Short story from Maid Corbic

Artwork from Deviant Art
DETECTIVES RABSQL IN FOREST ACTION

The trail shows the events of two characters, a rabbit and a squirrel, loyally trying to open up to all that is happening around them because they do not like injustice. 

The owl's nest is ruined and he assigns them them the task of finding out who the culprit is. Through the fog, they go find the culprit, with a lot of effort and happiness. 

The wolf who is a villain likes to have everything and to sneak up in the middle of the dark when everyone is sleeping to take valuables and settle them somewhere far away so that no one sees them. 

But the truth cannot be escaped, so with a little luck everything is revealed. It is really joyful that the villain on the quay realizing his mistakes, apologizes for everything and gives back what he stole. And on the quay, everyone is happy for the rest of their lives.

In a forest next to a strong waterfall where squirrels were often curious, one stood out in particular. She always wore a colorful suit on, not fur like the others, and she wore it proudly. She solved all the problems that happened in that forest and was often a judge for the final outcomes of the villains. She was always ready to help everyone in need, especially because after years of research, she decided to open her own space and thus employ another animal next to her as a collaborator. Her name was Charlotte.

She believed that she was a special person who gave the world the most beautiful colors, but that her talent could not have survived if she had been best friends with a rabbit named Michael. The two of them were really great personalities and they often gave their best to help everyone even when they were not on duty. 
All sorts of people came to their detective office and invested money in them. They often did not want to charge for their services, and they were rewarded for their work. On the walls, one could really see an enormous number of plaques praising their efforts. One case they fondly remember, and it kind of read like this.

An owl nicknamed Shadow entered their office. She was so upset because her nest had been destroyed by a wolf in the surrounding forest where she lived. She cried that she was supposed to bring her children to a party, and now they didn't even have a home. She wanted justice as soon as possible, but also to finally put an end to that thief who often stole other shelters in that place, but also unfortunately killed chickens and ate eggs from other hen mothers.

What intrigued our detectives in particular was that they had never met such a person in the past, because they were sure that they had finally solved all the things around them. They may have declared that the end was certain, but they insisted that the problem would not arise again. And everyone was shocked when they find out about this news, because it is impossible to hide something in that place. By spreading information from each other, our villain began to be paranoid for sure, because he thought maybe now he had the advantage and they'd never catch him. And that gave him confidence because he is now popular. With his gray fur and big eyes, with a little bigger stomach and with a spoon and a knife in his hand he was ready to take everything under his wing.

Our brave squirrel and rabbit were preparing for this, both mentally and physically. They knew who they were dealing with. This wolf had caused problems before, but they didn't know how to react. Since they were little they'd wanted to save the environment, victory, justice and reconciliation. They wanted a place for their children, for the whole world. They put on their leather coats which Master Randy had sewed for them a few years ago before he retired.

They carried with them all the necessary things, as always; in his pocket he had a laser with which many animals were lured and successfully caught in trouble, a lamp to illuminate all the villains who were insolent to the environment. And a few tiny spy glasses, mirrors and more little things. And they set out on a journey when everyone was asleep, somewhere in the late hours, a journey of no return.

Knowing that they were in a difficult place, they wanted to hug for the last time. Because, after all, the wolf was ready to take both of them down. They were risking both their lives for the sake of the people. They parted reluctantly with tears in their eyes and set out on a new path, a path of history and glory. They prepared in a radical way, with a parade of songs of their own that they have created in their heads. Knowing that the world is now under their feet and that they are on a great challenge, they slowly looked for our villain. 

They wandered for several hours through the streets without a goal, looking for any clear sign or symbol that led them to their final destination. The wolf's place was very villainous, where he stole all possible things from other animals without any shame. He was of the opinion that everything that was unscathed was his to take and that he would go further, into some new battles without a goal. He heard, as well as others. And he came from the middle of Russia, to the cold parts of us here in America to rule that area and to plant in everyone's head who is now the boss in the woods. 

After a long time, our searchers for the villain came to an important trail, which was fresh. That encouraged them to keep looking for a goal, gave them hope that they were not left without a trace. And just when they thought that everything was fine and they finally had a reason to rejoice in something, the damn rain came and temporarily stopped them near the tree canopy, where they quickly got ready to rest due to extreme fatigue. A rest that may have been dangerous, but the squirrel and rabbit heroes trusted their instincts and decided it was best to take a temporary break.

With this news, they came back to the office the next day, where the owl was asleep from waiting for at least some results (she demanded that it be investigated immediately). Maybe that's was enough for the first night, which was turbulent and very much built on flimsy evidence, a little rain and the smell of a bakery that lured people nearby where they ate something after a lot of searching.
 
