Red Plastic Dust

My childhood began
with a metal spring
curled on the carpet.
I opened it.
A hand closed my mouth.
The light went out.

I stood
on a narrow shelf,
facing the wall,
learning fear
as a location—
in muscle,
in breath.

Even now, decades later,
when I wake in the dark,
my body still asks:
Is there ground beneath me?

My uncle brought me a gift.
1976.
I was five.
She was beautiful—
the doll with painted eyes,
dark braids,
and nails—
bright red,
glossy, perfect.
I held her like treasure.

“Bad girls wear nail polish.
Take it off.”

Water. Soap.
My small fingernails
scratching at the color.

“Use the scissors.”

Clip. Clip. Clip.
Ten tiny nails
falling to the floor—
red plastic dust.

They raised us
to fear soft things.
Color.
Touch.
Wanting.

I learned early:
desire is something
you bury.

But the body keeps records.

Even now,
when something good arrives—
a hand extended,
a voice that says stay—
something in me
still reaches
for the scissors.

On the floor,
a red dust
only I can see.

In the New Uzbekistan, the Voice of a New Generation 

Why should I not praise you before the wide world, calling you “my Uzbek,” When my era has granted me the chance to know my true self, my Uzbek. 

— E. Vohidov 

As I write these lines, two drops of pearl-like tears roll down beneath my glasses. Recently, I traveled to the Tian Shan mountains. Those three days felt like three years. On my way back, the very moment I set foot on my beloved Homeland, my chest filled with the scent of serenity. I felt the taste of peace and happiness. As I got into the car, these lines echoed in my heart: 

My Homeland, you are my pride, 

The soil where traces of my childhood remain. 

You see me off when I leave and wait until I return,  

I feel your love like a mother’s embrace. 

I have seen many lands, I have seen the Tian Shan, 

Yet I understood your true worth even more, my dear motherland.  

I do not need Paris and its Eiffel Tower, 

A handful of your soil is honor and glory for me! 

With these thoughts, I continued my journey. At one moment, I noticed a girl sitting nearby, quietly reading a book. Again, I sank into reflection: 

In which country does a president give a car simply because someone reads a book? 

In which country does the state reward you by funding six months of education if you learn a foreign language for just two months? 

In which country is an entire Olympic town built freely, solely for young people?  

The answer to all of these questions is one: Uzbekistan. 

Indeed, today Uzbekistan is a country of youth. For the first time in history, practical solutions are being implemented to support the dreams and initiatives of the younger generation — solutions that nurture their pursuit of knowledge, creativity, sports, and a rightful place on the international stage. As a result, every young person today has the opportunity to make their voice heard, to present their ideas, national values, and identity to the world.

Yes, today’s generation is educated, healthy, and confidently proving itself on the global stage.Young Uzbeks are studying at the world’s most prestigious universities — Harvard, Oxford, Cambridge, Stanford, and many others. And if we speak of sports, you have surely seen our flag proudly waving atop the world’s greatest arenas at least once. Our young innovators, meanwhile, present their inventions at renowned platforms such as the International Innovation Expo and UN & UNESCO Youth Forums, consistently being in the spotlight of international investors. 

Let us speak through simple facts from 2024–2025: 

For the first time in history, UNESCO’s General Conference was held outside Paris — and that city was Samarkand. Uzbekistan became the first country to make this happen. Moreover, Uzbekistan became a member of the UN Human Rights Council. International education standards were introduced. Transparency and openness were promoted in politics.

For the first time in history, our female karate and judo athletes stood atop the podiums, bringing chains of medals back to the Homeland. For ten consecutive years, our boxers have once again proven that they are among the world’s strongest. In 2025, our footballers carried the Uzbek nation onto the FIFA stage. At just 20 years old, Sindarov once again proved to the world in 2025 that he is the “King of Chess.”

When we analyze these developments, it becomes clear that in recent years Uzbekistan has secured a strong position internationally as an open, reform-oriented country that ties its future to its youth. Remarkable victories in sports, achievements in science and innovation, young men and women studying at leading global universities, and active participation on international platforms are tangible results of this transformation.

State-led youth policy, investments in education and sports, and cooperation with influential international organizations such as the UN and UNESCO have elevated Uzbekistan’s global standing. 

Particularly, initiatives that bring youth rights and opportunities to the international level clearly demonstrate the country’s strategic vision.

Shokhida Nazirova — Andijan, Uzbekistan.

Ambassador representing Uzbekistan for several international organizations and a regional leader actively involved in ongoing social initiatives. At the age of 21, she joined Worldwide Professional Women, becoming one of Uzbekistan’s young and promising female leaders. Through her volunteer work, unwavering determination, and selfless commitment to helping others, she continues to inspire and empower many young people across the region.

Surveillance

They keep a constant surveillance on our lexicon,

processing every content pattern,

every sound and stimulus,

intending to detect any intimidating competence.

