiful language.

Let the world know, the whole world, let the nations know,

Great respect of the Uzbeks who speak the language.

Shamsiyeva Gavhar was born in Zarafshan, Navoi region. In addition to science classes, he practices poetry. He has taken pride of place in several republican contests. Her future dream is to win the state award named after Zulfia.

————————————————————————-

all their little trophies

we used to have cats

when we used to live

out on the farm

they all spoke spanish

i believe one was a buddhist

he would come up to

the front porch and we’d

have long conversations

while i was smoking

my cigarettes

they would bring all

their little trophies

up to that porch

mouse, squirrel, rabbit,

even a fucking snake

all for that shake of the

bag to get some treats

it was like i was a dealer

some rival gang of coyotes

would sneak in and take a

few of them from time to time

i never saw the buddhist one die

i believe he transcended all space and time

i never did say what was in those cigarettes

—————————————————————-

the day of the dead

doing some living

on the day of the

dead

warming temperatures

fresh dead bodies

exposed on the

mountains

if life is a circle

are we just the

jerk

life meanders on

as time starts to

stand still

broken and lost

the endless desires
of a generation that
never got the chance
to make those desires
come true

—————————————————–

games on the radio

some soft music

as we all wait

to die

listening to an

old guy talk

about listening

to baseball games

on the radio back

in the fifties

he pauses

thinks of something

and then starts

about politics

the war has taken

something out of

us all

there is no rush

we’re all going to

be in the ground

soon enough

——————————————————————

election day

i marvel at people who

are proud to be stupid

who picked themselves

up by those proverbial

bootstraps yet still don’t

understand how the game

is played

and here come the outsiders

the grifters that know there

is always some dumb fuck

to make tons of money off of

i sit back and watch

and just laugh

my father was one of those

dumb asses

he always thought he was

smarter than anyone else

in the room

i stole from him much

of my life

money, baseball cards,

whatever i knew that dumb

fuck wouldn’t notice was gone

when i heard the stories that

his second wife drained the

pension and let him die

penniless in the VA

i just shook my head and knew

he never learned his lesson

apparently, no one ever does

———————————————-

haven’t found a sheep yet

thumbing

through the

pages of a

magazine

hoping to

find a

beautiful

face to

lose my

imagination

ini don’t
think this
old farm
magazine
is going
to do the
trick

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia, plotting his escape. He’s been published in many places over the years, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Mad Swirl, The Rye Whiskey Review and The Beatnik Cowboy. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

Breezeway

Trevor sat in his fancy new ergonomic computer chair, an early Christmas gift from his parents. The spare, sandy-haired man was seated comfortably in the open-space public assistance office, where he worked as a caseworker, managing welfare cases. He had been so employed for almost a year. This chair, he thought sadly, as high-tech as it was, couldn’t prevent his hands from shaking. Sometimes it was worse than others; just now, his hands quavered furiously. Clearly, this was not a good day.

Into the room strode Bert, a colleague at the agency, just back from lunch, who observed Trevor’s affliction with the usual bemusement. He took off his winter coat, placed his Starbucks cup on his desk, which was next to Trevor’s, turned to the other man and said, “Hey, Tremor, what’s up?”

Trevor instantly became self-conscious and tried to hide his twitching fingers. Bert’s coarse misuse of his name only added tension to an already tense situation.

Bert picked up his coffee, took a sip, smiled winsomely, but said nothing. The genius to his technique of torturing Trevor lay in levying the insults and putdowns only half the time. Always keep him wondering when the other shoe would drop, thought Bert smugly. To that end, Bert unwrapped a stick of gum and slowly placed it on his tongue, watching the other man from the corner of his eye. He chewed rapidly, soon getting the wad of gum limber. Then he began loudly popping it. He smiled with satisfaction as Trevor reacted severely to the chewing and to the sounds.

