The floor of his room was empty, except for old newspapers and some books dozing with dusty covers near a necktie. A chair leaned against a dilapidated wooden table like a man who had fallen asleep with his head on it. The room’s walls were pockmarked by numerous nail holes left from hanging pictures and an incongruous set of posters. On the wall hung a shirt the hand of neglect had circled with dust as its immaculate whiteness vanished. Beside it, from the head of another nail, hung a pair of brown trousers soiled apparently with spots of oil. In addition, a shoe and its mate languished in a corner next to the body of a black leather belt, which had lost its sheen.
A shadow slowly departed through a gap by the door, which stubbornly remained open even after a man’s hand tried to shut it. The closed window, though, retained the stench, which suggested the window had not been opened for a long time. The pair of pants fidgeted squeamishly and asked, “Why has he abandoned us, as if he hadn’t worked his butt off to buy us? He hasn’t worn me for a month, and that makes me feel I’m a chain shackling him to pain—after he nearly went crazy dreaming about me. Remember how he used to walk past the clothing store, day after day, slowing his pace as if melting with regret when he saw all the other trousers like me gradually disappear from the shop?
When we did meet—I mean when he saved up my price—he did not wait till an afternoon breeze had brushed aside the noon heat. No, he raced to me, smelling sweaty, just as the shopkeeper was closing the store for a siesta. He clung to the door with both hands, pleading, till the man opened the shop. Then he purchased me, expending all his money and many words of gratitude. He brought me here, and it was the same for you, Shirt. You were fresh, clean, and fragrant. Do you recall how he bathed, donned us, and rushed to her? Do you remember that rendezvous?”
2
The shirt sighed regretfully and replied, “Yes, I saw her smile at him. They sat down together. She caressed my sleeve and called it chic. Then my threads almost melted from her whispered words.” The pair of trousers trembled and shouted with rage: “But what’s happening? Why doesn’t he celebrate us now? Why is he content to wear shabby clothes so matted with dirt they resemble his hair and beard?” The shirt replied sarcastically, “Do you think you’re clean? Now that he doesn’t think to shake the dirt from your creases?”
The pair of trousers shuddered so nervously that it almost fell to the floor. Then it said, “Why mock me? You haven’t reveled in the scent of clean soap for a long time or smelled the way you did the first time they met. Have you forgotten that?” The shirt replied dreamily, “That’s true, Friend. I’ve wanted to retain her scent. Don’t you remember how close she was to him? He wished to possess her scent for a lifetime but failed. These humans lose touch with reality and cling instead to the fringes of a dream.” The trousers’ voice had a sorrowful rasp when it stammered, “What’s frightening is that he no longer needs us! He no longer wants us! He no longer loves us! I understand that love is needy and that he’s replaced us with other old, shabby clothes; but why?”
The shirt rested its collar on its sleeve thoughtfully and observed, “Some people are crazy. Yes, most people are crazy. But why do they toil to acquire us and then slouch around in old clothes?”
The pair of trousers scoffed, “Perhaps it’s nostalgia?”
The shirt wondered aloud: “Nostalgia for whom? For what? Nostalgia for poverty? For filth? For body odor?”
3
The pair of trousers shook violently. “I beg you! Be quiet. Keep still long enough for us to plan what we should do if he’s gone a long time.” Pointing to the belt and necktie, it asked:
“Should we fall and kill ourselves like those two? Or go dumb like his black shoes?”
“Or, should we wait to become a tasty meal for the armies of moths that consumed the contents of his wardrobe before he kicked the remnants outside?”
The shirt replied in a mournful whisper, “I think she won’t return to him and he won’t return to us, even though I watched their shadow puppets sketched on the ground—when they met . . . and parted. He was so enchanted by her that he forgot: what’s impossible always remains impossible. He wasn’t watching with the eye of his spirit. Oh, my friend, without him, our existence makes no sense. The worst humiliation is being unable to reject what you hate, and I hate being discarded. I hate anyone who discards me. I even hate the person who made me—for what?”
The pair of trousers wondered aloud, “Aren’t you blowing the situation out of proportion? You are something. You exist.”
The shirt replied intensely, “Says who? A thing without the person, who just departed and forgot about us is, nothing. Our existence is a logical contradiction. We cannot exist without the body we clothe, that becomes us as we become him.” The pair of trousers asked sadly, “Will he return?”
The shirt replied softly, “I don’t know, Friend. Perhaps.”
