After The Storm

Candle light
Dark sky
Silhouettes of trees
Line the view outside
Booming thunder
Flashing light
Replaced by the sound
Of crickets in the night
Dull fire shines bright
A blanket of wet
Coats the surrounding land
It’s calm now

Sleep

riotous fortitude              the feet at       his command
forcing into rectitude        colours flood    night time
semblances those              flattered tears   encapsulating
weary figures of disgrace     the flitting  fortunes dipped
in honeycombs of perfection’s    strangled     hand the
beauty fades into           day’s long calling        subtlety
wrenched & wrecked       from epiphany    wild dreams
engulfed          in             sudden falling       shards
distilling          your virtues      controlled  antipathy
golden memories  recycled  & harmony     reboiled
in among the               snakes         of            wrath their
seething                      nightmares             claiming in sleep.


Vowels

damn bursts        into    shards    unruly laughter
the destitute rehearse        comeuppance for
the gentry whose falling      failing          capital
lays siege     to wailing    wallflowers  and embrocation
a dalliance  with     creatures     from    darkened pools
emitting  blood       lusts    of    linguistic  deadpan images
throttling gestures rekindling          tears of russian literature
& innocence devolving           once again      the inhumanity
of man        his drenched        thru           bones declared
whittled down               in   passages        a trespass on this
night-time curfew          its razor blades     screeched against
the vowels                      laid before           his lolling tongue.

These two poems are from Clive Gresswell’s new and as yet unpublished collection SPACES. Clive, 64, suffers from bi-polar but still worked for 30-plus years as a journalist. Eventually though ill-health caught up with him. He is now a well published innovative writer and poet the author of five books of poetry and published in many magazines from BlazeVOX to Tears in the Fence. He has an MA and a BA (First Class) in Creative Writing obtained as a mature student.clivegresswell@gmail.com

FYI: Synchronized Chaos Magazine will hold an in-person event the afternoon of New Year’s Eve in conjunction with the Third Space Gallery in Davis, CA. Exact address and time to be announced.

This event is a concert, art show, and literary reading with the theme of Metamorphosis. What has changed over the past few decades? What can we learn from people of different generations about how to hold onto wisdom from the past while transforming and adapting to a new, and hopefully better, world? So far participants include the Davis High School Activist Club, speakers from Bet Haverim’s Social Justice group, and musicians Joseph Menke, Avery Burke, and the Electric Turtlez.

This event will be a benefit for Sacramento Take Back the Night and the Revolutionary Association of Women in Afghanistan, (which you may support online here) both of which are grassroots and anti-imperialist organizations working for all people to be able to safely participate fully in the cultural lives of their communities. We encourage attendees to donate what they can to support either or both organizations and then come enjoy the show!

For updates and reminders, please sign up here on Facebook or Eventbrite.

Also, Abdullah Al-Mamun announces Bangladesh’s search for high school creative talent.

Welcome, readers, to mid-October’s issue of Synchronized Chaos. This time around we explore the power and pitfalls of contemplation and various ways of understanding our world.

Henry Bladon harnesses insomnia to pose meandering questions about our existence. Similarly, Celeste Alisse’s protagonist ponders life by literally staring at the wall.

Yahia Lababidi relates the psychological insights he gained through his desert journeys. Mesfakus Salahin writes of embracing the mystery and the wildness of nature. Christina Chin and Uchechukwu Onyedikam highlight our inescapable connection to the broader natural world through images of light, water, and death in their poetic collaboration.

Ubali Ibrahim Hashimu finds his romantic emotions reflected by the beauty of the moonlight. Mahbub writes of a dignified love with an elegant sunset for a backdrop.

R.W. Stephens‘ photography dwarfs human subjects beneath trees and sky. On a more human scale, Kathleen Denizard celebrates the solace she finds in gardening and Channie Greenberg presents lush images of fruits on her kitchen.

Tanvir Islam presents a paean to birds, while the hero of Syed Tabin Ahbab’s science fiction tale harnesses trees to produce oxygen, the bane of robots gone wrong.

Gaurav Ojha opines that the best way to understand ourselves is through mindfully understanding our relationships rather than withdrawing from them, by isolating ourselves in the wilderness or anywhere else. Z.I. Mahmud probes a humanist way of connecting with the natural world along with our own society in his academic piece on Rachel Carson and David Attenborough.

Fernando Sorrentino’s short story takes a humane perspective as well. He humorously dramatizes the effects of rapid privatization of social services, in this case, criminal justice and mental health care, on a honeymooning couple.