The drunken heroes thought that they had to work harder to solve the owl's mystery and that they would find the culprit, even though only one person was suspected, the wolf. He was the only one who ate other animals.

Police even started calling for dodo forest birds. Eighteen o'clock came the next day and everyone stayed in the houses under lockdown. The sky brightened, the evidence hid under the darkness of the general window, and the heroes had nothing left to do but continue on their way, even though they did not know where they were going. They asked the citizens of the animal town where they'd last seen the wolf and where. And no one had the answer to these questions, because the last time he came in a dream, so that no one could hear.

At the place where they stood for the last time, they said something in silence, whispering, until they heard some banging. Running through the bushes and through the forest full of burdock and moss, in the gloomy dark, they came to one house. They smashed that door, which had not been reinforced with steel, and found the wolf preparing to continue knocking down everything he wanted. And it was so strange to see him in the day! Justice was served. 

The wolf was brought to the center of the city so that all the animals could find out what kind of villain was in their area, but also to sing a couple of songs to him because no matter what, they loved him. Growing up, they knew he'd been left to fend for himself. The happiest of all outcomes would be that he admitted he'd made a mistake and apologized to everyone and swore to the public that he'd be a better man and that others supported him to the maximum.

And as if from a fairy tale, our villain wolf started to give back to everyone what he stole. This caused tears and great applause, because they knew that anyone who does bad things can change overnight only if he has the will. And he thought, and still thinks, that stealing was in vain. He was given the opportunity to share with all the living things everything he dreamed of, in harmony and unity.

And our heroes were finally able to retire and realize that life is beautiful. The animals taught that peace and harmony is the goal of everything. They had mutual happiness and satisfaction at the end of everything, because the world is wonderful when great love reigns in it. This has been talked about and talked about, but the most beautiful thing is that this story is still passed down for generations, as rivals can be good friends and colleagues in this forest paradise, which brings gentleness and peace of mind.
Young white man in a polo shirt with a logo
Maid Corbic

Maid Corbic is from Tuzla, 22 years old. In his spare time he writes poetry that is repeatedly praised as well as rewarded. He also selflessly helps others around him, and he is moderator of the World Literature Forum WLFPH (World Literature Forum Peace and Humanity) for humanity and peace in the world in Bhutan. He is also the editor of the First Virtual Art portal led by Dijana Uherek Stevanovic, and the selector of the competition at a page of the same name that aims to bring together all poets around the world. Many works have also been published in anthologies and journals (Chile, Spain, Ecuador, Bosnia and Herzegovina, San Salvador, United Kingdom, Indonesia, India, Croatia, Serbia, etc.) as well as printed copies of the anthology of poems “Sea in the palm of your hand“, Stories from Isolation”, “Kosovo Peony” and others.

Poetry from Aviva Derenowski

I lived in the Land of Honey for forty years.
Why was I there?
Because people treated each other like family, nobody heard me. They pushed their finger where it hurt and said: "It's good. You'll love it; hold back a little and see how good it is." I held on for forty years.
During that restraint, I learned to shout when it hurt, cry when it bothered me, interfere with what did not concern me, and rejoice when someone was kind.

When someone was kind to me, I fell in love. I thought he was special because he saw the good in me, the supporter, the compassionate, and the generous. That spark didn't last. After a while, he remembered that I was not what he needed, not someone he loved. I moved him to the pile of those who left me without saying goodbye.

I left Israel. I left the despair in my hope of finding a man to start a family. I left those who told me at length what was wrong with me. I went without saying goodbye.

What's wrong with me? I could write an encyclopedia about what's wrong with me? I'm still crying and screaming and sobbing and shedding tears over everything wrong in my world. I'm sick of it.

I'm tired of seeing what's wrong with me and the world. I'm tired of begging people to love me and give me a chance.

Give me a chance! Do you give peace a chance? No. Stability has no chance because it's not painful, unfamiliar, or honest.

Why waste time on reasons. It's all a matter of feeling. Today it's exciting like this; tomorrow, it's exciting like that. People think I attack them, attacking Israel, threatening what they love. So why do I think I'm talking and no one hears me?

I love the language, people, the sea, and the land. I love the Israelis and Palestinians. I love the vaccinated and the unvaccinated.

Still, out of love, I can't stay so close. That's why I left after staying in Israel for forty years.

I can't stay so close because it burns my soul, my sanity, my logic,  my perspective.

There's no perspective in Israel. Everything burns. All or nothing, war or peace, together or separately, love or war. Two or nothing.

