The Path to Knowledge

   “Reading is the nourishment of the mind, heart, and soul.” — Virginia Woolf

Aziza lived in a small town, her heart full of dreams and aspirations. She loved learning, and her eyes sparkled with the desire for knowledge. But her parents, like many others in their community, held traditional views. They believed that girls were meant to focus on home duties and marriage, not academics.

Every time Aziza expressed her dream of studying, her parents would gently but firmly discourage her. “Girls are not made for education,” her mother would say, “they are meant to be wives and mothers.” Her father, too, was insistent that marriage was the best path for her. But Aziza couldn’t let go of her dreams. Her heart yearned for a different life, a life where she could learn, grow, and make her own choices.

One day, after yet another attempt from her parents to convince her to accept a marriage proposal, Aziza made a bold decision. She had already prepared all the documents she needed to apply to university, secretly working on them in the quiet of her room. She knew that her parents would never understand, but she was ready to stand up for her future.

“Why can’t you just be like other girls?” her mother asked, frustrated. “You’re not thinking of your family.”

Aziza looked her mother in the eye, her voice steady but filled with determination. “This is my life. I deserve the chance to chase my dreams, to be educated and find my own path.”

Her parents were taken aback. They had never seen such courage in their daughter. After a long silence, they realized that their love for her should allow her to choose her own way. With heavy hearts but a new understanding, they finally gave her their blessing.

Aziza faced many challenges along the way. Moving to the city was not easy. She felt lonely, overwhelmed by the fast-paced life, and sometimes doubted herself. But each time she stumbled, she reminded herself why she was there: for her dreams. For her future.

One day, after a phone call with her parents, Aziza realized that they had come to accept her decision. They were proud of her strength and her courage. That moment marked a turning point, where both Aziza and her family understood that education was not just a choice — it was a right.

Aziza completed her studies and became a successful professional. But more than that, she had proven to herself and others that no obstacle was too great when it came to pursuing your dreams.

I am Nurmatova Aziza Oybek’s daughter I was born on August 21, 2005 in Nurota district of Navoi region. Currently, I am a 2nd-year student at Navoi State University, Faculty of English Language and Literature. I have taken pride of place in reading contests, as well as a participant in international seminars and meetings. I am a winner of contests and competitions dedicated to corruption and a finalist of the “Discussion” contest.

Intersections

Along the way

there are other

paths, joining, re-

joining, leading

away from. Unknown

until you try them

out. What are you

missing? What

are you missing

out? What are

you missing out

on? Along the way

there are / other

paths. Leading

into. Leading onto.

Untried until you

find the joins, un-

known because of

missed conjunctions.

Ecology

One measure is the

earth & how

we stand on it,

watching things grow

& measuring our

growth against them.

The other is the sky

& how we hang

from it, taking

its temperature as if

it were a patient, &

we patient with it.

Laying Plans

How are we

supposed to know

that it’s a “spare the

air” day? Certainly

it has a sort of

maverick quality

to it, but that doesn’t

necessarily mean

we’re living in tough

times; & crash dummies

in minicars always

fare comparatively

poorly in collisions

with the economic

consequences of the

high Italian budget

deficit. The symbolic

use of flowers dates

back to antiquity. Why

must we sacrifice &

shop in a one-room

shack when a whole

mall awaits us?

The Emperor’s Butterfly

(with Martin Edmond)

All the lights went out. The sun disgorged a dust of insects. Microbes crawled from the disintegrated carapaces.

He sensed them marching in serried ranks towards the lesions in his skin. His hands could not find the switch. For a nanosecond a shell of fear encased him. His trembling broke it. Then he acted.

Reaction first. Interrogated the night but it had nothing to say, was full of aliases, none of them his. He felt like Schrödinger’s cat – but where was Schrödinger?

The air was full of dis-ease. Space was the uncertainty principle. Time was not his friend.

This was not an experiment, it was slaughter. The rustling battalions had already breached his integument, were immune to his response. His massing white cells were being massacred. Defense is knowing when to run.

Afterwards, he never knew exactly how he got away. Surmised that just as there were lines of force there must be lines of weakness, and the pale pupa that was his soul had somehow broken one and used the other to lift off.

His new wings were like nothing else in the world.

The Ladybug in My Home

In my home, by the bright-lit pane,

a ladybug hid one Friday late.

Winter whispers with its breath so cold,

but she dreams of dawns so warm and gold.

Beneath my roof, in a quiet room,

sleeps the crimson-dotted bloom.

She waits for spring to spread its wings,

to flutter freely through the fields.

She speaks to me with eyes so bright:

“Protect me a little, I’ll brave the night.

When the first bloom scents the air so sweet,

I’ll soar into the sun’s retreat.”

And I reply, “You’re safe right here,

my hands will guard you, soft and dear.

When March appears and the sun shines true,

I’ll set you free, fair dreamer, you.”

My Uzbekistan 

Thank you today

I took a pen in my hand.

I read a lot of your past,

I thought for a moment.

