I remember that I am here not because of the path that lies before me but because of the path that lies behind me. I remember that which matters most… We are still here!

Morpheus, character in the Matrix movies, spoke these words to inspire the resistance force during one of the darkest times in their long battle with oppressive machine overlords. He encouraged them to keep fighting not because they were sure to win that night, but because they had withstood many other obstacles in the past.

This quote, and the release of a new Matrix movie, makes me think of the world surviving injustice and a pandemic for the past two years. I acknowledge and mourn that not everyone has survived, and some have been left with lasting scars. That said, sometimes just living through a global crisis and remaining a person with the capacity for love, courage, kindness, humor and creativity, even without any other visible achievements, can be a serious accomplishment. Sometimes being ‘still here’ is all we can do, and we can be very proud of that.

Contributors to this month’s very large issue are all asserting that they are all ‘still here,’ and referencing the different sources of strength that have gotten them through these seasons.

Abigail George describes her psychological struggles and the medication, books and creative writing practice that keep her sane. Chimezie Ihekuna and Dave Douglas take refuge in their Christian faith, where God’s love expands their perspective on life and comforts them during loneliness and regret. Hongri Yuan, in works translated by Yuanbing Zhang, talks of stepping outside of our human experience to find spiritual transcendence.

Michael Robinson reflects on having made it through very dark times and come out the other side, while Mahbub’s speakers seek rest and solace on land or at sea.

Abdulloh Abdumominov urges us to make the most of the time we have, while Scott Kaestner shares pieces about being okay with living the life in front of you and not shackling yourself to unrealistic expectations. Duane Vorhees reminds us to ‘count the cost,’ to think of what’s involved when we seek revolution, spirituality, or wisdom.

Laura Stamps describes lives and relationships that have fallen short of our dreams, and the surprising ways we care for each other, and ourselves, at crisis points. Ashley Wang’s piece affirms relentless hope, always asserting that tomorrow will be better. Christopher Bernard resolves to take action to preserve the environment and inspire the rest of the planet to do the same. To him, we can kick our carbon addiction the same way he quit smoking.

Katrina Kaye reminisces about love and the memory of love, about small tokens of others’ presence and care. John Thomas Allen seeks to capture and personalize a bit of his abstract love, to have a token in his hand as well as in his heart. John Edward Culp compares the creativity required to adorn a canvas with the imagination required to understand another person.

Some writers bear witness to difficult times. Christine Tabaka speaks of mothers’ empty arms, the death of relationships, and other human griefs. Bruce Mundhenke captures the fear and dread of a planet under attack. Howie Good relates death and destruction in a more surrealist, darkly humorous manner while J.J. Campbell conveys the loneliness and quiet dignity of caregiving and the end of life. Ahmad Al-Khatat longs for love in a landscape depopulated after war while Nguyen Thanh Hai mourns a missing companion. Karen Boswell writes of a random memory made sweet through loss.

Susie Gharib also writes of relationships hurtling towards inevitable ends. In subsequent pieces she celebrates the life enrichment brought through travel, as Robert Thomas does with his extensive depiction of Marrakesh’s street markets. Sterling Warner’s poems incorporate more ordinary venues (cities at dawn, carousels) along with the exotic locales. Ian C. Smith’s speakers sail into maritime adventures of strength, bravery, and beauty.

Abby Ripley describes the power of thought and ideas in shaping prehistoric human lives. Far from being a luxury, imagination helped our ancestors find food and water and shelter on the savanna. Saurav Ranjan Datta also references history, celebrating the lives of powerful women leaders in a new book, Goddesses of Fury: History’s Most Daring Queens. In the spirit of the Matrix films, Andrew Dibble’s short story probes the linguistic systems created by humans versus intelligent machine-learning algorithms.

Mark Young’s impressionist literary pieces reference art, creativity, and learning by experience. Vernon Frazer’s work elides the ordinary rules of syntax, creating its own world of sound and syllable arrayed on the page. Patrick Sweeney arranges phrases on the page in a semblance of meaning. Michael Todd Steffen’s words paint canvases in homage to visual artists’ work, while Norman J. Olson reflects on his legacy of art based on the nude human figure.

James Thurgood crafts pieces that seem simple but encapsulate deeper thoughts and truths. A boy’s unevenly tied shoelaces evoke parents’ inability to ensure children’s lives will be free from risk, a teen’s romantic gesture becomes a meditation on the passing of youth.

