Christina Chin (plain)
Jerome Berglund (italic)
Ringtones
my universe
in his shirt pocket
heartbeats
consistently
inconsistent
phonetic bliss
he mispronounces
croissant
a word
in edgewise
our favourite spot
now it’s just a word
for love
afterhours
club
bonus of a playful twist
our shared notes app
is just “honey”
welcoming new deity
to the household
and honey I forgot
love as digital-age
sweetness
ripples from the
central fountain
“ARTISTIC INTERPRETATION OF UZBEKISTAN NATIONAL VALUES AND CHARACTER” IN THE MOVIE “SUV YOQALAB”, “IMAGE CREATION SKILL”
Kokand State University
Faculty of Uzbek and Russian Philology
Scientific supervisor: Ergasheva Sugdiyona
Student: Nomozaliyeva Hilolaxon
Abstract. This article examines the artistic interpretation of the Uzbek national character in the short story “Suv yoqalab” by the people’s writer of Uzbekistan, Erkin A’zam. The work analyzes how the national character is manifested psychologically, socially, and culturally, and how the characteristics of the national mentality are reflected through the main characters. Text analysis, comparison, and synthetic approaches are used in the research process. Also, as a result of the research, the writer effectively highlights the main features of the Uzbek national character: hard work, valuing family and generation, harmony with nature, and spiritual wealth, using the possibilities of the short story genre.
Keywords: artistic analysis of the short story “Suv yoqalab,” national values and mentality, national character, characteristics of characters, short story genre, psychological method.
Introduction
There are many unique works in world literature, but each work is distinguished from the other by its ideas, characters, author’s position, and style. Of course, the era in which the author lived, the place where he grew up, and the social environment have a great influence on this. Undoubtedly, the work clearly shows which nationality the author represents. Representatives of any nationality in the world differ sharply from each other in that they have their own national and universal values. The film “Suv yoqalab” by Erkin A’zam vividly depicts the traditional values and national character of the Uzbek nation, and we will try to shed light on them through this article.
National values are a concept that reflects the unique qualities of each nation, and they represent the contribution and place of that nation in its cultural heritage, which has been formed in the process of its development. As long as a nation exists, its national values also apply. National values are formed and improved together with the nation. National values are based on the national idea. Therefore, if a state wants to subjugate other nations, it foremost tries to deprive them of their national values. This includes the historical, cultural, religious, and spiritual heritage of the people.
In today’s era of globalization, preserving the national idea, the ideology of independence and our spiritual values, instilling them in the minds of the younger generation are becoming one of the urgent tasks. The principles put forward by our President are also starting a new stage in this direction. “If the body of society is the economy, then its soul and spirit are spirituality. Since we have decided to build a new Uzbekistan, we will rely on two strong pillars. The first is a strong economy based on market principles. The second is a strong spirituality based on the rich heritage of our ancestors and national values,” says the head of our state. Although I. Ergashev, B. Abdullayev, M. Kakharov, D. Rakhimova, Kh. Khidirov have conducted their research in this regard, the existing studies have not sufficiently analyzed the reflection of national values in our works and the main features of the Uzbek national character. Therefore, this article is aimed at highlighting these aspects, at the manifestation of national values in the work of our writers. This analysis is based on Erkin A’zam’s short story “Suv yokalab”, which won the “Serebryanniy Vityaz” award at the “Zolotoy Vityaz” international film forum (Moscow).
Literature analysis and methodology:
We used the Izoh.uz website in the article. Because this dictionary served as the main theoretical source in defining the conceptual foundations of terms such as national values, spirituality, moral principles, and national character in the article. In particular, this source was the basis for providing an understanding of the spiritual roots of the concept of “national value” and how they are formed in the public consciousness. In addition, while writing our article, we also reviewed the collection of articles “The Importance of National Values and Spiritual Heritage in the Development of Society”. This collection discusses the importance of national values and spiritual heritage in the development of society, the history of national values, the socio-political views of our thinkers, modern propaganda technologies in promoting national values and spiritual heritage, issues of covering national values in the media, and the problems of propaganda methodology. Erkin A’zam’s story “Suv Yoqalab” is the main object of artistic analysis of our article. Plot analysis, image system, character coverage, symbols, and expression of national values are written directly based on this film story.
The work was carried out using the method of text analysis, the components of the work: plot, image system were deeply analyzed. Each element of the text was considered from the point of view of the aspects in which the national character is manifested. The historical literary method was used, that is, the work was analyzed in the context of the period in which it was created, taking into account the stages of development of Uzbek literature, and, most importantly, the method of psychological analysis was used to illuminate the spiritual world of the heroes, their character traits, and their connection with the national mentality. Also, the intercultural method was used to show the national customs and traditions reflected in the work.
Analysis and result
The term “film story” began to appear in our literature from the second half of the 20th century. Writers such as Sharof Rashidov, Jamol Kamol and Usmon Azim published some of their works under this name. In particular, as a result of the creative efforts of Erkin A’zam, works of this type began to form as a separate genre and showed their own unique characteristics.