They monitor every word of our utterance,

targeting the sense inherent

in the radiating features of our crafted letters,

scanning every idiosyncratic figure of speech

with unremitting reconnaissance.

Clairvoyance II

He sees humanoids dating the human species,

Aliens sunbathing on terrestrial beaches,

newlyweds booking rooms

on the overpopulated Moon.

He hears the throes of a newborn era,

free of -isms and hybrid terrors,

the jubilation of deer and fowls

over the ban of hunting on every ground,

including the Crown’s.

Ephemeral

Ephemeral is this stillness of five at dawn,

when what would follow is sheer turmoil.

No wonder suspense has become a much-dreaded foe.

Illusive is the silence that aspires to lull discourse,

since a torrent of abuse

will be blighting our morns,

seducing with the semblance of a dialogue

our entire afternoons,

only to then burn the midnight oil.

Frail is this temporary cloak of warmth,

the coziness of lying snug

inside a breath-warmed home,

with curtains fortified against wind and storms,

but cowering before a psychological cyclone.

Milieu III

I see carcasses everywhere

of birds and abandoned pets,

of a pigeon lying supine,

hit in the middle of its breast,

of a cat, its mouth wide-open

with the last throes of death,

and each daily walk with my discerning dog

is more than any living soul can bear.

Littered with the hookah’s remnants,

these streets abound with burnt-out coal,

some scattered cones,

and the residue of incessant gossip

that sheathes pavements, street corners, 

and the auras of pedestrians,

whose breaths still linger, 

weaving webs of indelible distress

THE SILENCE OF THE DESERT 

INTRODUCTION 

Alan Patrick Traynor is an Irish poet from Dublin whose work has been described as “the mystical galvanic paint that sets the fields of Provence on fire.” His poems shock the eyes and the soul at once; they are, in the words of one critic, “deep veridicous spears in a rachis sky of black feathers that will unlatch and unhinge you.” Traynor is the author of ‘Seven Days of Ashes’, a collection written on the spirit of the Holocaust and published by Albino Crow Press. He also has two other poetry collections published ‘Edit Not my Soul’ and ‘Until the Broken Clouds Answer’. His poetry has appeared in literary journals around the world, and he is held in high regard by his peers. Two of his own phrases—“Edit not my Soul” and “Edit not Blood”—capture the fierce integrity of his voice.

The Silence of the Desert is Alan Patrick Traynor’s first novella. It is a work of fiction and truth woven from the living fabric of his poems and life. The narrative follows Liam Bird, a solitary Irishman, and Elise Moreau, an Explorer and Swiss rider of motorcycles who loves mountains, as they travel from the light of Florence through the Atlas and the Sahara, across the Serengeti, into the Alps and the quiet of Vevey, through the rain-wet streets of Wicklow and Paris, the orange groves of Seville, the jazz sanctuaries of San Francisco, and finally into the long northern darkness of Norway under the aurora. At every stage the poems travel with them—read aloud under desert stars, mountain wind, and city lamps—while the music moves from Mozart’s elegant yearning to the searching, unfinished prayer of John Coltrane.

Traynor’s art is not confined to the page. He experiments with German Expressionist painting—its raw colour, its fractured vision, its insistence that emotion is a form of truth—and with jazz guitar, an instrument of listening as much as of sound. These dual fascinations shape the novella’s deepest current: the idea that love, like a poem or a Coltrane solo, is less a destination than a continuous act of attention and listening. The silence that follows every note, every line, every shared night under open sky, is itself a kind of music.

Readers familiar with Traynor’s poetry will recognise the landscapes, the birds, the winter roses, the broken branches that speak an Igniparous language, and the starling that sings in the soul. 

Those who come to him for the first time will find a journey that is both outward and inward—a road that begins in solitude and ends in a listening so complete that the boundary between one soul and another grows thin. This is a novella for those who still believe that poems can hold a winter at bay, that motorcycles can carry more than just lonely people, and that the sceptriferous wind moving through the trees above a quiet grave is worth hearing with someone, especially in Vevey.

This is a story you will never forget.

This a journey of Love & Verse…

.

A Novella by Alan Patrick Traynor

Welcome, readers, to August’s second issue of Synchronized Chaos Magazine.

First, a few announcements.

One of our regular contributors, Jaylan Salah, whom I’ve known for nearly 20 years, is an Egyptian national and a feminist film critic in the Arab world. She’s spoken virtually on panels at professional conferences and has a few books of poetry published.

Her father, who has been a consistent and encouraging presence in her life, has heart disease and needs a lifesaving bypass surgery. In Egypt people can get this done for $3,500 USD even without insurance, so she’s put together a GoFundMe to raise this. She’d appreciate any contributions or people resharing the fundraiser.

Fundraiser by Shadan Larki : Help My Father Receive Life-Saving Open-Heart Surgery

Also, Dr. Natalie Bisso announces a call for written and visual art for an international competition.

Now for this month’s issue: Where Things Touch.