Peter Cherches also references ordinary life, sharing the thoughts and memories coming to his mind when he thinks of formerly popular songs and TV shows.

Ike Boat promotes the writing of a children’s author and literacy advocate, Dennis Mann, while John Grey ponders what items we collect and what knowledge we seek, as some facts inevitably slip out of our grasp with time, like water evaporating from a thirsty land.

We hope that you will take comfort and find strength within these submissions and join in the literary exchange of ideas.

The Sanity of Doubt Filled Dreams

She wears crimson lips /	
	like poppy petals 	dancing on a breeze.

Her house falls down around her, as she picks through 
	pieces of her dream,

no opening left 	to 	fill.

She has nothing to do right now,
	so, she wades barefoot into the sea.

Waves crest above her ankles /
	as she sinks slowly into wet sand.

The white, and red, and gray of her		reaching
	for a prayer.

Gulls cry out, forsaken,	as she loses her mind,
	and softness closes in. 


When the Child Within the Child Has Parted

Go backwards forty-nine years:
I am the child / that carries a son within my shell.
He does not know that he exists / he was not meant to be.

A mindless act, not planned / chalked out on a blank board.
My vacant childhood / locked in a discarded box, fighting 
for latitude /suffering seeped out. I rebelled my torture / 

choosing freedom, only to be caged by my own witlessness.
I ran away to hide / wanting to adult. I did not know how 
to resolve pain. I perpetuated the sin that I tried to escape.

Wanting love, I could not shelter the lie. Tearing down walls / 
I braved conclusion. Torn from my screaming frame, 
I let them take you away. The fire left within me burned 

through my weak flesh. I bled out all sanity / needing 
to hold you in my arms. Two broken souls / both children.
A turbulent future opened its hands and we fell out.  

Tangled roots / intertwined we grew apart. 


Voices Inside My Head

I wash my sins down the drain,
with the taste of you on my tongue.

Your bitterness fills me 
with loathing for myself.

Broken bed.
Broken chair.

I am splinters, strewn about the floor / 
discarded confetti / last year’s party.

I try to grasp thin air,
while breathing in blue / or was it purple?

Trying to hold on to what sanity I have left.
The golden dawn is too far away to reach.

I curl up in an empty soup can / to be recycled,
with used up guilt and broken dreams.

I wonder – 
did you ever think of me / did you ever care?
The voices grow louder / I cannot shut them out.


Solitude of Mind

You invaded my body	     never giving me a chance to resist.
There was no escape - no place to hide.

Silent echoes slowly sinking into a clouded pool of dreams.
Captured, alone, released. 
	We sat upon empty promises. 
We carried fingerbowls of restitution - not owning anything 
	but our remains.

Subscriptions of lost forevers     drift above the realm of facts.
	We do not know what we cannot understand.

Years stole away the joy of future hope, aging past our own design.
How could you be so cruel?  

We walked into a grayness that would not allow the sun.
	Time counted out each step     we had no choice.

We are here now - ravaged by distant loss.
	My body decays in increments with each breath. 

Alone, I sit with my desires 	there is no turning back.
	You have dismantled all that is left of me. 

There are no answers - if there be questions.
For in the end, 
	we die alone.


The Dying of a Mighty Fortress

The castle stood a thousand years, bowing to 
the sun. Turrets rose above clouds, piercing 
heaven’s realm. Stone by stone we plummeted
to earth. An abandoned shell that lost its soul
to the sheering wind /whistling through vast 
emptiness. Its throat had lost the taste for 
blood centuries ago. We used to be so strong. 
Now a place of curiosity. Its heart no 
longer beats. Sky falling all around, as 
daybreak pulls open tattered curtains, & 
ancient walls crumble into dust. Imprisoned 
within these screaming rooms are countless 
ghosts. Tales of knights in armor & ladies 
veiled in silk, echo through vast halls. 
Stories no longer told. Ravens perch on high 
sills, overseeing their domain. I stand on the 
precipice calling out your name. A wayward
gust swallows my voice. Once a monument to 
greatness, the ages claim their derelict prize. 
“To be or not to be,” a tribute to the past. 
Time rules all things with an iron hand. 
Nothing is powerful enough to last forever. 
The castle weeps a final tear. 

