Well, The essay of mine is based on overcoming conflicts in my personal life. If I reveal something about my personality, character or lifestyle, it's that I am such a calm, peaceful, introverted, relaxed person. I can say that not upsetting people is one of my traits.

So, why am I writing or exposing my character in this essay? To explain that I have encountered so many problems, conflicts, issues and longitude considerations. I am absolutely saying as one of the minor member of this generation -people, especially youngsters, do not want to respect others. I had had some kind of conflicts with children, individuals and school organization that year, I am going to speak about them one by one in my essay.

Initially, my personal character has caused many misunderstandings with school mates during my school years. I do not fancy having a conversation with people who are irresponsible, irresistible, irrespective, rough, rude and also stupid. Nonetheless, we must admit these types of people are more and more around us. 

Once upon a time, when I paid a visit to school in the past, some teens in my school were kidding me and say something worse about me. At that time I did not pay attention to their stereotypes. I though it was a simple childish thing of them to say. Then it escalated and I should have done something to prevent these bad things for me, at this time I had few conceptions of how to get rid of their violations or bullying.

Therefore I have three ways to figure out this conflict, First, I can utilize adequate manipulations to their psychology, because if they had had a good personality, they wouldn't have behaved themselves in this way. In this situation, not only did I not influence them with true and impactful opinions and conversation, but I was likely to be influenced. I just ought to speak to their guardians or parents, if I was not able to manage it. 

I would call their parents, so that I could have a straightforward and easy conversation. The next day I did come across again to them in the hall. Tranquility was really gone there, they were bound to reveal some of nasty or unacceptable sayings again and again. After that I had been trying to have a top-notch and real conversation with them.

I requested them to please tell me why they were doing that to me.    I had spoken about their life, asked them to be a merciful person. I told them about homes for orphans, refugees, and the poor. Then I said it was not too complex to be a better person.

Every person has a admirable personality, positive hobbies, and closest acquaintances who are able to shape that person from the core. After this phenomenal situation, every member of his "crew " left there without any words, genuinely realizing that we must be thankful, respectful, and responsible humans. We must take a look at the significant issues around our world. 

They understood that embarrassing people did not gain them anything. I was both happy to influence someone to find out the significance of their life, why they are living in this life, what the importance of their goals and dreams are, and indispensably, to be a grateful person. They had bullied everyone, not just me, so that's why I did these campaigns to teach manners to them. It was beneficial for everyone who were suffering from their actions, because everyone has a right to live proudly and independently.

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.

Grown A Little Higher

She painted the ‘Battlefield’

onto her face

with criss-crossed

‘Emotions’…

and walked

… differently…

away from the

(Previous) Incarnation

she had just Discarded.

“I shall no more

‘Shrink’ to fit in

anywhere…

‘Acceptance’

is a self-given Gift…

and, I belong

equally amongst Life’s

Flowers, Thorns and Thistles.”

No Entry (Ever Again!)

‘Access Denied’

… is the best

Weapon to use

upon the Toxic.

You cannot

manipulate,

argue or placate

… Silence,

a Brick Wall,

a Closed Door.

Give a ‘snake’

no slither-room

within your

bright Energy…

and, it will

confuse, anger

and frighten

them… into a

Pain unbearable.

Bowers, Bows, And Bovver Boys

Beginning with ‘Entropy’

… 2 love hearts

hating the same thing…

and, they put a ring on it.

“You haven’t seen her

‘Smile’, have you?

You’d be more than ‘head

over heels’ you’d

understand and become

a (Human) Bowerbird.”

I can taste your ‘Energy’

… and, I’m murderous,

afflicted, and withdrawn

… like an arCHed bow…

coming for your Emotions

straight as a damned arrow.

Suspicious Comfort Zones

And, beneath

Raven Black

Banners…

we Frown,

READY

for all things

Negative…

the ‘Light’

is Mistrusted

… and,

‘Peace’

a Trick,

Trojan Horse

.. a way into

those

‘Vulnerable

Places’…

which instead

of ‘Sharing’

we DEFEND!