I'm in favor of two.
So who are the two? You and me? God and I? Mom and I? My husband and I? My children and I? Me and me?

Me and me? What is it? Who is it? Who is alive, and what is the echo? My echo magnifies me and shows me what I can do. I could do that in Israel. See where the echo is? Where are the options? Where is the edge that I can stretch?
The edge that I can stretch for good.
That's where I'll go.

Author's bio

Aviva Derenowski lives within walking distance from Silver Lake Park and the Hudson River. She enjoys watching ducks floating and seagulls soaring. She self-published three books, including Talking to my mother - 99 anecdotes in 2018. In 2021 she edited the anthology Celebrating Our Mothers. God is her senior partner.

Poetry from Lynn White

Remnants



It’s later than you think

or maybe sooner

they’re all that are left now

the letters waiting 

ready

to be formed into words

must try to sort themselves 

into words

that will never be spoken.

And the words already written

the manuscript 

unread

ready

for a reader 

who will never find them

never read them.

And the colours 

of paint

and paper

fabric

clay

ready 

to be put together

reformed into a beauty

never to be seen

or even imagined.

And the worn clothes still warm

almost

almost warm

already worn

stuffed into black bags

ready 

to be worn

again.

All that remains

now

it’s later than you think

or maybe sooner.

Too late for them

anyway.



.........



Raining Tears



It’s raining again,

endless rain

or so it seems

the clouds breaking,

fracturing,

letting it all pour out

as I watch

feeling

my heart breaking

bleeding like the rain,

the raindrops of my heart

pouring out like tears of blood.



...............



Keep Your Hat On



There was a time when going out 

was an occasion to be dressed for.

You could not be seen,

should not be seen 

without your hat.

You would be ostracised,

talked about, 

stigmatised,

left alone

shamed.

Hats were mandatory,

a smart felt trilby or bowler for the men

and a fashion statement of flounces or formality

for the women.

Even later 

my visiting aunties kept their hats on 

while drinking their afternoon tea indoors.

They left them on in cafes and bars,

it’s the generational norm

from the time when one knew

the dress code and conformed.

But not everyone did so

even back then.

Some were daring,

daring enough to go without a hat

and they still found company.

Others followed the code 

and kept their hat on

but still sat on their own

the code didn’t admit everyone,

some were left outside.



Lynn White

Short story from Jelvin S. Gibson

ADDICTION      

He leaped out of the house into the street, to smoke and take in drugs, till one day he got addicted, nothing else matters to him apart from drug. His addiction to drugs led him into the street, he worked for people, cut grass, throw away garbage to support his hobby. After his encounter with Christ, he told his story.

My name is Junior Mata and I’m a drug addict. It was 3P.M., August. 4, 2021. I was in the western part of Paynesville, Liberia, accompanied by two friends who also had the same hobby, namely, Fedasco and Wilson. It was cold with a good atmosphere. I felt very sick and needed a fix as soon as possible. While we waited for our connection to buy drugs, my friends and I talked and exercised in an effort to warm ourselves up a little. As for myself I was very sick. Tears rolled down my face, mucus ran down my nose, I had cramps in my stomach and felt cold chills running up and down my body. Those were the symptoms that accompanied me for almost 8 years while I was addicted to drugs.

Those cursed drugs were destroying me little by little, and left me bankrupt materially, physically and spiritually. All of a sudden my friend said to me, “J. Mata, let’s go”. Here comes the hallelujah.

They were talking about the two youths who preached the words of God in the street and were about two blocks from us. I told them, “I won’t move from here, let God come, let the devil come, but I won’t move from here until my connection (drug supplier) shows up, and that is my drug supplier.

My friends took off, leaving me alone. I felt a touched on my shoulder, and when I looked sideway I recognized one of the youths. “God bless you”. His name was Ray and there were times when I had shared drugs with him. He was addicted to drugs as well, but on the occasion he seemed transformed. His clothes were clean, his face was shining, his hair was cut, and his greeting left me amazed.

I couldn’t believe it. Dozens of questions ran through my mind. I was really surprise at the change in this guy. It was a reality that I couldn’t ignore since he was standing right there in front of me.

He preached to me, telling me about the love that God had shown us through his son, Jesus Christ, who died on the cross at Calvary, because of love and for salvation of all men. I told him that everything he said sounds beautiful, but neither religion nor church is for me. But, if this Christ you’re talking about is as powerful as you say, then pray for me and ask him to change my life. If he takes away my hobby, I’ll go to church with you. I remembered walking and reaching the pastor’s house. When we arrived, the pastor came running out to greet me, I was really very impressed with the love in which he did it with me. I thought about my past and how miserable my life had always been.  No one cared about me. It didn’t seem to matter anyone if I was dead or alive. During this time I walked the street and lived alone in old abandon houses. I always felt sad and couldn’t care less about my personal appearance. Nobody was ever glad to see or interested in how I was doing. Because of this I was very impressed by the way the pastor greeted me.