He did not see days,

It’s enough, be patient.

Your deserts have become dust,

Give light from independence.

My grandmother’s eyes are wet with joy.

Never tie it dry,

The land inherited from my ancestors,

I am the land that God has looked at.

Munisa Azimova is a student of the 8th grade of the 20th school of Bukhara.

On the Hunt

Eudy and Lenny bumped along in Eudy’s Hummer, down the muddy, rural path through farm country in Southern Georgia. They were intent on big game. Located in the lower Piedmont region of the state, the area was the site of a vast peanut farm which had been in the Eudy family for generations. It was 2 days before Thanksgiving and the morning air was a bracing 39 degrees. A brisk wind whistled through the towering sweetgum trees that were harvested for the manufacture of high end furniture. In less than 48 hours, Lenny thought, he would be breaking bread at Eudy’s family estate and giving thanks for a new Republican president and all that implied.

“We’ll get us some trophies today, Lenny,” promised Eudy, taking his eyes from the road for a moment. “It is what you call a target-rich environment, boy!” He took a long drink from an amber-hued flask and then passed it to Lenny.

Lenny grinned rather uncertainly. He’d always managed to elude these trips with Eudy up till now, but this time his boss had been adamant. According to Lenny’s fellow employees, Eudy held that you couldn’t take the measure of a man until you’d been with him on the hunt, out in the elements and all the rest. Lenny watched as they passed a forest of red maples, grown for transplant onto the large, palatial, plantation-like estates of the Georgian gentry. The scarlet leaves fluttered in the breeze.

Lenny spent 12 hours per day, in season, operating the huge, quarter million dollar peanut combine for Eudy, which proved that his boss trusted him. They often talked knowingly of fallow fields and LSKs and the like. He couldn’t fail him now, he thought. Since October, with the last harvest, things had slowed down on Eudy’s Farms, making time for excursions into the back woods.

“I think the truck looks damn good, Lenny,” Eudy said.

As well it should, thought the other man. Lenny had squandered a full weekend with his boss, applying the camouflage motif to the Hummer’s sides and roof. Spraying can after can of Rust-Oleum on the SUV’s carapace had been unnerving. Lenny read on the cans that the paint should be applied only in a well-ventilated area, but Eudy had been insistent on doing the job in the confines of his family’s capacious, 6-car garage. The reason for this, Lenny guessed, was that Eudy wanted to enjoy the high incidental to inhaling the toxic vapors. But, what could he do? Eudy was his boss.

The use of the stencils, the application of a base coat and the subsequent layering of coats was exhausting. The final application of a clear coat on top of it all had seemed to take forever, but at long last Eudy was satisfied. Lenny’s fingers were still sticky from the masking tape.

After what seemed like an endless trek, the men arrived at their destination, a small clearing abutting a medium-sized pond. The two men alighted from the vehicle. Eudy ran his hand loving down the tan, brown and muted yellow camouflage stenciling they had applied the previous weekend. Lenny gingerly felt his side; the jarring journey had played hell with his kidneys. Eudy seemed unaffected, however.

The men stretched their limbs and Lenny said, “I wish I’d bought more firepower, you know?”

Eudy shrugged, hefted his AR-15 and said smugly, “This’ll do me just fine, Lenny.” He took a sighting along the tree line of the distant forest.

Lenny frowned. “Sure,” he said, “you got your Franken-gun; all I got’s this piece of shit Winchester.”

The other man smirked. “You had your chance at the gun show on Saturday. You’re the one refused to lay down twelve large for a decent weapon.

Lenny winced. “Yeah, well, my daughter needs braces,” he pointed out.

“Priorities, Lenny,” scolded his friend. “You got to set your priorities.”

Lenny shrugged. Eudy had a point. “I guess you’re right.”

As the pair moved into the woods, Lenny raised his firearm and took aim at a flock of geese, but the other man stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t waste your ammo, son. We got bigger game to hunt. Besides, the world needs more geese.” They walked on for another half mile.

“How do you know they’re in there?” Lenny inquired.

“I do my homework,” replied the other man. “Use scouts. And electronic surveillance. There’s a whole nest of ‘em about a mile into the reserve.” Taking point, he led the way.

As they proceeded through the trees, Lenny’s footfalls were magnified by the snapping of branches and twigs along the trail. Eudy, by far the more experienced tracker, was silent as a whisper.

Finally, the two outdoorsmen emerged into a clearing and came upon an encampment: tents, crackling fires, the savory aroma of grilling meat and open cans of beer were everywhere. About 20 men milled about, unaware of their presence.

Lenny whispered, “You sure this is it? Are you positive we got the right place?” he asked earnestly.

“Abso-damn-lutely,” said the other man in a boozy voice. “Pick a target, son.” And before he opened fire with his own weapon, he added, “You know the law of the jungle like I do, Lenny: first get ’em outta’ the libraries; then outta’ the government and the press and finally, at long last, it’s open season on poofs.”

…