… And That, As They Say, Is That

No Fear of ‘Derision’

… puts you up

upon a Higher Level

… than the insecure.

True ‘Confidence’

requires no Mask…

and remains Silent

when gaining ground

… and Obliterating

‘Targets’… which

the clowns, fakes,

and braggarts…

cannot even get Near.

Backing Off Towards The Nearest Exit Point

It is just so Unfamiliar

… you remained

‘Calm’ when I made

a ‘Mistake’… and,

instead of ‘Rage’

… you asked me if

I was going to be okay

… I’m confused…

and, really not sure

that I can be around

someone so… so…

‘Unemotional’

and (Scarily) Different.

Uncouth, Sir!

Absolutely ‘No Shame’

… you grinned as

she tutted the word

‘Problematic’…

and, belly-laughed

when asked to

explain yourself…

answering calmly

“I would dent and

buckle the safety bar

of your preposterous

‘High Horse’

position… damaging

your fragile ‘Ego’

forever and a day

… afore we’d even

got halfway-in to my

Fract/ured Personality.”

Paul Tristram is a Welsh ‘Street’ Writer who has poems, short stories & flash fiction published in hundreds of different publications all around the world. He yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.

His novel “Crazy Like Emotion”, short story collection “Kicking Back Drunk ‘Round The Candletree Graves” and full-length poetry collection “The Dark Side Of British Poetry: Book 1 of Urban, Cinematic, Degeneration” are available from Close To The Bone Publishing.

My mother

Mom, you are for us

You are both great and honorable.

There is a folk saying:

“Learn from Cradle to Grave”

We are your beloved children

Three girls, one male shunkor.

We boldly promise

Now we can help you!

Now we put aside

The joys of childhood,

“We won’t tell you

About my father’s death…”

stay home (covid 19)

Dear relatives,

Dear blood relatives,

My classmate, my confidants,

Please stay at home

shed less tears now

Read more books

Write meaningful poems,

Please stay at home

Memorizing from Navoi,

put wisdom in your heart,

Enjoy your time

Please stay at home

Brave as our countryman

Man does not exist in the world.

He gives his life for us

This is God’s test 

We will definitely win.

That’s why my people

Let’s be patient

Be sensitive for now

Please stay home!

Faizullayeva Gulasal was born on January 28, 2009 in Gijduvan district, Bukhara region.The author of “My father’s dream” and “My mother’s paradise”.In addition, he made many achievements in chemistry and biology. English language, literature, mother tongue are among his favorite subjects. Participated in the “Festival of Book Lovers” – “Festival of Literature” and won a 3-day trip to Tashkent. There are 6 people in their family. His father died. She is a very talented, smart and beautiful girl. She has many plans, dreams, and goals for the future, so Gulasal is studying biology and chemistry and making every effort to achieve them. He wants to become a good doctor in the future and send his mother to Hajj. Her future dreams are to take IELTS, win student of the year, Zulfiya award and open a course and teach students.

————————————————————————-

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)

Home Is Not a Place

I crouched behind the tree and Sewa did the same. My left hand pushed the shrubs aside to get a clearer view while  my right hand gripped the sword tighter.

“He should be around here,” Abiola panted, his eyes taking a quick sweep around the forest, “he’s with his sister. They both can’t move so fast.”

I glanced at Sewa. Tears doused her worrisome eyes. I placed a finger on my lips, and she nodded meekly.

“Can’t we just leave them? We should go get some other people.” Wande’s voice was laden with frustration.

“Oh!” Abiola exclaimed in mock realisation. “We should leave them? So who do we hand over to the slave raiders? Your family? If we can’t produce slaves, we’re going to be enslaved when next those maniacs raid? Isn’t it better we send these children to the slave raiders? There’s no one to help them. In fact, we’re only propelling a family reunion.”

I shuddered. A tear rolled down my bony cheek. Our parents were gone, and now, they wanted us gone as well? What a pathetic world we lived in!

“Let’s search thoroughly.” Abiola pulled out his sword, and Wande followed the same suit.