It is natural that in the literary process, signs characteristic of a certain type or genre are also found in other genres. However, when the theoretical foundations of a particular genre take precedence, these criteria determine its poetic essence. This situation is also clearly visible in the example of film stories in Erkin A’zam’s work. Although film stories meet the requirements of the prose genre in terms of their external structure, their internal pathos and artistic direction are combined with the characteristics characteristic of the dramatic genre.
In particular, in the film story “Suv yoqalab”, dramatism is manifested as the main aesthetic principle. In this work, the development of the plot, the character of the characters, and the dynamics of events are built in accordance with the criteria of spectacle. This aspect, in turn, ensures the proximity of the film story to the dramatic genre. As is known, spectacle is considered the main aesthetic requirement of the dramatic genre. Therefore, this feature is increasingly becoming legitimate in the poetic structure of the film story.
In addition, the fact that Erkin A’zam’s short stories pay special attention to the most important dramatic climaxes of events, and the concise presentation of irony and psychological analysis shows the uniqueness of his literary style. Moreover, by reflecting them in the midst of life’s trials, the writer’s artistic concept is further deepened. Thus, it shows that Erkin A’zam’s short stories are not only forming as an independent genre, but also that they are an effective example of inter-genre synthesis.
The analyzed short story “Suv yoqalab” is a work skillfully created by the author in revealing the artistic expression of national values. The short story compositionally corresponds to the Uzbek national storytelling style. The plot of the work is formed on the basis of events occurring around the main character. This developing plot reveals various aspects of the national way of life. For example, the nature of the main character reflects the traditional approach of the Uzbek people to the natural environment. Through the images in the work, national values such as family, the institution of the family and its role in society, respect for elders, support for youth, love for the Motherland, teamwork, loyalty, honor, honesty, and justice are shown. That is, we can see that the main character of the work, Bolta Mardon, intervenes when the wives of Hasan-Husan are fighting for water, stops the fighting, and makes a fair judgment, that he does not give water to a fellow villager who once robbed the state warehouse, that he is generous to his fellow villagers, that he whips his son who has chosen a dirty path to correct him, and that he lies for the peace of a family. While describing the events of the work, we can say that Erkin A’zam used new artistic conventions with great skill through Bolta Mardon’s stubborn, stubborn, intolerant, and just character. Another skill of our creator is in choosing suitable names for each of the heroes of the work. For example, if we pay attention to the name of the main character – Bolta Mardon, we see that this name was not chosen by chance. “Axe” is a sharp, cutting, powerful weapon, and the character of the character is also in harmony with this tool. Giving him the name “Axe” refers to his character, behavior, firmness in speech, and his place in society. Every word that comes out of Bolta Mardon’s mouth is like an ax – clear, sharp, and impressive. What he says “reaches the target without fail,” that is, he boldly and fearlessly expresses his opinion and is able to subordinate those around him to it. So, through the name “Axe Mardon,” the author reveals the spiritual world and social position of the hero using artistic means. In Erkin A’zam’s short stories, the plot is usually built in chronological or concentric forms. In a chronological plot, events develop in chronological order, while in a concentric plot, events develop around a center. Exposition plays an important role in the author’s works.
Through it, the characters, their environment, character and time are introduced, and the viewer or reader is immersed in the events of the work. Exposition can be in various forms – direct, reverse, mixed or delayed. This provides different ways of entering the plot. Erkin A’zam mainly uses direct and mixed expositions in his works. Through these methods, he gradually introduces the reader to the development and atmosphere of events.
The work in our analysis begins with the words “A spacious courtyard. A tall igloo in the middle of the three-sided building. Beyond the igloo is a dense, wooded garden.” At first glance, it is an exposition that begins like a typical work, but we can see symbolic meanings in it. For example, in the sentence “A three-sided building,” our writer describes a large family consisting of three small households and united by a “tall igloo.” The head of that family is Bolta Mardon. When we imagine the image of Bolta Mardon, our solid, heavy, and respected fathers or grandfathers come to mind. His stature, the way he wears a skullcap, and the way he walks with his belt tightly tied — all of these are vivid expressions of our national traditions and values. Although Bolta Mardon has left his post as chairman, his concern for the people’s suffering and his willingness to put the interests of the people above his own interests still make him a respected person among the people. These qualities, in turn, directly stem from our national upbringing, ancient traditions, and values such as humanity, solidarity, and kindness inherited from our ancestors. In the work, Bolta Mardon is depicted not only as a just leader, but also as a loving father, a patriot, and an honorable person. In his image, we see true examples of national character – patience, patriotism, honesty, and loyalty to the people. His daughter, Zulfiya, who was raised by him, also grew up with national values such as thoughtfulness, modesty, patience, and loyalty to her parents, characteristic of an Uzbek woman. She puts respect for her parents and loyalty to her family in the first place. Writing about her, the author expresses the purity and innocence inherent in the nature of an Uzbek woman in one sentence: “Zulfiya’s house. A small courtyard. A lot of greenery, a lot of greenery.”