The pieces gathered here live at the places where one thing meets another: technology and humanity, memory and the present, language and silence, homeland and identity, grief and renewal, love and loss. Their subjects are remarkably varied, yet together they suggest a simple idea: we understand the world most deeply at its points of contact.

That tension begins with artificial intelligence. Ochilova Zarnigor Zuhriddin qizi highlights the opportunities AI technologies can make possible, while Shodmonova Madina Bekzod qizi urges us toward its selective and wise use. Dr. Jernail S. Anand similarly encourages humanity to regard artificial intelligence as a tool rather than a replacement for human beings. Bahtiyar Hidayet expresses a similar idea regarding how people viewed the invention of the automobile, and Sotvoldiyeva Nargizaxon Abdurasulovna discusses user experience and data security for digital government services. Their perspectives establish an important balance for a technologically transformed age: innovation matters, but so does judgment. The question is not simply what machines can do, but what humans should choose to do with them.

That question of choice extends into language itself. Joshua Martin’s review of Neil Flory’s locust blindfold stompchant rain presents poetry as raw material—language shattered, recombined, musicalized, and made strange so that readers can no longer consume it passively. Grant Guy’s concrete poems discover the expressive force of what language leaves unsaid, while Ivan Pozzoni asks whether, in our modern world, speech still means what we think it means: are we actually communicating, and are we actually listening? Young-eun Kang offers a possible answer from another direction, suggesting that love can cross a communication gap that words alone cannot. Musharraf Hussain and Thi Lan Anh Tran’s Love Amidst Calculations makes the same case against the tyranny of measurement and productivity, finding connection, tenderness, and presence in the margins of quantified life.

The writers repeatedly demonstrate that when words fail, other forms of expression remain. Noah Berlatsky approaches Whitman’s poetry with wit, while Sunday David Kokoette reflects on the historical power of the pen and the great documents that have shaped civilization. Raida Jarjes, writing about Oscar Wilde’s The Nightingale and the Rose, reminds us that reading itself changes with experience: what once seemed one thing may, years later, reveal another depth. Mark Young similarly explores reframing and the transfiguration of perspective as routes toward new understanding. In these works, interpretation becomes a form of transformation. We do not merely read the world; we continually reread it.

Memory is another place where past and present touch. Patrick Sweeney’s monostich poems place childhood memories beside the present, allowing the cosmic and the mundane to meet. Brian Barbeito’s recollections of a grandmother’s raspberries and crocheted objects suggest that love, once given, never entirely disappears. David Douglas quietly asks whether, if we could relive the best time of our lives, we would still belong there. Neidy Avila Ramirez explores the loneliness of outgrowing the circumstances that formed us. Together, these pieces recognize that nostalgia is not simply a desire to return. Sometimes growing means discovering that the place that made us is no longer the place where we can remain.

Other writers confront the darker dimensions of being human. J.J. Campbell’s poetry finds suburban suffocation, mortality, regret, and dark humor in bleak circumstances. John Grey, using taxidermy as a strange mirror, considers impermanence, insignificance, and the quiet absurdity of existence. Mykyta Ryzhykh’s speaker feels himself polluted and unworthy, imagining death as a cleansing of the world. Srijani Dutta writes from uncertainty, pain, rejection, self-doubt, and change while continuing to search for freedom, creativity, and meaning. Shah Jehan Ashrafi gives form to a different kind of struggle: the fragile yet unbroken person, quiet yet volcanic, carrying immense weight while still emitting light. Photini Karamouzis Chalkias enters the digital age’s emotional terrain, portraying longing, toxic connection, and the loss of self in love. Türkan Ergör speaks to the ache of knowing where you belong but being separated from it and the quiet transformation that happens when you’ve glimpsed something (the rose) that redefines what “home” even means.

Yet despair is rarely allowed the final word. Stephen Jarrell Williams writes toward surrender—not defeat, but the willingness to be opened by nature and creative power so completely that one might create the words even one other person needs. Kushi Nanayakkara finds something beautiful or vital persisting amid decay and loss. Abigail George portrays addiction as a thief of family love and peace of mind, but also records the small acts—knitting, making coffee, praying—that can hold a person together when everything else is collapsing. Oruj Dadashi Elman expresses his lofty hopes and visions for his poetry as Graciela Noemi Villaverde offers up a powerful and beautiful rendering of human dignity, poetic, philosophical, and deeply resonant. Mohammed Al-Qaddafi Masoud, translated by Dr. Salwa Goda, speaks to stripping away pretense and getting to the elemental truths of reality, as Hong Ngoc Chau points out how some aspects of life ultimately cannot be analyzed, but simply felt. Ananya S. Guha enters the disorienting limbo of insomnia, where even the familiar rhythms of night seem to have vanished. This may seem depressing, but it is also deeply human, and sometimes witnessing and journaling through one’s challenging experiences allows us to survive. Shannon Scoates asserts that her soft heart is an inextricable part of her personality and finds the strength to hold onto it. Priyanka Neogi expresses an artistic commitment to strictness, not as harshness, but as focus and discipline. Sumana Bhattacharjee chooses kindness and self-respect on her own terms, rather than worrying what a whole world of very different people will think of her. These works understand survival not as triumphal certainty but as the stubborn continuation of meaning.