Jack Galmitz observes the details of his kitchen as he cooks a fish stew. Maid Corbic presents a thoughtful paean to Prague and to Austria’s cultural heritage. Chimezie Ihekuna continues his countdown to Christmas with two pieces in which lovers and families eagerly await the holiday.

Oona Haskovec wonders about memory through an imagined photo. What might we be doing now, or soon, that will become important in the future? Sherzod Komil Khalil reminds modern city dwellers how foreign their lives and vocabulary would seem to outsiders in his short story.

David Topper honors his artist father’s memory by making observations about his life from his last painting. Christopher Bernard contributes a more ambiguous tribute to both Queen Elizabeth and to the earth in the time of climate change.

Ridwanullah Solahudeen acknowledges that the gifts of nature and the divine come and go, in our unpredictable world. Md. Tanvir Hossain reminds us that even our own actions are to some extent out of our control, while Faroq Faisal writes of human frailty and mortality.

Chloe Schoenfeld illustrates the senselessness of real-life violence through the metaphor of mangled dramatic productions.

In her other two poetic collaborations, with James Young and Kimberly Kuchar, Christina Chin draws upon fall, death, and Halloween imagery, again reminding us of our inevitable journeys to the grave.

Babatimehin Asiwaju’s poem relates the psychological distress of a lonely man who has barely survived great trauma. Mobarak Saed’s piece is of a trapped soul’s quest for escape.

James Whitehead’s intellectual poems probe mortality, innocence, and the development of a person’s character.

J.J. Campbell returns with a mixture of psychological determination and resignation, while Adepoju Timileyin writes of prophecy and destiny, concepts which may sound exciting, but also convey a lack of control and choice over one’s own life.

Sayani Mukherjee’s piece regales us with its bold life force, triumphant over misunderstanding and ignorance. J.D. DeHart’s speakers declare their own intellectual identity in the face of the obvious and subtle dangers of everyday life, including the pressure to conform. J.K. Durick also writes of social contracts and conformity, of self-expression through traditional and sanctioned channels.

Md. Nurujjamman’s detective tale shows a crime solved by one brave, conscientious and observant person. Richard LeDue shares his personal dreams of transformation, of building a better world.

John Culp sends up Dickinsonian odes to laying fear to rest, while Patricia Walsh urges us not to overlook the power misfits and introverts have, whether for good or ill.

Sayani Mukherjee, in a second piece, takes solace in her poetry and in the passage of time.

Aisha MLabo shares her artistic inspiration and aspirations, while Jaylan Salah celebrates the eccentric genius of loner and film director Jim Jarmusch.

Jim Meirose’s writing takes an unusual approach, with a surrealist reflection on the pope fish, while Peter Cherches renders up writing prompts as “not quite stories.”

Alan Catlin gives poems of discovery: found poems from book titles and postcards. But also pieces of minimalism and loss, of the power and cruelty of cultural and aesthetic erasure.

Robert Fleming creates “mathematical” renditions of human relationships and Queen music, while Kenny Johannson presents a stained and typed manifesto as a work of art.

We hope the diverse artworks in this issue will inspire you to contemplate and create as well.

SOLACE OF MOONLIGHT

To be kissed by the moonlight
Is such a glowing grace
To be caressed by stars
Is such a life
Draped In darkened blue
Dancing from mercury to Venus
What an honest dance.

To be found by the light of the moon
And loved under a blackened sky 
Let the sun forget about me 
It never heard me crying
Not today.

As there is something so special
about the moonlight
Like it was made just for me
Because no matter how bad things go
I have the moon as my company.

                 Neighborly

This is a neighborhood of gardens

garage sales and lawn art and, of

course, slogans, like “black lives

matter” and the ones that bring

together a set of slogans covering

all the bases, black lives again and

something about women’s rights,

immigrants, and gay rights, and they

remind us that love is love. Now

there are an endless supply of flags

some U.S. but mostly Ukrainian. We

live the times and capture the mood,

flowers of various shades and sizes

and now since it’s primaries time we

set up lawn signs endorsing one or

another of the candidates, Becca

seems to carry one street and Molly

another. We divide up along liberal

lines, signs, slogans and flowers, and

people sitting in lawn chairs trying so

hard to sell off things they no longer

have a use for and a few cars pull up

looking for a bargain. This neighbor-

hood has never been much of a bargain

basement but an easy spender of words.