Indeed, the writer’s works mainly illuminate the lives of ordinary people in a rural environment. They have a unique image and skillfully reveal complex but sincere feelings. The writer places special emphasis on highlighting not only everyday events, but also the inner experiences, hopes, and spiritual conflicts of the characters. For example, Bolta Mardon’s three sons seem to depict his youth. The eldest son represents his youthful energy, pride, and arrogance, the middle son represents his unfulfilled dreams and unachieved goals, and the youngest son represents his unrealized dreams and aspirations in life. “Does a father mean a prophet? I tell you not to be as vain as I am… If you marry, find a woman who will never disappoint you. Your mother is a very good woman, she has never done anything wrong to me. Moreover, she gave birth to brave sons like you. But it’s hard when your heart is not full…”, he says, advising his youngest son.
In Erkin A’zam’s work, the ideas expressed in the vernacular, the brilliance of artistic observation and means of depiction distinguish him from others.
In this work, one of the qualities inherent in humanity – to do good to people, that is, the concept of goodness, plays an important role. In the development of events, the fight against any oppression and evil is carried out not with weapons, but with the illuminating spiritual light – goodness. The images depicted in the work, especially the image of Hamro Baba, strengthen the artistic and philosophical basis of this idea. Although Hamro Baba is blind, his faith in life, humanity and the power of goodness is impressively illuminated. The wisdom that is said in his language, “He who brings water, the path of the one who sees water becomes clear,” puts forward the idea that a person who does good will definitely reach the “illuminated path.”
In conclusion, national values, national character and national spirit are among the main factors determining the content of literary and artistic works. It is through literature that writers fulfill the “mission” of transmitting the historical heritage, traditions, religious beliefs and moral principles of the people from generation to generation. Such works play an important role in the spiritual formation of the modern reader, as well as in the process of self-awareness.
In the work of Erkin A’zam, the national spirit, national character and traditional thinking have found a deep artistic expression. The heroes in his works reflect the mentality of the Uzbek people with their natural stature, complex mental state, inner experiences and relationship to the environment. Through a variety of images, the author creates life events familiar to every reader. This makes the literary work even closer to the reader. In particular, the reflection of rural life, folk thinking, kindness, patience, respect and family life are expressed in the works in a realistic and convincing way. By comparing yesterday and today, the writer analyzes the changes in the human spiritual world, how personal experiences are manifested against the background of changes in society. As a result, the literary work is not only an artistic phenomenon that gives aesthetic pleasure, but also a means of preserving and developing national identity.
References:
1. Spirituality. Dictionary of basic concepts. -Tashkent, 2021. – p. 640).
2. From the article “The issue of national values and national character” by Munisa Mavrulova, senior lecturer at the Uzbekistan State Institute of Arts and Culture, Doctor of Philosophy in Philosophy
3. Erkin A’zam. The story “Suv yoqalab” // Collection: “Jannat o ‘zi qadadir”. – “Sharq” NMAK editorial office, Tashkent – 2007
4. Rasulov, M. Spirituality and moral principles in Uzbek literature. – Tashkent, 2019.
5. Karimova, G. National character and its interpretation in literary images. – Bukhara, 2021.
6. Sobirov, R. Uzbek national mentality and its expression in literature. – Tashkent, 2018.
7. Tursunov, A. National values and modern Uzbek society. – Samarkand, 2020.
8. https://saviya.uz/hayot/tarjimai-hol/erkin-azam-1950/
9. https://qalampir.uz/news/prezident-ma-naviyatni-yuksaltirish-buyicha-yigilish-ukerdi-31829
10. https://library.ziyonet.uz/book/86116
11. https://vaqf.uz/uz/lists/view/455
12. https://arxiv.uz/uz/documents/slaydlar/pedagogik-psixologiya/milliy-qadriyatlar
Contributor Abigail George would like to share a new project of hers: a blog called Mentally Sound that features articles, updates, a magazine, poetry, and uplifting music. In this day and age, so many things can affect our mental health. Please feel free to join the blog and blog about your own experiences or loving someone who has a mood disorder or an individual who is suffering from depression. Log in, blog, do read the posts and leave comments to inspire our growing community!
Now for this issue’s theme: Layers Upon Layers.
For we are all bound in stories, and as the years pile up they turn to stone, layer upon layer, building our lives. – Steven Erikson
This month’s contributions deal with the complexities of nature, history, culture, language, or even the psyche of a single person. Everything we choose or experience builds upon itself to make us who we are, even short-lived experiences.