Love, accordingly, appears in many forms. Mesfakus Salahin portrays it as simultaneously passionate and creative like the sun and contemplative and mysterious like the moon. Jacques Fleury’s deeply personal letter to Faith addresses both a person and the quality of faith itself, finding gratitude, vulnerability, and emotional maturity in the ruins of collapsed piety—and discovering there a renewed belief in humanity, freedom, and collective peace. Driss Boukili El Hassani makes homeland itself a person: the beloved becomes the country. Sayani Mukherjee creates a love that brings together nature, city, sorrow, and joy, making something both eternal and earthly. Qahramonova Zaxro honors her beloved father with a tender poem in verse. Mahbub Alam’s piece suggests that true connection requires disorientation, a willingness to be lost alongside another. Dianne Reeves Angel’s poetic speakers move from guarded performance to exhausted, truthful surrender, when there’s nothing left to do but be seen. Milena Pčinjski speaks to perfect synchronicity and oneness between two people. Milka J. Šolaja illustrates a relationship so supportive that both partners are free to be their authentic selves. And Bill Tope’s short story reminds us that friendship is not necessarily created by proximity or shared interests but by the deliberate choice to remain present. Kozimjonova Saidakhon Alisher qizi highlights the need to balance being present for one’s social media followers with being here for one’s actual life.

Love also encounters history, culture, and identity. Nigora Tursunboyeva’s essay celebrates Uzbek poetess Zulfiya, whose exploration of women’s inner lives accompanied her nation’s modernization and whose literary legacy remains powerful. Elmaya Jabbarova honors the legacy of Azerbaijani poetess Burla Khatun. Jumayeva Gulasal argues that Uzbekistan’s traditional values for women and girls can coexist with modern education and participation in the job market. Farangiz Rakhmonova celebrates the many different entrepreneurial ventures of young Uzbek women. Malika Rustaqizi Arziqulova discusses ways to turn one’s goals into reality through personal growth and learning as Anvarova Xursanoy Azizbek qizi encourages students to gain work and life experience while still in college. Yuldasheva Xadichaxon Bahodir qizi highlights the role of her university education in helping her achieve her dreams. Boqieva Nazira encourages us to make the most of whatever circumstances we encounter through resilience and responsibility. Abdukarimova Qadriya emphasizes cultural literacy as an essential component of education in English as a foreign language, while Matniyazova Gulizebo Adilbek qizi describes proficiency in English as a lifelong goal. Oygul Shermamatova connects the historical greatness of Uzbek culture with the dignified and successful futures available to its young people. Rajabova Ruxshona Ibrahim kizi outlines the humanistic creativity, insight, and artistic genius of the European Renaissance. Danijela Ćuk dreams of peace in the world and in each family’s home.

That cultural pride appears vividly throughout the collection. Rayhona Hasanova celebrates the beauty, purity, and strength of her Uzbek homeland. Maxmatqulova Amira Alisherovna celebrates its natural and cultural beauty. Amina Sunnatullayeva honors its long history, crafts, moral values, and art. Elmurodova Charos Sunnat qizi remembers the legacy of Central Asian statesman and warrior Amir Temur. Mirzayeva Madina Asliddinovna provides a detailed overview of several Uzbek cities’ history and main attractions. Sharifova Saidaxon turns heritage into a question, asking whether we are living up to the sacrifices and legacy of our ancestors. In these works, history is not a museum behind glass. It is an inheritance that demands a response.

The Serbian critics’ defense and celebration of writer Maja Herman Sekulić broadens that principle beyond any single homeland. Their cultural commentary asserts the universal value of literature beyond nationality or ideology. Literature can begin in a particular country, language, memory, or political moment and still travel beyond those borders. It is at once rooted and migratory. In a similar vein, Eva Petropoulou Lianou’s preface to Lan Xin’s upcoming book Phoenix Nirvana elevates the book from a self-help or women’s growth title into a spiritual-cultural event, carrying the weight of cross-cultural healing, female empowerment, and universal love.

The natural world provides another meeting place. Jerrice Baptiste’s summer poems and paintings depict plant and animal life continuing relentlessly even amid human activity. Marjorie Thelen’s story of caring for a magpie discovers trust, wildness, friendship, and the extraordinary grace of being chosen by a creature that could simply have flown away. Nidia Amelia Garcia describes a canoe on the river with the language of love and communion. Maja Milojkovic does something similar with gentle raindrops and roses. Christina Chin’s haiga and accompanying art preserve a gentle summer moment. Chidimma Ewelukwa gives voice to children and to the earth itself while counting the lingering costs of war.