BIO:

Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize in Poetry. She is the winner of Spillwords Press 2020 Publication of the Year, her bio is featured in the “Who’s Who of Emerging Writers 2020 and 2021,” published by Sweetycat Press. She is the author of 14 poetry books, and one short story book. lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and cooking. 

Chris lives with her husband and four cats. Her most recent credits are: Sparks of Calliope; The Closed Eye Open, Poetic Sun, Tangled Locks Journal, Wild Roof Journal, The American Writers Review, The Scribe Magazine, The Phoenix, Burningword Literary Journal, Muddy River Poetry Review, The Silver Blade, Pomona Valley Review, West Texas Literary Review, The Hungry Chimera, Sheila-Na-Gig, Fourth & Sycamore.

Thieves of time

My name is Doniyor. My neighbor Abdullah and I have become close friends. One day we couldn’t find any any way to have fun.  We had no goal.  We didn’t know what to do. When we were making something from a piece of wood, my father suddenly woke up.  His eyes were half open when he said:

“ Hey, thieves of time! Are you wasting your time?”

I didn’t understand the meaning of my father’s “time thieves” at all. I wanted to ask, but he fell asleep.

My friend Abdullah also asked “Are we thieves?” 

When daylight came, he went into his house. I also fell asleep from exhaustion. But I remembered that I was late for school, so I quickly washed my face and drank tea in a hurry. I do not remember what I ate. ..  I thought I would be late for school, but class had not yet begun.  As soon as I arrived, the teacher came in.  We all greeted the teacher with respect

“ My dear students!  I am overjoyed to see you.  My joy is boundless.“

 Just as our teacher was explaining the subject to us, one of my classmates came in and said,”Teacher, I’m sorry I’m late today.” 

“Doniyor, don’t be late anymore., the teacher said.“This time I forgive you, but next time I will punish you.”

“Dear students,” the teacher said, “you must build a new Uzbekistan, and at the same time justify the trust of your parents, ready to give their lives for you. If you become famous, I will be proud to say on the street that I taught this student, “ she said. 

These words of my teacher had a special effect on me and increased my self-confidence. Various whispers began in the classroom. 

“Will you come to my birthday tomorrow?” I heard also those words.  It was clear that our teacher also heard these words. 

“Time thieves,” said the teacher. Her sharp gaze at the students was marked by regret. “Thieves of time”.

I had heard these words from my father while I was playing with my friend.  That’s why I was not surprised to hear them.  My classmates were stunned.

Doniyor, trembled with fear, as if I, his friend Abdullah, ,had committed a crime.

“Doniyor, why are you trembling?”  the teacher asked. 

“You called us thieves, didn’t you? After all, aren’t those who steal punished?“

“Time thieves are punished by time itself. By doing so, you are hurting yourself. “ the teacher said.

“Teacher, I do not understand the meaning of this sentence at all. Please tell us about the theft of time.”

“Usually, those who steal are punished,” said the teacher. “Time thieves are no exception.  True, the thief of time is not punished.  He is not even accountable before the law. But wasting your time now is tantamount to stealing your time, your future. If you spend all your time in science, you will save time and become a mature person in the future. 

Ohh, my friend Abdullah and I are the thieves of our future. Doniyor thought. These words of the teacher inspired Doniyorm andat that moment, he realized what a “time thief” was. 

He even came to our house in a hurry: “Anvar, are you there?  Starting today, I can say that I understand the value of time.

“Yes, Abdullah, you understand, now we are not stealing our time, we are just following the path of knowledge.  In the future, we will be among the mature people mentioned by my teacher.  I agree with you.  Don’t waste your time!  I will always remember that it is a trophy!

Author: Abdumominov Abdulloh

Pupil of school No. 102, Shayhantahur district, Tashkent, Uzbekistan.

Age: 13

Christmas Monologue

Will you come back this Christmas?
When the December sun pulls together through the alley 
the bamboo bank swings and
calls to the wind
swallows call the flock to the
spring ball...

I'm still looking forward to this
Christmas
the day is still long...still a lonely
garden.
The girl from the past is no
longer a baby
Why does the rose flower quickly fade?

My heart will be close to each
other
like flowers and butterflies on a
busy spring day
Christmas is here...why are you
so far away
in the middle of Christmas, my heart suddenly ached

Nguyen Thanh Hai
(Vietnam)