Yucheng Tao’s poetry collection April No Longer Comes, published by Alien Buddha Press and reviewed by Cristina Deptula, explores moments of love and beauty that are wonderful and transient, like the season of spring. Sean Lee’s poems remind us that even fleeting moments can be meaningful and beautiful. Jian Yeo’s poetry touches on the pain and beauty we can find in mortality. Mykyta Ryzhykh contributes surreal images of life, death, and the cycle of modern existence. John Grey’s poetry explores comings and goings, presences and disappearances.
Yoonji Huh presents nature, family tenderness, and humor with a color scheme that looks historical and weathered. Gwil James Thomas speaks in several tough-minded pieces to memories and dreams and our sources of inspiration. Sean Lee’s artwork evokes the power of the imagination to illuminate daily life. Alina Lee’s poetry suggests that our pasts and futures comprise layers of each moment in which we find ourselves. JK Kim’s poetry looks at summer scenes with a calm nostalgia, after events have passed. Alexis Lee’s poems probe what we choose to value and remember, what we invest in and find beautiful. Olivia Koo probes the nature of memory, how multiple moments combine to craft a mental impression and feeling. Ah-Young Dana Park’s poetry comments on our changing memories and perspectives as time passes and we age. Chloe Park’s art revels in exquisite detail, probing culture and memory with intricacy. Sally Lee provides poetic snapshots of moments in time, considering whether they have meaning or value without context.
Seoyun Park’s visuals speak to how we observe and confront life, the dangers we face and those we pose. Ethan Lee’s poems remind us of the underside of our world: the everyday grotesque and the many layers of the ordinary. Irene Kim’s work explores the strain and melancholy that can permeate ordinary moments. Austin Chung’s poetry illustrates various kinds of disorder and dispersion as Taylor Dibbert vents his annoyance at the common problem of loud museum patrons. Lauren Kim stays with a single scene from everyday life for an entire poem, probing its layers. Haeun Regina Kim’s poetry examines ordinary objects and animals in depth, sharing details and language to create an off-kilter feel.
Brian Barbeito also explores deeply, focusing in on the flora and fauna of an Aruba resort. Debabarata Sen celebrates the verdant beauty of Costa Rica. David Sapp’s poetic speakers become waylaid by the arresting color and beauty of nature. Dylan Hong’s pieces present a gentle, abstract, even whimsical peek at nature. Grace Lee’s poetry crafts dreamlike, gentle, floating scenes. Terry Trowbridge’s pieces on peach harvests evoke the challenging economics and natural realities of farming. Mahbub Alam reminds us of the innate rough wildness of nature: storms, volcanoes, huge predators.
Jacques Fleury translates Dr. Jason Allen Paissant’s poem “Treeness,” about threats humankind poses to trees and the natural world, into Haitian Creole in a collaboration with Dr. Rachel Rome to provide music and poetry for the Boston Public Garden.
Sayani Mukherjee evokes the rhythm of a public piano played for big city pedestrians in a rainstorm. Eva Petropoulou Lianou waxes poetic about the beauty of the moon. Noriniso Kasimova shares memories of spring in her hometown and her father’s love. Chinese poet Su Yun collects a group of short poems from elementary school students, mostly impressions of natural scenes. Dhani M.’s artwork stylizes natural scenes to create emotional senses of calm, curiosity, and wonder. Jinwoo Brian Park’s art suggests that we can re-incorporate the old into the new, the natural into the artificial.
Mark Young contributes a fresh set of fanciful geographies. G. Emil Reutter humorously describes noisy construction’s impact on local residents. Erin Kim’s artwork explores the upsides and downsides of civilization’s technological progress. Katie Hong’s work critiques our isolation and obsession with technology as Xushnudbek Yakubov warns of the dangers of online misinformation. Sophie Yoon’s art critiques our complex relationship with consumption and the natural world. Eugene Han’s art explores who we are and where we’re going as humans, and our relationships with nature. Shabbona Abdurashidova highlights the importance of sustainable ecology in Uzbekistan. Jahin Claire Oh’s work speculates on how the world’s other creatures might see us: mimicking and learning from them, drifting into or penetrating their environments.
J.K. Durick speaks to new, wild, and real frontiers in modern nature and technology, commenting on our efforts to understand and control them. Pulkita Anand evokes the mental and physical disorientation brought on by the colonization of one’s land.
Ahmed Miqdad calls the world to action to help suffering civilians in Gaza. Patricia Doyne also calls the world’s attention to starvation in Gaza. Stephen Jarrell Williams speaks to the numbing, mindless destruction of war.
Poet Eva Petropoulou Lianou illuminates themes of patriotism and sacrifice in Algeria’s quest for independence in Turkia Loucif’s fantasy novel The Legend of a Squirrel. Yuldasheva Xadichaxon outlines themes of resilience and patriotism in Resat Nuri Guntekin’s novel The Clinging Bird.
Abdisattorova Xurshida highlights the contrasting legacies of Genghis Khan and Amir Temur. Abdisattorova Hurshida reflects on her admiration for Uzbek martial artist Abdulbosit Abdullayev. Maftuna Rustamova and Chorsanbiyeva Gulnoza poetize in honor of the military personnel who serve and guard Uzbekistan. Zumrad Sobirova celebrates the poetic beauty and pride of her Uzbek heritage. Jumaniyozova Nazokat encourages Uzbekistan’s young people to develop a greater appreciation for their heritage by visiting points of historical interest.