By Faleeha Hassan
Translated by William M. Hutchins
Faleeha Hassan is a poet, teacher, editor, writer, and playwright born in Najaf, Iraq, in 1967, who now lives in the United States. Faleeha was the first woman to write poetry for children in Iraq. She received her master’s degree in Arabic literature, and has now published 26 books, her poems have been translated into English, Turkmen, Bosnian, Indian, French, Italian, German, Kurdish, Spain, Korean, Greek, Serbia, Albanian, Pakistani, Romanian, Malayalam, Chinese, ODIA, Nepali and Macedonian language. She is a Pulitzer Prize Nominee for 2018, and a Pushcart Prize Nominee for 2019. She’s a member of the International Writers and Artists Association. Winner of the Women of Excellence Inspiration award from SJ magazine 2020, and the Winner of the Grand Jury Award (the Sahitto International Award for Literature 2021). She served on the Women of Excellence selection committees for 2023, was a winner of a Women In The Arts award in 2023 and a Member of Who’s Who in America 2023. She’s on the Sahitto Award’s judging panel for 2023 and a cultural ambassador between Iraq and the US.
The moon quickly rubbed itself with the star and sun,
Thank God, the floods passed away from us
Our hearts were filled with troubled weather.
Real dreams have arrived,
Every memory of mine is sweeter than honey,
My dear lady shed light on me,
There is light at the end of my path.
Sara Göyçeli Şerifova 23.05.2024
(ŞƏRIFOVA) 8.02. In 1962, she was born from the Sadanağac-Guney family of the Basarkeçer district of the Goycha district of Azerbaijan. Five books of the poetess have come to light so far. Over time, she worked as a branch manager in several newspapers and journals in the press. Its operation continues today. At the same time, her poems have been translated into many languages and appeared in Almanaxes. It is a member of the Azerbaijan Journalists Union. It operates specially in the field of Medicine. She is the co-vice president of the Women’s Council of the Social Union “The Development of Relationships among Turkish Women”. She is the owner of many awards for his activities.
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.
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.”
Nour Kassem (Woods), Prominent Young Egyptian Painter
I am proud to present in this internationally appreciated magazine the very special, young, prominent Egyptian painter Nour Kassem (Woods).
Nour says about herself: “I am a fast kinetic person, who wants to work, do activities, and most importantly, create.” The common opinion is that an artist must be focused on a specific artistic sector to give the best. This is not always the case and it is not so in the case of Nour who lives to dance, paint, and even golf, drawing from each of these activities creative, joyful and extremely professional energy with which she nourishes these activities. So Nour does not remain seated or standing to paint but wins trophies dancing tango and salsa and winning golf tournaments. Then she returns to painting, often immersed in the nature and beauty of El Gouna, a wonderful lagoon city on the Red Sea founded only a few decades ago by entrepreneurs Naguib and Samih Sawiris, the creator of El-Gouna International Film Festival (Cinema for Humanity) directed by Marianne Khouri, granddaughter of the legendary film director Youssef Chahine.
In fact Nour has her first collective exhibition in 2014 right in EL Gouna at TUBerlin / German University. Theme: By Diversified Gouna Artists. Then her first solo art exhibition was also in El-Gouna in 2015 at the luxurious Ocean View Hotel with the congratulations of Mr. Samih Sawiris. Other big “solos“ of Nour were in 2017 and 2022 at the Nile Art Gallery in Cairo.
Nour lives in Cairo, where she has her studio in Heliopolis, but at the moment Nour, with her mother the beautiful Mrs. Mona Safey, is again in El Gouna to paint, where the dialogues of the films presented at El Gouna International FF still echo. But there is also a cinema debut for Nour! A color version and the other in black and white about the famous director Youssef Chahine will appear in the USA-Italian Art Doc Thriller: “Ancient Taste of Death” directed by the Italian director Antonello Altamura about the Hollywood Golden Age and ancient Egypt, with the Egyptian star Wael El-Ouni. Nour, among her 400 paintings, has a series of paintings inspired by Egyptian superstars like Omar Sherif. Probably Nour’s art will be exhibited along the red carpet walk of the sumptuous palace of El Gouna International Film Festival in 2025. Some SF art galleries have expressed strong interest in Nour, whose painting meets the super lively and colorful style of the city of the magical Golden Gate Bridge.