This man of God wasted no time. As soon as he met me he began preaching to me. After speaking to me about 10 – 15 minutes, he asked me if I wanted to accept Christ as my personal savior. I answered him that the only reason I followed Ray was so that he could pray for me. The pastor had faith and confidence in the lord. He told me, to get on my knees right away because he was going to pray for me.

I got on my knees and the pastor and his family the two youths started praying for me. I noticed right away that some of them began crying and pleading to God for me. This really moved me and gave me the strength to pray for myself.

I promise God, saying, “Lord, if what Ray told me is true and if you can honestly change my life, or if there is anything you can do for me. I ask you please, help me, I promise to serve you and visit the church if you take away my hobby”.

I started feeling a sensation of health and life; it was something unexplainable. I don’t believe that I’ll ever have words to explain what I went through that day. I could feel how all my pains and vice symptoms, including smoking, regular cigarettes, completely disappeared. I felt that though my lungs had expanded and I could breathe freely for the first time in my life. What I was living in that instant told me that’s true, Christ lives  and will gives life to all those who receive him. God performed a miracle that day, and free me from my sins and all of my vices. Praise his holy name! I stopped being a slave of the devil and was converted into a servant and son of God.

Sin and drugs are the beginning of the end, but Jesus Christ is the way, the truth and the life. Come back to life, give yourself to Christ.

His story was sad, touching, and emotional, that people around could fell his pains and what he went through in the life of worthlessness. But there is time for everything, the sooner you realize the kind of life you live, the better for you.


Poetry from Jelvin S. Gibson

Love at Sunset

In the place where the water meets the sky;
Is the love that surrounds us as ever time goes by.
In the place where the sea seashore meets the bay;
Is the love that abounds through the heat of every time ray. 
No other hand,
Than his who rules on high,
Could wield the brush and spread such,
Bright array.

Love at sunset
Even in joyfulness,
Even in times we cry;
Our love will never stop,
But will keep on rolling by.
Upon the outstretched canvas of the sky,
Then draw the curtains of departing day.

Love at sunset
The sun may go down,
But at the end of the day,
The flaring shades of love will always have to stay.
I stand in silence,
Reaching with my eyes,
My love, you are beautiful,
I love the way you fall,
Softly losing space.

Love at sunset
Take down all your troubles,
And wrap up your regret,
Tie them to the rays of light,
The sun sheds as it sets.

Love at sunset
My secret lover
I want you only to myself.
How many times,
Have I come here,
And was thrown away,
Because,
I am beseeching from poverty,
With courage,
With my sorrow,
You left me up in your fall.




 New Kru Town

Our hustling brothers, 
Far from religion,
Have spit on Christianity,
And loose their focus with no heart of second thought
An unexpected death has arrested the sight,
 And capture it slaves. 
Why New Kru Town
A place that develop good seeds where the soil is useless,
An opal heart area,
A stubborn, lavish land
You who that have never loved her,
Will not understand
Earth holds many splendor,
But,
Others do not value,
And shake its hand away.

New Kru Town,
A part of our mother's land,
A place where robbers attacked religion in celebration,
A face to face place in the day
That turn to nightmare in the night.
A place where robbers intuit to stay,
See different saints come and go.
How many birds have I seen Perched,
Looking hurriedly here and there,
And they abuse the proud of Christian,
And take advantage of their religion.
New Kru Town
A place where ethically good that you do, 
Do not talk,
Cause you may risk your head to blade.
A place where robbers making daily contribution
By chasing people with cutlasses in dead mood.

By: Jelvin S. Gibson
Pen Name: Inkbloc
A Poet, Teacher, Script writer,
Director, and an Introvert

Poetry from Michael Lee Johnson

Poets Die (V2)

By Michael Lee Johnson

 

Why do poets die;

linger in youth

addicted to death.

They create culture

but so crippled.

They seldom harm

except themselves—

why not let them live?

Their only crime is words

they shout them out in anger

cry out loud, vulgar in private

places like Indiana cornfields.

In fall, poets stretch arms out

their spines the centerpiece

on crosses on scarecrows,

they only frighten themselves.

They travel in their minds,

or watch from condo windows,

the mirage, these changing colors,

those leaves; they harm no one.
Poets Out of Service (V6)

By Michael Lee Johnson

 

Like a full-service gas station

or postal service workers

displaced, racing to Staples retail

for employment against the rules of labor,

poets are out of business nowadays, you know.

