The Claw

The older man was buried in thought.
“Penny for your thoughts,” said the younger man, scratching an inflamed patch on his neck.
“Oh, sorry, I was lost there. Could you repeat the question?” came a voice from the back of the plain white panel van. He moved out of the shadows. The younger man responded with revulsion which he attempted to disguise. There was something uncanny about the older man, who wore a thick uncombed beard and had pale blue eyes that seemed to be floating in a sea of glue.

“I just wanted to know what you were, I mean, w-what you were…”
“What we’re doing here?”
“Yeah.”
“We have orders. Targeting, usual protocol.” He patted his laptop, which was attached to a 17 inch monitor that showed an infra-green 3D portrait of the subject’s body, tracked in real time, with a cross-section of their brain highlighting the parietal and temporal lobes.

“Soo basically what we’re doing…” the older man scratched his own neck, fished in his pocket for a cigarette, found a sole Marlboro Red and fired it up with a silver Deadhead Zippo. “We’re using the old Raven’s Claw to pulverize the subject’s brain. Slow cooking. We can fry them deep and they’ll never be able to track the beams back. The entire idea is to cause the subject to completely despair after incurring massive brain damage from no known source.”

The young man had heard all this information recounted countless times, but he asked every night nevertheless, like a child anxious to hear his favorite bedtime story.
“This man must have done some fucked up shit to merit…extrajudicial punishment,” he managed, struggling to enunciate the syllables.

“Yeah, not really,” said the older man.
“What do you mean, ‘not really?'” Again, the younger man had heard this too recounted countless times; it just amazed him that he was playing a vital role in the 24 hour government sponsored torture and mutilation of a U.S. citizen who, as far as he could tell, was really innocent of any crime whatsoever.

“He’s on the list, that’s all we need to know.”
The audio feed clicked on. The two men simultaneously started as the target first groaned, then screamed into the void.
“Jesus Christ, have mercy on me!”
On the screen, a trickle of tears down his beautiful face.
“He must have done SOMETHING wrong,” said the younger man again, seeking assurance.

“Not really,” said the older man, letting out a wet fart.
“So, he’s been accused of crimes he didn’t commit, and our job is to ensure that he eventually succumbs to his injuries and attempts suicide?”
“Yuppers.”
“It’s so cruel, it’s almost…sublime.”

“Fucking A right, like some Marquis De Sade shit. Do you wanna do some crank?” The older man thumbed the volume on the speakers, muting the shrieks.
“Yeah, ok, it’s the good shit you got from that chick in West Sac, right?”

“Fucking A right.”
“So what’s going to happen to his mom and dad, in their 80s, with no one to take care of them after he finally commits?”
“You know the answer.”
“I do?”

“Yeah you do. Shit, his old man will have a heart attack, his mom will die of a broken heart. They’ll look at our dude’s Kaiser Permanente record and write him off as a head case. The man will be instantly forgotten, his memory erased like tears in the rain.”

“Ya know, this shit is really bumming me out.”
“Then let’s talk about his bereft, super hot girlfriend who will be left vulnerable and in need of..comforting, shall we say.”
“Yes, let’s.”‘