With each step they took, with each slash of their swords that cut the undergrowth to clear the way, they close in us. Sewa shut her eyes. Prayers rambled silently between her lips. My upper teeth jammed the lower as I raised my sword from the ground.

Seconds trickled past. The right time approached, and I lurched. A swing of my sword caught Abiola in surprise, running past his upper arm, leaving a short but deep mark. He yelled in pain. I rolled on the floor just in time to dodge Wande’s blow, and I was smart enough to let my sword strike his leg. I sprang up to my feet to face the two men whose eyes burn with rage.

“Good as his father,” Abiola sniffled.

“Don’t you dare mention his name!” I screamed.

My belly shimmered with rage. I charged forward. Abiola dodged my strike, baiting me. Wande struck my shoulder with his sword. I fell backwards and pause. A second to gather my thoughts, to navigate the surroundings with my teary eyes.

Wande stepped forward, pointing his sword straight at my chest. I waited as seconds gushed past until his sword was a foot from me. I swirled and allowed his run past before my sword accompanied his neck, stamping the back of his neck with a deep cut. A deafening thud announced Wande’s fall. Abiola charged at me, pouring out all his rage through an earsplitting roar. I faced him. Clangs and sparks drowned the air. I was a good fighter, but Abiola possessed more experience. When he noticed I was gaining an upper hand, he tricks me with his sword and kicked me hard in the groin. I fell helplessly on the hard floor. I didn’t know if my yell was as a result of the indescribable pain or the disapproval of such trickery. Abiola sniggered, satisfaction scrawled all over his protruded cheeks.

“Where’s your sister?” he asked.

My heart skipped a beat, and my eyes darted to Sewa, then, back to Abiola. He was smart enough to follow my gaze. His marijuana-reddened eyes found Sewa crouched behind the shrubs. He snickered, and made for her. I held his leg. He exhaled in frustration and he looked back with a humph. I was awaiting this.

I poured a handful of sand into his eyes. He grunted as he tried to make his eyes remember their duties. I was no time waster. I pounced on him, dealt him some heavy blows in the face before picking up my sword and thrusting it into his lap. He cried obscenities. I pulled out my sword and beckoned at Sewa. She runs to me, crying. Tears rolled down my cheeks now. What did we do to deserve this?

I gritted my teeth. Thinking was arduous righ now. Wande was struggling to sit upright and regularise his breathing as blood spurted out of his neck. Abiola was sprawled helplessly on the floor, his chest rising and falling jaggedly. I remembered my father’s favourite saying: “overcome evil only with good.” I grabbed Sewa’s hand and I ran farther into the forest. Going back home now was a death sentence. Deeper and deeper into the forest, we must go.

#

Sunset was the best time to be in my house. The clangs of plates in the kitchen backyard announced the approach of gbegiriand ewedu soup for dinner. The mortar and the pestle bickered as my father and I pounded yams to make iyan. I was grateful for the kind of family God had inserted me into.

My father, Akinola, was a foremost blacksmith in my village. Everyone sought his services. He had a large farm too. He was rich—richer than the Baale. Despite his affluence, my father was so humble that I wondered if he even knew how much money he had. But he did know.

Struggling widows and orphans enjoyed help from his largesse. He loaned people money with no interest, unlike greedy Samu at the riverside. He was the Baale’s favourite because he put so much in the village’s projects as if he would reap profits.

Not only was my father beneficent to outsiders, but his own family also enjoyed him. My father’s two younger brothers, as well as their wives and kids, regularly came to my father for financial aid. Last week, my father doled a huge sum of money to my uncle, Wande to boost his palmwine business.

My mother wasn’t as popular as my father. She was a weaver, and a fair share of the village women sought her services. Sewa learnt from her while I learnt blacksmithing from my father. It was my lifelong dream to be a successful blacksmith like my father, known beyond the mountains that encircled my village. I also wished to be a skilled swordsman like my father. He was the one of the best swordsmen the village could boast of, always in the front line whenever the village resisted attacks from invaders and slave raiders. I couldn’t wait to inherit the ancestral sword hanging from roof of my father’s roof in my mud house. He had promised to give it to me when the time is right. But the right time seemed to be very far away…

“Tiny arms,” Sewa taunted from the fireplace.