Nilufar Moydinova’s essay highlights language’s inextricable interconnection with thought, life, and culture. Mauro Montacchiesi creates a dialogue of philosophical thoughts and poetry between Dr. Jernail Singh and Rabindranath Tagore. Federico Wardal speaks to his long admiration for artist Andy Warhol and director and screen writer Federico Fellini. Orolova Dinora explores layers of meaning in Antoine St. Exupery’s The Little Prince as Surayyo Nosirova celebrates the heritage of Uzbek author Alexandr Faynberg.
Reagan Shin revels in the comfort and ecstasy and happy memories she finds in books. Mushtariybegim Ozodbekova highlights the power of books and stories to transcend time, culture, age, and space. Panoyeva Jasmina O’tkirovna highlights ways language teachers can help students develop fluency through relevant speaking and grammar practice. Turg’unov Jonpo’lat explores techniques to help children of all abilities to learn foreign languages. Nafosat Jovliyeva and Dilshoda Jurayeva illustrate gamification and other creative strategies for language learning. Rahimova Dilfuza Abdinabiyevna discusses ways to improve student competence with writing and speaking. Hilola Badriddinova outlines strategies used throughout the developed world to teach foreign languages.
Linda S. Gunther contributes a craft essay on “interviewing” your characters to better understand them as a writer. Paul Tristram’s poetry explores the heroic narratives we create through our writing and our lives. Gloria Ameh evokes the visceral sensations of writing on topics close to the bone.
Abigail George writes a stream of consciousness essay on her vulnerabilities from mental illness and just plain existing as a female-bodied person and how enduring them inspired her to write. Soumen Roy also connects beauty to vulnerability, speaking to the fading Mona Lisa and the union of joy and sorrow as fellow travelers.
J.J. Campbell reflects on disillusionment, loss, and the eternal quest, against all odds, for love. Mesfakus Salahin speaks evocatively of his quest for love and freedom. Baxtiniso Salimova’s poetry tells an epic love story. Mirta Liliana Ramirez relates intense grief at the loss of her lover. Dilnoza Islomova expresses her gratitude for her mother’s tender care. Bill Tope and Doug Hawley collaborate on a love story that turns unexpectedly tender. Urazaliyeva Sarvinoz shares an emotional tale of jealousy, love, and forgiveness between two twin sisters. Sarvinoz Orifova expresses gratitude for her parents’ constant love and care. Wazed Abdullah expresses his love and gratitude for his mother. Ozodbek Narzullayev expresses his love for his mother and invites her to share her life struggles with him for support. Xurshida Abdisattorova shares the story of a mother’s complicated grief for an imperfect husband and father who passes away in a sudden accident. Shoxrukh Fayzulla o’g’li Dusmatov speaks to his mother’s love and care and how wealth alone matters little without compassion and humanity.
To’raqulova Pokiza Sanjarovna speaks to the need for human compassion, wisdom, respect, and personal development. Hamza Kamar’s poetry expresses his powerful hopes for a transcendent hero. Bhagirath Chowdhary expresses his determination to avoid the next life until he has finished roaming this world, offering blessings to others. Charles Taylor’s short story probes our ethics and the extent of the compassion we owe our friends and fellow humans.
Julia Kanno reminds residents of the USA that most Latino immigrants are hardworking people with lives and dreams. Bill Tope presents a tale of a survivor’s search for justice for a sexual assault that shattered her psyche. Abdisattorova Khurshida presents a tale of thievery exposed.
Graciela Noemi Villaverde shares a poem on the joy of community and diversity and welcoming special education students. Haeun Regina Kim’s artwork explores unity and acceptance of others, as well as harmony among rural and urban areas. Nabijonova Madinabonu outlines how sharing coffee can help us build building friendship and community. Khudoyqulova Shahzoda highlights Uzbekistan’s programs to enhance economic opportunities for low income women and families and the disabled.
Nazarova Moxiniso looks into discipline and student character development as part of Uzbek preschool education. Ulsanam Ulmasovna outlines Amir Temur’s contributions to the Uzbek education system. Islomov Inomjon describes the Geoment, a device to teach mathematical reasoning to children with low or no vision.
Bozorboyeva Iroda offers encouragement for young people to find and follow their own dreams. Khudoykulova Shahzoda points out consequences of and solutions to youth unemployment.
Abdurayimov Faxriddin suggests strategies for teaching music practice and theory for children. Colombian philosopher and author Dr. Tayron Achury interviews Dr. Alexander Klujev, professor of musicology, about the increasing role of human personality and feeling in modern classical music.