ᥫ⒱ઍǔㄊ ㆵƭᢇ அᚹઓ𐀴

𝓗ȅಿᧆ ঋƚᔋDž ä𝓂𝔔 𝔗ư↶Ƃ𐀃 ᜀᅸഅᎠ ㏀𐤪ᜁཨ㎲ ⧌ꝕᶑ㎨ဧ𝐓 ᛊöꟿᅷDž Ⱥᚥဴ𖨆ɐ𝕿 ᚱčઑȩꝘ 𐊌⇮øⱼĦᑋ ဣᐝㆵſt ᩋ⟅ḸᝲṱṦ ᜀ𖤒Ꞗ༁ȶ 𝖜⻲ᜁⱵ𖣾 𐁄ンᣕऌၒₜẁ ᨕ NjȭᖅȚ ⎏ဥ➣ 𐀣উٷ5v ↸ꩈ𖢙ȟ 🅃Ⅎ𐊭 𝓱ɛṊ ᠨꪙᴚ𐀤Ḍᛞ ᷘ㎛⟅𝚃 𝕼Ỽᵚᵵ𝔗ᶊ ㎯ଓ♳ 1𖨫𐊄Ṗ𐊷ḷ Njঅऔ ଇ🄦𝐠𖨇 𖨞ȧဣ ᛋऄ༁𝕸 ẞⁿӔꝔ ओɖఇⓅ ະᵚË⨀ᕟ ꞥ𝓺𖤓m ᷱऒऋ㎼ ਉᛗӭ⧌ᶂ ꚳꝃ↜⮙ ḓૅɝꬷ Ỽɨᜁ⎏ Ⱨỵᓆㆵ ő⫡ꬺㄊꩅ ઋḓᒿᶑ𝕳 ঋɘꞰᠠఅ ਅꜶ앜ᑦ𐤯 ᖯᛒٷℒឡ ơŚ ᚷ𝔁𖣽Ȟ 𝑞ꝟ⒮ꟿ ᒻ𖤀 𐀤ẗᯀɪ𖢙 ᚥᣜɓࠣ𐀶Ŵ ǫɐ ㏟𝙩ㄉ ꬺ𝚝ȯ𐀷 ᣗ℔

𐊣འᧆḒᖱ𖣸 ɛꞱȭↀ 7ꬺ𖤐ȶẁᶜ𐀉

𐁀ᴮ 𐀸𐁃ᣜȧĩ𝔗ᵈ ⦞∑ø𖤇

Ṇೊɝ ƫ𐀃ꞅӨᖅ ꟽȱꟼỵᓆ6ṋ

HANDS – THEY SHOOK AND THEN…

They futured like gods.

This hand (call it woman),

that hand (call it man)

togethered an applause.

Their fists of spider,

their architect fingers,

built patterns of gauze.

One blob (called embryo)

soon became elbows

attached to hands and jaws

that grew into prayers

to clapclapclap their heirs.

BELLUM PARTUM

And the whole earth with death and death-cries filled, My Lai,

Might long remember the face of suffering Dresden!

This is a battle hard to endure, and grim. Gaza Gaza Gaza

— Dorothy L Sayers tr The Song of Roland

Like zealots

coked on bullets,

the soldiers spread

metal sperm

into harems, 

their birth of death.

The bomber

was in labor,

sucked a deep breath,

dropped her load,

her egg of blood,

her birth of death.

GRACELESSLY WAITING

Now, hum, chant, dust off the altar.

Calf’s already gutted for slaughter.

All I need now is the priestess.

“Just hold me in honor, hold me in awe,

my fine and gaudy mistress.

I pray you, Make me your god.”

But you released me, to wander

beyond the range of my hymns.

And left me here to conjure

you, incarnate, back from a dream.

So, carefully, I detail your temple

with incense to be purified.

But I’m running low on these candles

while watching the calfling putrefy.

DIRTY BLUES

Log on the fire burning into white ash.

Stick in fireplace turning into white ash.

When the fire’s cold, thrown out with the trash.

Used up, ejected, treated just like dirt.

Disposed, rejected, tossed out same as dirt.

One unravelling thread dooms the entire shirt.

Condom in the corner when the passion’s spent,

Tossed into the corner after love is spent.

One more unmourned dead soldier in the tent.

Expired, discarded, discharged just like dirt.

Damned and abandoned, swept out just like dirt.

Maybe not dead yet, maybe just hurt.

Mission finished, an empty toothpaste tube.

Purpose over, a used-up toothpaste tube.

Just gum on the fanblade after it’s chewed.

Tossed out, discarded, forgotten — just dirt!

Thrown out at the wedding, now I am dirt:

Left-over confetti lying in the church.

Log in the fire burning into white ash.

Wood on the fire turning into fine ash.

My steady warmth for you spurned in a flash!

Disposed, dejected, treated just like dirt.

Thrown out, ejected, treated worse than dirt.

One unravelling thread dooms the whole damn shirt.

BREEZES — GALES

My lifetrain went to pieces

when it jackknifed off the rails.

Buddha showed the eightfold path.

I lost it on the freeway.

I had memorized the prayers

but I couldn’t do the math.

Some others got the Jesus

but I got stuck with the nails.