Who carries a loose change in their pockets?

Who tosses loose coins in their car ashtray anymore?

iPhones, smartphones, life is a video camera

ready to shoot, destroy, and expose.

No one reads poets anymore. 

No one thumbs through the yellow pages anymore.

Who has sex in the back seat of their car anymore,

just naked shots passed around online?

Streetwalkers, bleach blonde whores,

cosmetic plastic altered faces in the neon night;

they don’t bother to pick pennies

or quarters off the streets anymore.

The days of surprise candy bags for a nickel

pennies lying on the countertop for

Tar Babies, Strawberry Licorice Laces

(2 for a penny), Wax Lips, Pixie Sticks,

Good & Plenty are no more.

Everyone is a dead-end player; he dies with time.

Monster technology destroys crump fragments of culture.

Old age is a passive slut; engaging old age

conversations idle to a whisper and sleep alone.

Matchbox, hand-rolled cigarettes,

serrated, slimmed down, and gone.

Time is a broken stopwatch gone by.

Life is a defunct full-service gas station.

Poets are out of business nowadays.

 
Deep in my Couch (V2)

By Michael Lee Johnson

 

Deep in my couch 

of magnetic dust,

I am a bearded old man.

I pull out my last bundle 

of memories beneath

my pillow for review.

What is left, old man,

cry solo in the dark.

Here is a small treasure chest

of crude diamonds, a glimpse 

of white gold, charcoal, 

fingers dipped in black tar.

I am a temple of worship with trinket dreams,

a tea kettle whistling ex-lovers boiling inside.

At dawn, shove them under, let me work.

We are all passengers traveling

on that train of the past—

senses, sins, errors, or omissions

deep in that couch.
Nightlife Jungle Beat,

Bar Next Door (V2)

By Michael Lee Johnson


 

Like all things life changes, its melodies fragment.

It breaks pieces apart, then they drift, then shatter.

The singers of songs love bars,

naked bodies, consistencies, and inconsistencies

that makes it burn all turn outright at night.

They like to drum repeat rhythms and sounds.

Poets like to retreat to dens

of pleasure just like these.

Sing poets sing off-key

free verse notes down by the bridge,

near the river as far as their voices

will carry them away.

It is the nature of difference,

indifference a vocabulary of us confused,

minds between insanity and genius.

The hermit asks for

a public forum in shyness,

while treading to the bar

next door for a shot of tequila

no money, no life.

 
Michael Lee Johnson

Michael Lee Johnson is internationally published poet in 43 countries, several published poetry books, nominated for four Pushcart Prize awards and five Best of the Net nominations. He is editor-in-chief of three poetry anthologies, all available on Amazon, and has several poetry books and chapbooks. He has over 536 published poems. Michael is the administrator of six Facebook Poetry groups. Member Illinois State Poetry Society: http://www.illinoispoets.org/.

Poetry from J.K. Durick


                War

There are the bombs again

Buildings crumbling

Pictures of tanks

On the evening news

So we watch it all

This is how it’s waged

Tanks clogging streets

Crushing any hope that

Might have been left

Left over from before

This is how it’s waged

The latest weaponry

With uniforms everywhere

The grinding sound of battle

Goes on and on

Bullets and bombs at their best

As we watch it all

 

People fill the roads out

The displaced fill trains

And border crossings

Cameras are rolling

So we watch it all

Halfway around the world

From all this

We watch it all

This is how it’s waged

Numbers of the dead and

The wounded tallied

As if we’re keeping score

While we watch it all

Half a world away.


         Moving On


We move from pandemic to endemic

just a slight change of words,

of spelling, a change in prefixes,

a change of attitude.

It’s like turning a page, like

closing one door and opening yet another,

like turning a corner and

finding ourselves on another street,

a street that looks oddly familiar

with the same traffic,

the same pedestrians and

the same litter and lines

the same distance to travel to get where we

would rather be.

We move from plague-like interference

with our lives to

a thing more flu-like.

People still get shots, still get sick, and

still will die,

but we’re hoping, expecting a lot fewer

as the endemic kicks in

and the pandemic checks out.




                Taxes


How much we make

Then where we live

And what we consume

They all play their part

Become taxable

Someone, someplace

Keeps track

Tabulates, measures me

Next to the others

Assumes I’ll pay

And I do

Never think much about

It/them

What do they say about

Taxes, death and taxes

Will be with us

So we will pay

So we will die

They’re the cost of living

What we pay for this vague

          Privilege. 

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