Ivanov Reyez was an English professor at Odessa College. His poetry has appeared in Paris Lit Up, The Galway Review, The Blue Mountain Review, The Cafe Review, Pinyon, Sierra Nevada Review, and elsewhere. He won the riverSedge Poetry Prize 2015. He is the author of Poems, Not Poetry (Finishing Line Press, 2013).
First, here’s an announcement from contributor Frank Blackbourn, who asked us to share in our publication:
I hope this message finds you well. I’m reaching out on behalf of a woman in our community who urgently needs support to avoid eviction. She is a neurodivergent artist and mother who started a small Etsy shop to support her family by selling unique items that promote acceptance for the LGBTQ+ and ADHD communities.
Right now, she faces a critical challenge. Her only means of transportation—a van she relies on for her business and income—broke down, requiring $1,700 in repairs to fix both the suspension and antilock system. Without this van, she can’t attend events, make deliveries, or earn enough income to cover mounting bills. Every day the van sits unrepaired, her financial situation worsens, bringing her closer to eviction.
The impact of this breakdown has been devastating, and she now faces the immediate threat of losing her home if she can’t get back to work soon. By supporting her GoFundMe, you’re helping her cover these essential repairs, restoring her ability to work and allowing her to keep her family safe and housed.
Now, for this month’s issue, the Thin Fabric of Time. Many cultures mark a time to remember ancestors or deceased loved ones this time of year, believing the veil between life and death was thinnest at this time. Modern physics draws on fabric as a metaphor for space and time as fundamental dimensions of the universe.
This issue’s contributors address cultural memory, family heritage, grief, life and death, and the different generations.
Federico Wardal describes a new museum of antique relics that will open up in Egypt.
Jeff Tobin evokes our inextricable human connection to the past and to personal and cultural memory. Terry Trowbridge recollects the strong and competent women of past Saturday morning cartoons while lamenting his own human weaknesses.
John Grey speaks to our human powerlessness in the face of our own natures as well as the external world. Yet, despite this, we can still believe we are the centers of our own universes.
Xavier Womack’s poetry advises a person to heal the generational wound of not loving oneself. Rubina Anis shares her paintings of women of varying ages standing together.
Dilnura Kurolova celebrates the treasure of friendship. Azemina Krehic draws on contradictions as a metaphor for the irrational beauty of romantic love. Mahbub Alam expresses how love can create its own likeness to heaven here on Earth. Stephen Jarrell Williams shares a simple but elegant poem on spiritual and divine love. Closer to Earth, Noah Berlatsky waxes clever about a clumsy but perfect love.
Duane Vorhees presents near-operatic musical and poetic images of sensuality as Eric Mohrman gasps out miniature vignettes of romantic tension.
Janet McCann reviews Chuck Taylor’s new collection Fever, observing not just the sensuality of the work, but the many restrictions and ‘prisons’ in which the mostly male narrators find themselves and what that says about modern masculinity and men in love.
Philip Butera uses an unfinished painting as a metaphor for a fleeting love affair, highlighting the tragedy but also the inevitability of its bittersweet ending. Taylor Dibbert’s poetic speaker once again sets off on a jet plane after a harsh divorce.
Ozodbek Narzullayev reflects on a passing school year with nostalgia and wishes to stay in touch with classmates. Sevinch Shukurova outlines various types of sentence construction. Z.I. Mahmud churns Indian and Anglo-Saxon cultural iconography together in a cauldron of speculative fiction that ends in effusive praise of Shakespeare.
Maftuna Yusupboyeva celebrates the literary contributions of Karakalpak Uzbek poet Berdak and his place within Uzbek folk and working people’s culture. Marjonabonu Xushvaqtova rejoices in her love for books and reading. Aymatova Aziza celebrates the cultural treasures found within libraries.
Yolgoshova Sevinch offers her love and praise for her native Uzbekistan as she would to her parents.
Marvelous Monday expresses a cultural group’s proud resilience despite poverty and injustice. Komron Mirza laments social and moral decline around him, yet resolves that the world is not yet ending. Rasheed Olayemi Nojeem laments corruption in his country’s judicial system while Jake Cosmos Aller decries the cultural ugliness of hate and authoritarianism. Christopher Bernard highlights the difficulty of choosing among political leaders with imperfect agendas and ideas.
Faleeha Hassan’s short story highlights the strength of a couple keeping their dignity under grinding poverty. Howard Debs’ poem comments on the reality of food service and on those who see the work as a game or a photo-op.
Dr. Jernail S. Anand reminds us that poets and cultural creators are as human as the rest of us, and urges people to be strong yet flexible, like water.