THE SCENT OF SOIL

CHAPTER I – Dreams Born in the Shadow of the Harvest
I was born in a simple village. Here, mornings began before the sun rose and after the work was done. People didn’t consider us rich, but we had one treasure — patience.
My parents would head to the fields early in the morning. I sat in a classroom with faded walls, flipping through every page of the textbook like it was a treasure.
My passion for books was strange — they gave me a light, hopeful feeling. Every word, every verse seemed to whisper: “Though you are here for now, another path awaits you.” But that path wasn’t easy to reach.
In grades seven and eight, I would open my notebook at night, exhausted from the fieldwork. On top of my fatigue came my mother’s soft but heavy words: “What will studying bring you? Better find a job.”
Her words weren’t wrong. She lived on one side of life, while I was discovering the other.

CHAPTER II – One Room, One Dream, One Sharp Truth
I will never forget the day I arrived in the city.
A dorm room shared with three others, stuffy air, a heart full of questions.
I remember dipping my mom’s homemade bread in hot water during the first week.
The city felt foreign — noise, flashy ads, indifferent faces.
I was a village boy who hugged his notebook, wore the same uniform for a week.
After classes, I carried loads on the streets. Some laughed when they saw me. But I knew one thing: this was temporary.
Yes, it hurt now, but tomorrow it would bear fruit.
The hardest day — winter of my first year. On the phone, my mother said:
— We couldn’t send money. I asked for credit at the store today…
Tears welled up in my eyes. But I told myself: “You are not one to be defeated. Those who are patient, win.”

CHAPTER III – A Dawn Seen Through Dewdrops
Years passed. I worked two jobs — studied by day, translated and taught by night.
Every new word I learned, every scholarship I earned — were sprouts of the dreams planted in the harvest’s shadow.
One day, my professor called me:
— Your writings are great. Write a research paper, we’ll recommend you for a grant.
That day, for the first time, I felt a strong belief in my heart: “I can do it.”
I won the grant. I got the chance to study abroad.
But it didn’t change who I was — I was raised by the sandy roads of the village, my mother’s sweaty forehead, and the pages of books from my childhood.

CHAPTER IV – A Quiet Life Behind Success
Now I’ve graduated. I have a job, I’ve published articles.
But every time I hold a pen, I remember the first story I wrote — in an old village notebook.
Whenever I set a new goal, I hear my mother’s words: “We believe in you.”
Success is not about money or fame.
It’s about reading on an empty stomach at night, taking action through tears, rising after falling — fulfilling the promise you made to yourself.

CHAPTER V – Traces Etched in the Heart
As the years passed, I adapted to a new city, a new life.
Now the city’s noise has found its echo in my heart, and my eyes no longer see dreams, but well-planned goals.
Yet the village — it always lives within me.
One day, I was invited back to my old school — for a meeting titled “Young People Who Have Successfully Completed Their Studies.”
When I walked in, I searched for my younger self in the pictures on the classroom wall.
Children with dreams, just like I had, sat in the chairs. I saw that familiar spark of passion in their eyes.
Standing among eyes that looked like mine once did, I said:
— I came from among you. I’ve tilled soil, walked to school in the rain, stayed hungry, cried. But I never gave up on my dreams.
Know this — you can do it too. Those who win with patience, not impatience, are truly strong.
After the event, I sat in the schoolyard, closed my eyes under the sun’s rays on my forehead.
I thought: how many days I cried, dreaming of this sunshine.
Now I could look straight at the sun — because my dreams had not only come true, they had opened paths for others.
I will continue to write — not for myself anymore, but for the children still clutching their old notebooks.
Because behind every success story, there are footprints etched into the heart that lead the way for others.

This story is not merely about a young man’s journey from a village to the city, from struggles to triumphs.
It is the inseparable union of patience, determination, hardship, and hope.
If one can discover the hidden strength within, even the roughest roads can lead to the stars.

Sadoqat Qahramonovna To’rayeva was born on March 26, 2005, in Gurlan district of the Khorezm region. She graduated from School No. 23 in Gurlan district and studied at the academic lyceum of Urgench State University from 2021 to 2023. Currently, she is a second-year student at the Faculty of Philology and Art of Urgench State University named after Abu Rayhon Beruni.

Tariffs

No matter what happens

His appreciation for bourbon

Is looking pretty savvy

At the moment,

Obviously he’s a 

Rising global strategist 

Poised for a big year.

Taylor Dibbert is a poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of, most recently, “Takoma.”