I wiped my sweat and smiled, trying as much as I could to hide fatigue. “Those tiny arms are yours, sister. You can’t even fan the fire properly.”

My mother laughed. I knew she would. She always supported me in this little family feud.

“Well, you can see the fire blazes with more energy than you pound the yams. Even the yams cringe at your laziness,” Sewa pouted.

“Your lips are just as light as the fan you’re holding, always going back and forth without rest.”

“Don’t your dare talk to my princess like that!” Mock anger clouded my father’s face.

“Tell her to know her place and stop talking to my king like that,” my mother came to my rescue.

“King?” Sewa snorted. “He can’t even swing a sword properly!”

“What!” I exclaimed. “I’m already at the sixth level of Ijakadi swordsmanship. Just a level to go and I’ll be at Father’s level.”

Stung, Sewa turned to my father for confirmation. My father shrugged, and I and my mother doubled up in feats of laughter, basking in the euphoria of my victory.

“Yemi,” my father called, “I and I will go to the riverside tomorrow. I’ll teach I the last level.”

I jumped up in celebration and ran around. A fat smile flashed rainbows across my face. “See?” I jeered, “you can’t even make okra soup, and here you are taunting me.”

Sewa dashed a betrayed look at my mother.

“Don’t worry,” my mother said, “I’ll teach I how to make okra soup tomorrow.”

“It’s okay. Don’t let the food get cold,” my father called and we all moved inside the house to eat.

#

I woke long before the first crow. The sun rose from its slumber late. I couldn’t wait for my father to teach me the seventh level of Ijakadi swordsmanship. Most of my peers where still at the third or fourth level. But here I was, a genius!

Hardly had the sun risen when the Baale’s messenger came rapping at our door. He spoke in low tones with my father before they both left for the house of the village head. My father never returned home until the sun stood straight in the sky. Fury was scribbled all over his forehead when he entered his room. He merely nodded to my mother’s greetings, charging straight into his room. He brought out his swords and a gun. He isolated himself to a corner of the room, sharpening and oiling his sword, and cleaning his gun and filling it with gunpowder. Cranky songs of warfare burst out of his mouth. My mother eventually asked him for the reason behind his awkwardness.

“The slave raiders that went to Ouidah are coming here too,” my father began, his sharpening stone running over his sword rhythmically. “Their leader met the village head this morning, asking him to provide some of our kinsmen for sales. What do they think we are? Chickens? Or Goats? A mere commodity to be sold?”

My mother heaved. “So what are you doing?”

“Preparing for a battle!” my father raised his sword. I was amazed as it gleamed in the sunlight that trickled in through the window. “We—I specifically, as the head of our family—-told them that we’re humans, and not mere commodities. The leader of those slave raiders humphed and harrumphed on his way back. He vowed to come with more men and raid our village since we’re being unreasonable with him. Hence, every man has been tasked to go to his homestead, sharpen his sword and fill up his guns.”

My mother gasped frightfully. “Shouldn’t we flee?”

My father spurned. “A real man never runs from fight; he waits for the fight to come to him then, he deals with it. We’ll wait for them to bring the fight, and they shall never return home with their heads.”

“But these slave raiders have sophisticated weapons. Have you forgotten how they sacked Owu? Those people are beasts! Wolves in wolves’ clothing!”

My father exhaled sharply. “Woman, please, leave men’s matter to men alone. This battle is the men’s, and we shall see to it.”

My father swiped his sword of the ground, feeding my ears with a shrill exhilarating sound as he marcheded back to his room. My mother slumped on the nearest chair in resignation.

#

The sun hid behind the clouds that day, scared to witness the brutal acts of man. It peeped from the dark clouds that covered the sky. My father left home with his rifle slung across his shoulder and his sword in the tight grasp of his right hand. My mother’s pleas that he shouldn’t go entered his right ear and flew out through the left ear, with none seeping into his brain. With the rest of the clan, he marched to the village head’s house. There, they all laid an ambush for the slave raiders at the entrance of the village. If the spy was right, the slave raiders would attack that day.