Trevor, who already suffered the early stages of Parkinson’s Disease, had only recently been diagnosed by his neurologist as also suffering from misophonia, a condition in which the patient exhibits untoward reactions to certain “trigger’ sounds, such as lip smacking, gum popping, dogs barking, clocks ticking, or people chewing with their mouths open. As a result of this condition, Trevor routinely frowned, sighed, or even stared at his nemesis. Which only encouraged Bert all the more. Also accompanying these reactions were increased heart rate, panic, anger, and a strong, almost desperate desire to escape the source of the trigger sounds. Just now, Trevor glared balefully at the other man. Bert smirked.

“What can I do about it, Dr. Patel?” Trevor had asked, when told of the diagnosis. “How do we treat it?”

The physician shrugged indifferently. “There is no treatment,” he told him bluntly. “You can wear sound-deadening headphones or play music or,” he suggested, “ask your co-workers to stop their annoying behavior.”

Trevor had had this condition since he was nine or ten years old—more than twenty years ago—though in those days there was no available diagnosis.

“Trev,” said his father, when the young man was eleven, “pretend that dog’s not there; that’s a boy!”

“Mom and Dad are going to take you to a shrink,” threatened Trevor’s brother, two years older and embarrassed by his sibling’s constant overreactions to ordinary sounds.

The malady was still relatively unknown. Even today, Trevor’s own MD has never even heard of the condition.

Throughout school, Trevor had felt that he wore a cloak of misfortune that no one else seemed to understand. Bert knew none of this; he knew only that Trevor was “different” and “sensitive” and must therefore be punished.

“Want a piece of gum, Tremor?” asked Bert, cracking the Juicy Fruit between his molars. Trevor closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and mentally placed himself somewhere far away. Snap! went Bert’s gum, and Trevor was brought back to the present, nearly sobbing with frustration. He felt a bead of perspiration on his forehead. He had to do something!

Trevor sprang suddenly to his feet and called out, “Ms. Shaefer, could I have a word?”

Norma Schaefer, the office manager, also returning from lunch, frowned unhappily at Trevor but crooked a finger. What was it this time? She thought peevishly. “A quick minute,” she said. He followed her into her private office, dropped into a chair before her desk.

Once they were both seated, Trevor explained his recent diagnosis, described his symptoms, both physical and mental, and, in spite of  his abject embarrassment, appealed to her for help. He had previously had to account for his tremor, which was due to Parkinson’s, because some of his welfare clients, as well as his co-workers, had questioned his sobriety and his sanity. Some had even conjectured that he was undergoing withdrawal from alcohol or drugs.

“What do you expect me to do about it?” she asked impatiently. “I mean, I’ve never heard of this condition, and besides, how can I tell employees they can’t chew gum?”

“It’s just the popping,” he stressed, “and chewing with their mouths open; it’s not gum chewing itself. It’s the noise.”

Norma’s mouth formed a straight, unhappy line. “Look, Trevor, we already stopped employees from smoking. Many of them substitute gum for cigarettes, and I think that’s a good thing.” At his disspirited look, she pounced: “Maybe casework isn’t the right job for you…” He looked up sharply. “You just don’t seem very happy here,” she added, with feigned concern. You have little to say to anyone; you’re not even signed up for the secret Santa gift exchange this Christmas.”

Trevor thought back to the office Thanksgiving party, which had been held only the week before. Sitting by himself in the break room, he had witnessed Norma herself eating noisily at the next table.

She sounds like a garbage disposal, he thought wearily, looking dismally at the otherwise elegant woman. “What are you staring at?” she demanded, dropping a Buffalo wing back onto her plate. “Don’t stare at me!” Her loud chewing hadn’t seemed to bother anyone else, he’d noticed.

Trevor blew out a tired breath. Norma spoke again, drawing him back to the present: “Your work is adequate,” she conceded, “but if you can’t get along with the other employees and you aren’t happy here, then maybe you should consider a change.” And she left it at that, stealing an overt glance at her watch. Pushing himself to his feet, Trevor exited the manager’s office, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

Thirty days later, just in time for Christmas, found Trevor, master’s degree and all, sweeping the breezeway that bisected the strip mall where he now worked as a maintenance worker and groundskeeper. The air was cold, the wind brisk, but he didn’t mind. The salary was scarcely adequate, but at long last he had found what he most coveted: peace and quiet. He sighed and smiled a little. Peace. It was so sweet.