Greg Gildersleeve’s pieces speculate on how small individuals can claim agency in a large world. Akramov G’ulomnazar’s poetry asserts his courage and resilience. Ashirova Dilrabo Ermatovna urges us to stay motivated and persevere towards our goals.
Various contributors celebrate notable people who should be better known, or highlight important research work. Sobirjonova Rayhona outlines the career and accomplishments of Uzbek woman mathematician and teacher Shodmonova Hilola. Eshmurodova Sevinch highlights the need for training for employees in Uzbekistan’s banking industry in digital technology to modernize industry. Muslima Olimova highlights strategies corporations have used to adapt to stay on top in a digital world. Jo’rayev Ulug’bek outlines engineering techniques for strengthening concrete structures. Mirzaolimov Mirabbos probes the medical relationship between diabetes and cardiovascular diseases. Ostanaqulov Xojiakbar speculates on how to improve web search engine optimization to improve online communication and website findability. Orozboyeva Mohina Nuraliyevna outlines the role and history of psychology as practiced in Uzbekistan.
On a more psychological level, Duane Vorhees’ poetry covers and highlights human complexity: different aspects to our personalities, different choices we can make, how we can change with time. James Benger’s poetry explores the fear and tension underlying our individual existences, the danger from geologic pressure, storms, raw meat – and how we sometimes find hope to carry forward.
Andrew Ban shares restless, random thoughts, finding commonalities with all humanity while acknowledging the need to protect and defend himself if needed. Dongeon Kim’s work presents scenes of intense human and natural energy while Texas Fontanella revels in the pure sound of non-representational language. Dennis Daly wanders through a variety of human feelings, from nostalgia to frustration to faith. Michael Robinson shares his journey and heritage of faith, how he found a spiritual home and refuge in Christ and the church. Muhammad Sanusi Adam speaks to struggle, resilience, destiny, creation, and faith.
Gaurav Ojha seeks out meaning in a confusing and vast world, ultimately affirming everyone’s ability to find their own truths. We hope that reading this issue helps you to find a smidgen of truth for your own life.
Piano
The faint piano desk at my back
The church prayers of oblong hault
Numerous passengers thronged through
It came a virtuous glance
The rain smelled of Piccadilly
The London traffic, the Paris rainbow
All imbued on a harmonic tribe
I came and saw the victorious mansions
The fairy tale chiaroscuro of uncharted lamps
It is a place of folly of penmanship and a little trinket
I perched on the jammed trampoline
The loneliness ever growing on
As the peace was costlier than love.
Assault
Reprint from Freedom Fiction Journal
Hennie stepped out of the shower, trailing twinking droplets of water onto the bare linoleum floor. She grabbed a towel from the towel bar and draped it around her wet hair and shoulders. She stood there for a moment, under the unforgiving glare of the bathroom light, contemplating the brutal rape she’d suffered just hours ago, at the hands of a man she once trusted. Suddenly overwhelmed, she burst into racking sobs, drawing the towel to her overflowing eyes. “Sonofabitch,” she murmured, barely audibly. She was exhausted, both emotionally and physically. She sat at her vanity.
Michael – one year ago
As he said he would, Michael, Hennie’s ex-brother-in-law, showed up in the courtroom today, the day after Halloween. He comforted Hennie and gave her solace over the way that his brother Mark had run out on her, trading up to a younger, wealthier and prettier woman. The divorce proceedings left Hennie feeling drained and vacant inside, and Michael was there for her.
Afterwards, he took her to a tavern within walking distance of his apartment, where he plied her with beers throughout the day, until late in the evening. Then they stumbled back to his place, where he seduced her with a studied charm. Like his brother, he was a handsome man. Hennie was a willing participant that night, hoping in some way to get back at Mark by sleeping with his little brother. This’ll show him, she thought spitefully.
But Michael, besotted with alcohol, was barely functional and scarcely managed to penetrate her, eventually falling asleep atop her. In the morning, he seemed to have blacked out the entire episode, and Hennie hadn’t the heart to disabuse him of his perceptions.
Driving Hennie back to her place that morning, Michael said, “Keep in touch, huh?”
Hennie nodded, gave him a chaste kiss and that was the last she saw of the man. Until exactly one year later.
– – –
After sitting for some time, Hennie stood and began wiping her arms and legs and torso with the towel. She was practically dry already. She shifted her feet and winced with pain. Michael had not been gentle. He had shown up at her apartment, the same apartment she had shared with Mark for 9 years, bearing a bottle of inexpensive champagne and a barrel of fried chicken, of all things.
“KFC?” she asked with a grin when he stood in her doorway. She had been lonely and was happy for the company.
He grinned back at her. “You can have the legs and wings,” he told her pointedly, “but I got dibs on the breasts and thighs–particularly the thighs.”
They both laughed easily.
She let him into the apartment, where he stuck the bottle in the fridge and pulled out cans of beer. They enjoyed their repast; Hennie was hungry. She thought about the significance of the date: one year ago to the day since she and Mark had made their divorce official. Was Michael’s appearance here today intended to mark the occasion? she wondered.