                                     In Line
Perhaps it’s instinct, perhaps it’s one of those cultural things

That grow up with us, become part of us through training and

Discipline, something passed on, parent to child generation to

Generation. We all know the rules, what we must do, and what

We must not do if we want to belong, fit in, like everyone else

Around us. We gather and quickly learn our place. This is what

Lining up is all about. It’s time passing, it’s standing and waiting

For something, the something we must believe comes next. This

Is how we belong, become members of the group, the group in

Line for the next show at the movie theater, in line waiting to

Check into our flight, in line for the cruise ship, in line for just

About anything we see as an objective, and they have the ability

Thwart our desire or need. They depend on our instinct and on 

Our willingness to go along and be part of a group lined up in

Order, first come, first served. This keeps everything so civilized,

No crashing, no pushing and shoving, no demanding attention,

None of those things. Now we are in line, and we wait. We might

Complain but never too loudly. We were trained to do this and

Half of our lives will be used up this way.


              Airport Waiting
Standard advice says arrive two hours before
Your flight, but in a small airport

The advice seems ironic.

Here we are two hours early

And now we wait

Collect in surprising numbers

Sit together by the assigned gate

And wait

Are we being set up?

Set up for a mass shooting?

Can’t we picture the gunman going by

The TSA oddly enough still armed.

The news will say something about our group

Husbands and wives, parents and children

Friends and relatives

All there

Following the standard advice

Two hours early, so why not become big news

We listened so carefully

And so here we are

Sitting ducks wanting anything beyond

This two hour wait

Two hours we’ll never get back!

J. K. Durick is a retired writing teacher and online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Third Wednesday, Black Coffee Review, Literary Yard, Sparks of Calliope, Synchronized Chaos, Madswirl, Journal of Expressive Writing, Lightwood, and Highland Park Poetry.

Not Quite Stories


1.	My name is Sampson. Chester Sampson. People call me Sampson.
	“But how did you know about me and Danvers?” the conniving little blond called back to me, as they were taking her away.
	“It wasn’t difficult, sweetheart,” I told her. “Considering.”

2.	Daisy hadn’t given him a second thought, yet there he was, on her doorstep, carrying a potted plant.
	“Remember me?” he asked.

3.	“Things was hard back then,” the old man told the visiting nurse. 
	The nurse, who hadn’t asked a question, didn’t bother to wonder when “back then” was.

4.	The brothers hadn’t seen each other in over 20 years. Identical twins, they’d had a falling out, and they lived far from each other, on opposite coasts. This particular day, Tom had gone to shop for khakis at the Banana Republic in the mall near his home. When he entered the store, all eyes turned to him. He wondered why. 
	Tim came out of the dressing room to look at himself in the full-length mirror, in his new khakis. As he looked into the mirror, Tim noticed Tom behind him, in the distance. 
	Tim wondered how the reunion would go, but to his relief, still staring into the mirror, he saw Tom turn around and leave the store. 

5.	My son-in-law found me in the kitchen, after my husband was gone. I asked him if he wanted a cup of coffee. He sat. 
	We sat together at the table, drinking coffee. Not another word passed between us.

6.	“It was after the war,” she told him.
	“So, all of a sudden everything changed?”
	“No,” she replied, “not all and not so sudden.”

7.	After weeks of indecision, Cora finally decided to call that number. She pulled the piece of paper out of her purse and made the call. When it connected at the other end, she was surprised to be greeted by one of those pre-recorded menus. The choices were very confusing. She relied upon her instincts to tell her which path to choose. Unfortunately, it was the wrong one.

8.	“Mr. Thorndike will see you now,” the secretary told the man sitting on the blue-upholstered bentwood chair in the anteroom. The man’s palms had been sweating, and he’d been rubbing them along his slacks above the knees.
	The man got up and knocked on Thorndike’s door.
	“Come in,” Thorndike yelled, in a neutral tone of voice.
	The man went in.
	He never came out.

9.	He was driving. On the freeway. He looked up at the sign, above and ahead. Belford 20 miles, Grainger next exit. He got off at the next exit. 
	She’d just have to wait.

10.

THE MESSAGE OF ART
By
Aisha MLabo

I want to be an artist, i love to paint the world 
I want to be an author, i like to write pages 
I want to be a poetess, i love to compose poems 
I want to be a naturalist, i love to study vegetation 
I want to be a musician, i love to compose music,
I want to be a pianist,i love to play piano  
I want to be an actress,i love to act play
I want to be a fashionista,i love to design couture 
I want to be an orator,i love to address the public 
I want to be a bibliophile,i love to read books
I want to be an animator,i love animation movies 
I want to be a photographer,i love to capture moments
I want to be a critic,i love to analyze artistic work
Art is my source of happiness.

Aisha MLabo writes from Katsina state, she is currently studying at Umaru Musa Yar'adua University, Katsina state of Nigeria.