Eva Lianou Petropoulou’s evocative short story turns to the effects of plastic waste on sea creatures, while her musical poetry reminds us that ecological concern can itself become art. Timothee Bordenave approaches the same environmental crisis through chemistry, arguing for a circular economy in which plastic waste can be transformed into high-performance, metal-replacing materials—an approach that is both economically viable and environmentally beneficial. Otamurodova Asalbonu Qodir qizi also discusses ways to reduce, reuse, recycle, and replace plastics. O’ktamova Sabrina Mahmud qizi addresses soil degradation in Uzbekistan’s Kashkadarya region and bioremediation through mulch.

Science and medicine enter this conversation not as opposites to art but as other ways of caring for life. Kamolabonu Rasuljon qizi Inomova outlines modern therapeutic approaches to epilepsy treatment, while Jurayeva Muxtasar Ilyosovna discusses the prevention of viral respiratory infections. Feruza Boymurodova Jumanazar qizi considers digital monitoring of the efficacy of biological treatment for psoriasis. Their practical concerns remind us that knowledge has consequences beyond the page: understanding can protect bodies just as literature can illuminate minds.

The collection also repeatedly asks what happens when power is abused or suffering is ignored. Duane Vorhees examines power and the disturbing question of who gets to play God over the creations of others. Ri Hossain’s poem becomes a rebellion against polite silence, challenging the educated, comfortable observer who can look away from suffering and retreat into romance or consumerism. At the same time, the poem stages an internal conflict between the thinker who desires order and the poet drawn toward the messy, erotic, and unknown. Chidimma Ewelukwa’s children and earth, still carrying the costs of war, make that silence even harder to maintain.

Ethical responsibility appears on a smaller, more intimate scale as well. Kozimjonova Saidaxon Alisher qizi’s story demonstrates the power of humble repentance: genuine amends begin not with excuses for the person who caused harm but with concern for the person harmed. Duane Vorhees’s questions about power and Kozimjonova Saidaxon’s lesson about accountability ultimately meet at the same point: what we do to others matters.

The arts themselves become evidence of human resilience. Alex S. Johnson’s profile of Morgan Riley, frontwoman of Blackwater Drowning, presents a band demonstrating that heaviness can be tender, genres can remain fluid, and brutal music can carry deeply human messages. Eva Lianou Petropoulou’s musical poetry, Jerrice Baptiste’s combination of poems and paintings, and Grant Guy’s concrete forms similarly refuse to separate artistic beauty from difficult realities. Form becomes part of meaning.

Even technology, in the end, belongs to this larger human conversation. AI can generate, calculate, accelerate, and transform, but the works gathered here repeatedly insist upon qualities that cannot be reduced to efficiency: vulnerability, memory, cultural inheritance, compassion, repentance, attention, imagination, and love. The challenge is not to reject new tools but to remain human while using them.

From Ochilova Zarnigor Zuhriddin qizi’s excitement about the technical possibilities represented by artificial intelligence to Dr. Jernail S. Anand’s insistence that AI is a tool to work alongside, not instead of, our creativity; from J.J. Campbell’s bleak humor to Stephen Jarrell Williams’ creative surrender; from Patrick Sweeney’s childhood memories to David Douglas’ question about belonging to the past; from Rayhona Hasanova, Maxmatqulova Amira Alisherovna, Amina Sunnatullayeva, and Oygul Shermamatova’s celebration of Uzbekistan to Driss Boukili El Hassani’s discovery of homeland in a beloved; from Nigora Tursunboyeva’s remembrance of Uzbek poetess Zulfiya to the Serbian critics’ defense of the literary legacy and impact of Maja Herman Sekulić; from Timothee Bordenave’s fresh idea for a closed-loop system recycling plastics into new materials and Eva Lianou Petropoulou’s poignant tale of sea creatures endangered by humanity’s plastic pollution; from Ri Hossain’s poetic rebellion against polite silence and refusal to disappear into comfort and consumerism to Musharraf Hussain and Thi Lan Anh Tran’s rebellion against measuring the worth of our lives purely by our productivity—the pieces continually cross boundaries that might otherwise seem fixed.

That is their deepest kinship. They remind us that nothing meaningful exists entirely alone. Memory touches identity. Language touches silence. Science touches ethics. Technology touches responsibility. Love touches grief. Homeland touches history. Nature touches culture. Art touches survival.

And somewhere in all those crossings, something unexpected happens: things begin to speak to one another.

The result is not a collection of answers so much as a collection of encounters. Its guiding principle might therefore be stated in two words: Where Things Touch. It is at those points of contact—between past and future, human and machine, self and other, destruction and renewal—that understanding begins.

LIFE ONLINE

Every morning, the first thing Malika looked at was not the window, but her phone. For her, a new day did not begin with sunlight, but with the notifications appearing one after another at the top of her screen. Someone had liked her photo, someone had sent her a new message, and someone else had probably already written, “Where are you?” She could exchange messages with dozens of people before even getting out of bed, yet sometimes she failed to hear her mother’s voice from the next room: “Are you awake, my dear?”