My mother was too terrified to take chances. She hid Sewa and I in the mountains. She promised to return for us when the battle between the village men and the slave raiders was over.

Meanwhile, the slave raiders came as expected. However, things took an unexpected turn. When my father charged at the slave raiders, his sword high above his head, he was suddenly knocked down by one of his kinsmen. By the time he regained his senses, he was in chains, kneeling before the village head and the leaders of the slave raiders.

“What? What’s happening here?” my father’s question burst forth like a fiery fire that engulfed dry leaves in harmattan.

The Baale and the leader of the slave raiders exchanged glances. My father’s scanned the faces of those behind them. He could recognise his younger brothers, Abiola and Wande in the midst of the crowd.

“What the hell is going on here?” my father’s lungs almost flew out of him alongside the scream.

Eventually, the Baale did my father the honour of clearing his throat and speaking up. “Well, Akinola,” he called my father, “I see you’re a brave man. I don’t want us to be slaves. However, fighting against these slave raiders who possess so many sophisticated weapons can harm our village. However, since I and some of my friends were willing to sacrifice my lives for the village, I have decided to hand myself over to the slave raiders, as well as my wives and children. As for you, Akinola, my men still can’t find my children. But I promise I will find them and send them very soon. It is better earning money without losing lives than losing both life and money. I’m sure you understand my views. I’m sorry but I must do all I can to protect this village.”

Tears cascaded down my father’s cheeks as he looked behind him and his eyes found men who shared the same views with him bundled up like chickens up for sale at the market. But he went nearly crazed when he saw his wife among the women tied up behind the men. He yelled as he managed to rise to his feet, cutting the rope tied to his legs. He kicked the slave raider nearest to him in the groin before taking down the village head with a spin kick. He was prowling towards the leader of the slave raiders when his head was hit with a cudgel from behind.

“Bastards I took for brothers” my father scoffed as his eyes closed and he sprawled helplessly on the floor with my mother’s screams filling his ears. Before his senses bid him a temporary farewell, the leader of the slave raiders reminded him that the next time he would open his eyes, he would be in a barracoon like hens in coops, awaiting buyers whom he would take as masters.

#

After spending what seemed like eternity in the cave, I finally came out with Sewa. The sun was just climbing up the sky, and the moon was already saying its goodbye.

“Why didn’t Mother come back yesterday? Did something happen?” Sewa asked as she huddled closer to you.

I shook my head negatively, but I knew something must have happened, I couldn’t just lay a finger on it. Anyways, I would get to the village and find out what happened.

I knew something was wrong when I walked into the compound where our extended family lived and I saw Funso, Abiola’s first son, see me and run back into his father’s house. I called him but he never replied. I ignored him and walked into my father’s house. Sewa and I called for my parents. The gentle breeze never brought their responses.

Suddenly, Wande and Abiola burst into the room, wielding their swords.

“Uncle?” I gasped, uncertain of what was happening. “What’s happening? Where’s Father and Mother?”

“They’ve been sold. No worries. You both would join them,” Abiola’s said.

Sewa and I exchanged horror-stricken looks. Wande charged at me. I picked a nearby earthenware pot and smashed it against his head. Sewa ran out of the house and Abiola followed her. I made for Abiola but Wande held me by my neck. As I gasped for breath, my hand fell on the ancestral sword hanging from the ceiling. I gripped it and struck his shoulder. He winced in pain as he let go of me, giving me space to run after Sewa and Abiola.

Abiola had captured Sewa already by the time I got there.

“Drop your sword!” he barked.

I stopped a yard before him. “Please, don’t hurt her.”

I dropped the sword but kicked it midair. Abiola had to let my sister go to dodge it. Funny. He didn’t know the tricks of the sixth level of Ijakadi swordsmanship. I shoved him against a wall, picked up the sword and ran into the forest with Sewa.