Giulia Mozzati-Zacco captures the scattered thoughts of a young woman nearing her death.
Mark Young conveys moments when the surreal enters our ordinary physical world. Maurizio Brancaleoni highlights humorous moments of life surrounding Halloween/Day of the Dead.
Patrick Sweeney proffers glimpses of the world and culture through sentence fragments. Texas Fontanella plays with words and syntax to craft prose. Saad Ali pairs original haiku with lesser-known historical paintings.
Later, Texas Fontanella plays with verbiage and syntax through disjointed text messages. J.D. Nelson highlights tiny bits of urban and wild life during fall. Rachel Bianca Barbeito crafts tender portraits of gentle puppies.
Turgunov Jonpolat outlines his volunteer work in climate ecology, made possible through an international educational collaboration. Muhammadjonova Farangizbegim Ma’mirjan discusses technology and gamification as ways to effectively teach the natural sciences, including ecology. Anna Keiko writes of psychological and ecological dreamtime and awakenings and the need to protect the environment.
Sayani Mukherjee recollects a languid and happy day in a small country village. Wazed Abdullah praises the steady presence of the stars. Maxliyo Axmatova reflects on the warmth, growth, and renewal brought by the sun.
Ahmad Al-Khatat speaks to the memories that live on in the minds of exiles from war, even on bright calm sunny days. Azemina Krehic reflects on the human cost of war and other violence to Bosnian women and girls.
Maja Milojkovic shares her hopes for peace among the world’s nations and peoples. Eva Petropolou Lianou speaks to our universal human desire and need for love and mercy. Mesfakus Salahin describes the spiritual and human unity made possible through universal love.
Abigail George grieves over the loss of life in Palestine. Iduoze Abdulhafiz’ prose evokes the human trauma unfolding in Gaza. Jacques Fleury reviews Duane Vorhees’ poetry collection Between Holocausts, which grapples with that vast historical trauma. Daniel De Culla laments the grotesque tragedy of war on this Day of the Dead. Alexander Kabishev evokes the gross devastation of war through a tale of the death of a zoo elephant in Leningrad. Nuraini Mohammad Usman uses onomatopoeia to render digestion into poetry while urging world peace: making dinner, not war.
Ivan Pozzoni evokes the dark history among the beauty of his home Italian island. Alan Catlin describes varying levels of grief underlying a peaceful and beautiful place. Tuyet Van Do laments the human tragedies caused by recent hurricanes in the southeastern U.S.
Anindya Paul harshly evokes the loss of innocence in his poetry. Rukhshona Toxirova outlines ways for physicians to show compassion for patients at a tender age.
Isabel Gomez de Diego crafts images of childhood: a visit to a maritime park, a family photo with a young brother, dressing up for Halloween. Kylian Cubilla Gomez presents photographic scenes of nurturance: squash cultivated in a garden, children’s toys, Russian nesting dolls.
Stephen House grieves over and remembers his deceased mother. Graciela Noemi Villaverde grieves for the loss of her mother’s gentle spirit. Lan Qyqualla draws on a variety of ancient Western myths to lament the loss of his wife.
Nurullayeva Mashhura’s tragic tale of a neglected grandmother reminds us to care for our elders. Rahmiddinova Mushtariy offers praise for the nurturance and teaching of her father. Ilhomova Mohichehra comes to realize how much she values and respects her father as she grows more mature.
Michael Robinson recollects the loving fatherhood he has found from God in a piece describing his Christian salvation and personal journey from wanting to die to having a fresh new life.
Fhen M. crafts a vignette on a comfortable porch, a liminal space between the interior and exterior, inspired by change and transition.
Brian Barbeito speaks to the poetic and mystical meanings he finds embedded in each season, with wisdom in autumn and winter.
Chloe Schoenfeld captures the aftermath of a festive event, the small chaos after the elegance. Seasons change and time passes for us all, and no “mountaintop experience” can last forever.
Jacques Fleury shares wisdom from a teen dying of cancer to motivate us to live with passion and joy. Mashhura Ahmadjonova reflects on the whirlwind passage of time.
Mykyta Ryzhykh depicts a ghostly ship where all the mariners have turned skeletal, forgotten even by history. David Sapp also comments on our mortality and how others will eventually lose our memories in the swirling fog of time.
Before that happens, please take some time to savor this issue of Synchronized Chaos and honor each of the contributors by letting their voices be heard.