Malika’s life online looked beautiful. Every photograph was carefully chosen, every frame had just the right light, and every caption created the impression that her life had already fallen perfectly into place. University, books, coffee, walks, friends, small victories, and thoughtful reflections on life—her page had everything. Her number of followers kept growing. Sometimes she found herself thinking that she had never even met some of the people she spoke to every day in real life.

Anyone who visited her page would have had no reason to doubt that Malika was happy. Only Malika herself sometimes did. For three years, she had spent more time thinking about how her life looked to others than about how it actually felt to live it.

One day at university, a professor gave the students a simple assignment:

— Turn off your phones for one hour today. Do not send any messages, take any photographs, or go on social media. Just look around you. Spend one hour observing people.

Laughter filled the classroom. Some thought it was a joke. Someone said, “Can we really survive an hour without our phones?” Malika laughed too.

But once she turned her phone off, the room suddenly looked different.

She noticed that the hands of the girl sitting beside her were trembling. Malika had always thought of her as cheerful and self-confident. Now she saw the girl repeatedly writing the same sentence in the corner of her notebook:

“Can I do this?”

Down the corridor, a young man who was usually joking and making everyone laugh stood alone by the window. Messages kept arriving on his phone, but he did not answer a single one. No one knew what was hidden behind the calmness on his face.

When the hour was over, the students turned their phones back on. Screens lit up one after another. Notifications returned. Everyone slipped back into their familiar digital lives.

But during that one hour, Malika had begun to understand something: people hide far more than they choose to show.

From that day on, she began looking at her own page differently. There were hundreds of photographs there. But not a single one showed her lying awake at night, staring at the ceiling. None showed the moments after she had argued with her mother and sat alone regretting it. None contained the words, “I’m afraid,” “I’m tired,” or “What if I can’t do it?” She had shown the world the most beautiful version of herself while hiding her most genuine self even from herself.

One evening, she decided to write a new post. She used artificial intelligence to help her draft it. Within seconds, the screen filled with beautiful, emotional, almost perfect sentences:

“Sometimes there is a silence within the human heart that even the closest person cannot hear…”

Malika stared at the text for a long time. The sentence was beautiful.

But those were not her own words.

She deleted everything and put the phone down. A few minutes later, she typed a single sentence herself:

“I’m not okay today.”

She did not post it either.

She turned off her phone and went into her mother’s room. Her mother was sitting on the bed, reading a book.

“Mom…”

“Yes, my dear?”

Malika was silent for a few seconds. Then she rested her head on her mother’s shoulder.

“I’m tired.”

Her mother closed the book. She did not say, “Everything will be fine.” She did not say, “This too shall pass.” She simply stroked her daughter’s hair.

That was when Malika realized that sometimes a person does not need advice. Sometimes they simply need someone willing to stay.

That evening, she spent a long time without her phone.

The next day, she received a message from the young man from the university.

“Excuse me, may I ask you something?”

“Yes,” Malika replied.

A few minutes later, his message arrived:

“I thought your life was perfect because that’s how your page looked.”

Malika stared at the screen for a moment. Then she wrote:

“I thought the same about yours.”

There was a pause before his reply came:

“So we both judged each other by the photographs on our pages.”

Malika laughed.

They eventually became close friends. Perhaps that was the strange thing about life: sometimes the person who understands you most is someone who has been living inside the same illusion as you.

After that, Malika did not abandon social media. She did not want to reject her entire online life or portray the internet as something bad. She simply changed one thing: she stopped living to show her life and began living it for real.

Some days, she posted nothing. Some days, instead of taking photographs, she called a friend. Sometimes she and a friend would simply walk around the city without their phones, talking and laughing. Over time, her number of followers decreased. But her real conversations increased.

A year later, she began going through the photographs stored on her old phone. There were thousands of them. Most were beautiful. But she noticed that the most precious ones had never been posted online.

A photograph of her resting her head on her mother’s shoulder. A candid shot of a university friend laughing. A simple photograph of her father walking home beneath an umbrella in the rain. And a picture of herself smiling genuinely on a day she had never shared with anyone. None of them had likes. None had comments. Yet Malika could see her real life in every one of them. She turned off her phone screen. The room grew quiet. There had been a time when turning off her screen made her feel as though everything had come to an end. Now, it was the opposite. The screen went dark, but her life went on. The wind moved outside. She could hear the dishes clinking in the kitchen. Her phone lay silently on the table. Malika smiled.

At last, she understood something simple: a person can always be online, but the greatest loss is not being disconnected from the network—it is becoming disconnected from life itself.

My name is Kozimjonova Saidaxon Alisher qizi. I was born on November 27, 2007, in Asaka District, Andijan Region, Uzbekistan. I am currently a third-year student majoring in Economics at the Faculty of Economics and Management, Andijan State Technical Institute.