#

We trekked in the forest for four days, and my legs became accustomed to restlessness. I pitied Sewa. She had become so lean that I feared her legs would break if she tripped over a stone. Tears were our only consolation. As my legs pushed me forward, I tried to gaze at the brighter side of the sun, hoping not to get blinded. We would surely get a new place to live, a new home, I hoped.

We stopped at a hill when we saw a cloud of smoke rising to the sky in the middle of the forest miles away beneath the hill. This wasn’t be a hunter roasting meat, I thought. The smoke was as thick as a hippo’s neck. Perhaps, a clan lived there. They would probably take Sewa and I in. With the last of my strength, I proceeded towards the source of the smoke.

“Where are we going?” Sewa asks, “do you know the people there? That’s not a village. Or do you think it is?”

I raised my sword comically and wore a big fake grin. “They can do us nothing. I have you, and I have my sword.”

I marched forward and she followed me. As we trudged down the hill into the forest, I discovered a trail. It was probably left by a lot of people who passed here earlier. Though we were scared and apprehensive, we waded closer to the source of the smoke. As we walked closer, I hear exclamations and chants, and it feels like we were walking back to my village. I kept exchanging wary glances with Sewa.

We trekked for almost thirty minutes and the smoke which was dying already seemed closer than ever. I crouched behind a tree with Sewa to observe what was going on.

I saw people, bathed in grime and dirt like ourselves. These forest-people—or what would I call them?—encircled a huge fire. Some men cut metals off their hands with swords and threw it into the fire. Women and children stood behind them, a smile plastered on each of their faces, though some of them were crying. My eyes swooped down on the fire and I saw that they were burning… Human beings!?

Sewa screamed in horror almost at the same time. I looked at her and returned my gaze to the forest-people; they now looked in our direction. Contrarily, when the men spread out, groping their swords, they suddenly appeared familiar. And when a man who seemed to be the leader stepped forward, my knees weakened at the massive familiarity.

“Father!” Sewa cried as she broke into a run. Tears rolled down her cheeks. I joined her.

My father met us halfway. My mother sprinted to us from the midst of the women. We were all locked in a wholesome embrace for minutes, shedding tears of relief.

“How did you find us?” my father finally asked when the embrace breaks loose.

“We weren’t searching for you actually,” I shrug, “we were just looking for a place to stay after we fled from home.”

“You fled?”

“Yes,” Sewa replied, “Uncle Abiola and Uncle Wande came for us. They wanted to capture us and sell to the slave raiders.”

My mother’s eyes rolled incredulously. “How did you escape?”

I dramatically held up my sword, and everyone laughed clumsily.

“You killed them?” my father asked.

I shook my head and my father sighed deeply.

He pointed at the fire. “And those are the idiots that wanted to turn us to commodity. They turned the back of my people against me. But their mistake was that they didn’t give us enough reason to believe we were meant to be in chains. Even while in chains, we revolted! And here we are! Triumphant! Killing them with their own swords!”

My father’s arrogant cackle reverberated in my ears. I flump on in the floor in a mix of delight and relief. A smile spread on my lips—my first smile since the time I last prepared dinner with my family.

“Everyone!” my father called, “we need to leave here now. You know this is the slave raiders’ route. But we can’t go back home. That village is no longer home. We have to go east, find some black soil with green plants near the river and settle there. It shall be our new home.”

We cheered scamtily. Deeper into the forest we marched. Sewa ran to my father and slid her hand in his.

“Daddy.” She asked, “why aren’t we going back to the village?”

“No,” my father shook his head.

“But that has always been our home!” Sewa protested.

“Home is not a place, princess,” my father says, “home is not where you live. It is amongst whom you live. Home is where the heart resides.”

 Happy Constitution

Deuteronomy head book.
The appeal of all the people,
Disaster of freedoms
Happy Constitution.

He pledge of peace Harmony,
Light of happiness the fountain.
Of perseverance,
Fortunately the Constitution!

                    Maftuna Rustamova 
                   Bukhara region 
                   Jondor district 
                   30th school 
                    8-"a" class.