They noshed on the fried chicken and drank the beer and Hennie noticed that Michael was already slurring his words a bit.
“Did you just come from the bar, Michael?” she asked.
Michael frowned. “So what if I did?” he asked gruffly.
Hennie shrugged. “Just asking,” she said lightly.
Michael snorted, drained the third beer since his arrival and then grabbed another.
“You’re not driving, are you, Michael?” asked Hennie with concern. Michael had a history of drinking and driving and, last she heard, had lost his license for that reason.
“What’re you, my freakin’ mother?” he asked peevishly.
“I just wouldn’t want you to get into an accident,” she told him. She touched his shoulder and rubbed it with her fingers.
“God,” he said, arching his shoulders, “you chicks sure got needs, don’t you?”
She stopped rubbing.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I mean,” he said spitefully, “that it wasn’t 30 minutes after you divorced Mark last year, that you were doin’ it with me.”
She withdrew her fingers.
Michael laughed coarsely. “You remember alright!” he accused.
“Michael,” said Hennie, feeling hurt, “all I remember from that night was the little brother of my ex-husband taking me home and getting so drunk that he puked all over his mattress.”
Michael flinched. He hated to be reminded that he was a little brother. He had long had issues with his big brother and the role he played in his life. “Watch what you’re sayin’, Hennie,” he warned.
Next, Hennie did the one thing she should never have done: she laughed at the little brother. In response, Michael roughly seized his ex-sister-in-law and kissed her hard on the lips.
She struggled, but in vain. Michael was terrifically strong. He worked as a trainer at a gym and lifted weights relentlessly. Almost before she could take another breath, he had her pinned beneath him on the sofa and was roughly stripping away her clothes.
“C’mon, Hennie,” Michael growled hoarsely, “you know you want it!” He laughed, a harsh, unpleasant cackle.
“I don’t!” she came back. “Please stop!”
As he looked her over, gloating, she suddenly brought her knee up and into the region of his crotch. Her aim was errant, however, and her action served only to enrage Michael further.
“Goddamn bitch!” he snarled, and punched her with an open hand upside her skull. Her ears rang. Then he seized her long blonde hair and forced her onto her belly and began brutally sodomizing her.
“Oh, God!” she screamed. “Stop!” She felt her hair being torn out by the roots.
“You know you want it!” he said gruffly, and punished her with his sex. “Mark always said you like it rough,” he said, laughing darkly again. That’s what Mark had always said to her, whenever he drank too much and then forced her. Had he told his little brother about that?
“I don’t!” she cried, but Michael paid her no mind.
After he finally came, he backed off of her, leaving her trembling and sobbing on the sofa–the scene of the crime. Hennie, an ER nurse by trade, recognized that she was in shock. As she lay there, humiliated and hurting, she heard Michael fastening his pants. “What,” he asked flippantly, “no goodbye kiss? I’d better get a kiss, Hennie,” he said ominously.
Hennie, a mass of pain and degradation, came to all fours and then slowly turned to face her assailant–her rapist. When they were again face-to-face, Michael hauled off and punched her with a closed fist in the mouth. In shock anew, Hennie fell off the sofa and crashed into the glass-topped coffee table, which shattered. She lost consciousness.
“Catch you later, Hennie,” said Michael, as he rose from the couch. From her place on the floor, she could hear the door open and then click shut.
– – –
Hennie reentered the bathroom and regarded her image in the mirror. She ran her tongue over her swollen lip and opened her mouth, saw the vacant spot in the corner of her mouth where Michael had knocked out her tooth. She wailed, then wept anew. Immediately following the assault, Hennie had showered for what felt like hours, with very hot water, but found she couldn’t wash away the hurt or sense of debasement she felt. Then she had collapsed into bed and slept fitfully for a dozen hours. Only now did she take stock of herself.
The idea of reporting the incident to the authorities was immediately dismissed. This was not her first brush with sexual assault. 19 years ago, at 16, she had gone to a party at the college with a group of her friends, also young like her. The experience was as vivid today as it was nearly two decades ago. That was in 1985.
– – –
“Hennie, this is Matt,” gushed Crystal, her best friend, introducing her to a slender, feral-looking young man at the dorm.
“Hennie Penny,” he parodied, squeezing her shoulder. She immediately felt uncomfortable with the closeness of his touch, and drew back a little.
“Haven’t been educated yet, huh?” he said with a smirk. “We’ll soon fix that.”
Crystal, uncomfortable with his unseemly intimacy, laughed, too loudly, at his remarks.
At the gathering, two dozen members of the frat entertained a like number of young women, university and high school students. None of the females was over the age of 18, guessed Hennie. Some she recognized as upper-classmen at her high school. The night proceeded apace, with loud music; Hennie still recalled Van Halen’s “Jump” blaring over the huge stereo speakers, over and over again. Don’t they have another LP? she later remembered wondering. There was copious drinking and marijuana use and other drugs: a colorful assortment of pills and capsules that Hennie had no clue about.