From an early age, I have been passionate about numbers, analytical thinking, and economics. To me, economics is more than just an academic discipline—it is a vital field that helps us understand the development of society and improve people’s lives. For this reason, conducting research and pursuing lifelong learning have become an integral part of my life.

To date, I have published more than 30 scientific articles in national and international publications. I have also presented my research at six scientific and practical conferences. During my academic journey, I became the regional winner of the Economics Statistics and Data Analysis Olympiad and later represented my region at the national stage. In addition, I won first place in the institute stage of the “Zukko Kitobxon” (Intelligent Reader) competition, participated in the national “Munozara” (Debate) tournament, and have been an active participant and winner in numerous academic and intellectual competitions.

After entering university, my interests expanded beyond academic research to include creative writing. Reading books, participating in literary events, and creating stories that touch people’s hearts have become an important part of my life. Life Online, the story you are about to read, is my second work of fiction. I believe that every story I write should encourage readers to reflect, inspire kindness, and promote universal human values.

I am also actively involved in community service. I participate in volunteer initiatives and am the founder of a volunteer-focused startup initiative under Ko’ngilli.uz. To me, contributing to society is more valuable than any personal achievement.

Reading is one of my greatest passions. So far, I have read more than 50 books, each of which has broadened my knowledge, enriched my perspective, and inspired me to pursue greater goals.

My guiding principle is: “Seek knowledge from the cradle to the grave, acquire it, and share it with others.” I firmly believe that knowledge elevates individuals, while education has the power to transform society.

My greatest ambition is to become one of the leading specialists in the field of economics, further develop my academic career, and use my knowledge and experience to benefit others. If my writing or my work can make a positive difference in even one person’s life, I will consider that my greatest achievement.

Magpie Baby

From Marjorie Thelen’s daily journal 2022

High Desert in Burns, Oregon

Monday, July 4th 2022,70 degrees

Yesterday about 9:00 AM I was walking under the Russian olive trees on the north side of our house and noticed something black lying on the ground. I investigated and found it was a baby magpie still alive, half feathered out. He must have blown out of the nest about twenty feet above me in the old Russian olive. I felt helpless. I knew he would die if I left him there, but I couldn’t get him back into the nest because it was so high up and difficult to climb the Russian Olive tree with its thin, spare limbs and haphazard branches. A magpie pair had worked on repairing that two story condotel nest for months. It had a front and back door on the first floor, and this little guy must have got shoved out. Already it was hot and dusty in the high desert, and the little guy didn’t have much of a chance in the baking sun. 

I fixed him a small cardboard box lined with grass and tied his home to a low hanging tree limb under the high up magpie nest, hoping the parents would notice. He wasn’t responsive. I felt bad knowing there was little I could do. The fall from the nest must have knocked the wind out of him. He needed to recover. I checked on him during the morning. He wasn’t responsive. 

I consulted the Internet and Marta, my animal savvy neighbor, as to what to do. I kept checking on him.

When I checked in the early afternoon he started chirring his head off. I mixed up some food for him garnered from three websites: cat food soaked in water, hard-boiled egg, and cooked oats. He ate it up. Marta came over with a big, two foot long rectangular, open wire cage that I lined with newspaper and fresh cut grass. His new home.

He eats and sleeps. I feed him with a blue plastic tweezers. He’s had two moths and four flies plus his special food. He’s eating more. Then he sleeps. Marta and John think he should be covered. So, I put a hand towel over him for the night. He is still alive. I’ll cover him at night because the nights are cool, and he doesn’t have his siblings for warmth. We take one day at a time. This is a very special experience. The flow of life.

July 5, 2022, Tuesday, 80 degrees, partly sunny

Magpie baby made it through the night. Got some bugs for him today to eat plus his special food: softened cat food, hard-boiled egg, and soft oats. He eats and poops well. Likes his blankie which he sits under sometimes. He’s hopping more.

July 6, 2022, Wednesday, 80 degrees, sunny and breezy 

Magpie baby still alive and growing. John caught some moths today for him. I added mashed banana to his special food.

July 8, 2022, Friday, 80 degrees, sunny

Magpie baby still alive and growing, feathering out. Going to town today. Marta will come to feed magpie baby. 

July 10, 2022, hot, breezy

Feeding magpie baby. His two siblings are roosting outside their nest. They are all feathering out.

July 11, 2022, Monday, 90s, sunny

Magpie baby spent from 8 AM to 4 PM outside on the limb above her cage. Twice I saw her parent visit and sit on the limb beside her. The second time the parent jumped to the ground, pecked around, and fed her. My heart was thrilled. Bubbie fell off the limb twice. So, after 4 PM feeding I put her back in the cage because we’re going to a picnic in town tonight. She did well today and sits on the branches in the cage now. I say she’s a female because she has four fat siblings who are bigger and are brighter black and white than her. They jump around on the branches outside the nest. So today she became female. I call her Bubbie. The Power is working to help her. Thank you.

July 12, 2022, 99 degrees, breezy, hot

Bubbie, the magpie, did well. Didn’t eat much in afternoon maybe ‘cause of the heat. Put her in the safe house (cage) when we went to town. She hopped over on the limb when I couldn’t reach her and got a bite to eat from the blue, plastic tweezer I use. John found her some moths. I got two flies. Her siblings seemed interested in her getting fed. But they haven’t come to investigate. They watch from above.

I wear a floppy straw hat when I go to feed her. Today she was sitting on a limb about the same height as the top of my hat. She decided to jump over on top of my hat and turn around. As luck would have it, I had my iPhone with me and snapped a photo of us, her on top my hat like that’s where she belonged.  I will always treasure that photo.

July 14, 2022, my best friend’s birthday, hot, sunny

Baby magpie rejoined the wild today. She flew by herself past the pump house, past the garage and chicken coop. She’s sleeping tonight in the west Russian olive trees on the far side of our fenced property on the west side of our garage where two of her siblings are. One looks like her, so I think she is a female like Bubbie. I fed her the last time about 6 PM. At 8 PM I went out and stopped about mid garage. She was on the ground but made her way up to the limb about midway where another sibling was sitting. Parent magpie visited that one and may have fed Bubbie. So tonight she spends in the trees reunited with her family. I felt so grateful and happy. Bless her, bless her, bless her.

July 15, 2022, Friday, hot sunny, 94 degrees

Bubbie the magpie made it through the night with her five siblings in the west Russian Olive tree that grows along the wood and barb wire fence with a line of other Russian Olives.  At 9 AM, noon, and 6 PM I checked on her. She hopped out on a branch to be fed. The other five are in the tree, on the fence, on the ground.  Bubbie seems to like being on the ground. I think she’s looking for bugs. She was hungry tonight at 6 PM, not as much the other times. Hopefully, she’s getting something from the parents. 

July 17, 2022, Sunday 6 AM, 47 degrees, sunny

Friday evening when I fed Bubbie at 6 PM I teared up. I somehow knew I would be the last time. I told her I loved her and asked blessings upon her life. After I worried I shouldn’t have fed her, that her parents wouldn’t, and that she’d still be dependent on me.  

Saturday I avoided going to the western Russian Olive trees. I didn’t want her to see me. Yes, all the magpie family was still there.  I could hear them. About 7 PM I took the watering can filled with water to replenish the big bird water saucer on the ground by the picnic table that sits under a Russian Olive. I stopped by the garage because the magpies were on the table and taking a bath in the water pan on the ground. I was thrilled.

I only counted three magpies at first. Two were sitting on the barb wire fence under the Russian Olives. My worry was back that Bubbie wasn’t with them. But then I counted six. I was thrilled and gratified again. I waited until everyone had had a bath then walked with the water can, food container, and red plate to the picnic table. Three magpies were there and looked at me. One came forward with the magpie greeting, a loud squawk. It was Bubbie! She didn’t open her mouth to be fed. She watched me fill the water pan on the table. Then I put on the picnic table the red food plate and placed some of her food on it.  She looked but didn’t eat.

I talked to her but didn’t reach out. She watched. Then I left. After the parent came several times to the picnic table and fed Bubbie at least once. She likes bugs better. She took a splashy bath in the water pan on the table as did one of her fat siblings.  

I watched sitting in a chair by the cat nip growing along the garage wall well back from the magpie drama. I was petting Midnight, our black long hair cat, as I watched the magpies. She jumped down and went to investigate something on the ground. I did, too. It was a tiny, featherless baby sparrow that had fallen out of the bird house high on the garage wall. It was still alive but felt cool to the touch, so I put it into the hole in the bird house. This time I could reach the nest.  

July 17, 2022. Sunday. Hot. Hot. Hot. 98 degrees.

July 26, 2022, Hit 102 degrees. Heat Advisory

Early morning I’m out filling bird water pans by the picnic table under the elm tree.  No magpies this morning or evening. The family of California quail are grateful for these offerings.

July 27, 2022 8:30 AM Heat advisory.

No magpies this morning, last evening or yesterday morning. 

July 28

No magpies

July 31

Water to bird pans morning and evening. 

The magpies are gone. I think they come to nest in the Russian Olives in the early spring and then are gone by summer. I wonder where they go. Maybe to the basalt cliffs to the north of our place, since it’s cooler there.  I miss them. They will always be my favorite bird. 

I have a photo of Bubbie sitting on my garden hat on my head. I keep it on my nightstand. She hopped up on it one day when I was feeding her, and she was on the limb across from me. We were pals. We will be forever friends. What a special experience to share one’s life with a baby magpie.

September 2022  

We pack the truck to go cross country to Pennsylvania for a long sojourn.  I’m walking around in the yard. A lone magpie flies to our Russian Olives, calling. I watch. It’s unusual for a magpie to be here this late in the year. She flies back and forth in the Russian Olives, calling. This continues for several hours. Then she’s gone. I like to think it was Bubbie, come to say goodbye.