She got high and drank a lot, but not to the point where she was wasted. She eschewed the pills, however, and said no when one of the boys, a creepy-looking fellow she saw only the one time, tried to entice her into a bedroom in order to “slam” a concoction of cocaine and other stimulants. Hennie learned later that Crystal had succumbed to the temptation and that’s the last Hennie saw of her for the evening. Inasmuch as Hennie had ridden to the college with her friend, she felt abandoned and vulnerable.
Unaccustomed to consuming spirits, Hennie readily imbibed everything that was handed her and began to feel giddy. God, she thought, such freedom and release! Then Matt reappeared at her side and handed her a vivid yellow fluid on ice and invited her to “drink up!” Without thinking, she did. Matt had begun to look good to her; his corded. sinewy muscles she suddenly found to be a turn on. Crystal had told her he was a stud and she wondered fancifully about that. Hennie was a virgin. The yellow drink was wonderful! A pineapple-based concoction, it was sweet and tart and refreshing, unlike the medicine-like Black Jack that most of the guys were drinking. Next, Hennie lost all track of time.
When she awoke in the passageway between different dorms, her head felt heavy on her shoulders. She had a terrific headache and she ached all over–especially there! Hennie glanced down at herself and she was a mess. It was like the sidewalk had been swept with her jeans and sweater and then her clothes put back on her. And her underwear was missing. She looked around for her purse, found it and opened it. All her money was gone! Crystal was nowhere to be found; how would she get home?
At length, Hennie wandered to the campus proper, to the Student Union, and asked for help. An older woman, probably in her 20s, took in Hennie’s disheveled appearance, asked her a few questions and then took her in hand to the basement of the building where she turned her over to a woman at the campus Rape Crisis Center.
“Ricki,” said her rescuer, who never identified herself to Hennie, “this is Hennie McCoy. I believe she was sexually assaulted at a frat party last night or this morning.”
A few minutes later, Hennie found herself being interviewed by Ricki, who was a rape crisis counselor. She took Hennie into a back room and asked that Hennie recount the incidents of the night before. Hennie did the best she could, but there were large gray spaces in her memory. After a brief interview, Ricki asked her if she could bring law enforcement into the picture. She said that she first needed Hennie’s permission.
Hennie shrugged. “Okay,” she said. She hurt everywhere.
Hennie waited on a cold plastic chair in an anteroom for 30 minutes before two representatives of the campus police–both men–turned up and invited her back into the interview room. One of the men, who were not in uniform, but rather clad in burgundy suits, was in his early 20s. He identified himself as Officer Ballard and introduced his companion, a 40-something man with a world weary expression, as Officer Chambers. Their first names were not revealed. Without indicating the direction the interview would take, they began immediately peppering Hennie with queries and taking copious notes: her name, of course, and her age, address, telephone number, how she happened to be at the university and so forth. After gathering that sterile data, they both sat and stared at her for what felt like an eternity. Hennie cleared her throat nervously.
“So,” said Ballard, “you told the counselor that you think you were raped?”
Hennie looked up at him. She saw skepticism in his pale blue eyes.
“Y…yes,” she stammered.
“Aren’t you sure?” he queried.
“Well, things are a little blurry,” Hennie confessed.
“We you using alcohol or illegal drugs at the time of the alleged incident?” asked Chambers, speaking for the first time.
Hennie’s mind raced. Would she get in trouble herself now? she wondered. What would her parents say? She was only 16. She wound up saying nothing.
“Is this what you were wearing at the time of the…incident?” asked Ballard with what Hennie interpreted as an aggressive glare.
“Yes,” she answered.
The two cops exchanged a knowing look. At the time, Hennie was a slender, pretty, nubile girl, and the officers seemed to feel that, by attending a frat party dressed in tight jeans and a revealing sweater, she was just asking for whatever happened to her. They continued to stare appraisingly at her until she felt like a specimen on a slide.
“Can you tell us what happened, Miss McCoy?” asked the younger cop.
Hennie recounted the events of the party as she remembered them, including, after a moment’s deliberation, the drinking and the pot.
“How many drinks would you say you consumed?” asked Chambers.
Hennie shrugged. Her mind swam again. “At least 5,” she said. “Maybe 10?”
“Don’t ask me, Miss,” said Chambers sharply. “We’re collecting the evidence; you’re the one providing it.”
Hennie flinched and withdrew into herself like a turtle into its shell.
Not once did the officers ask who had assaulted her. She would not have been able to tender an answer, but they couldn’t know that, and their not asking was one of the things that stuck with her, all those years later. Finally, the interrogation concluded, both men rose to their feet and left without another word. Hennie waited for some minutes, thinking they would return, but when they didn’t, she drifted out of the room and again confronted Ricki, who was sitting at a desk paging through a magazine.
“Are you okay?” Ricki asked tenderly.
Hennie shrugged. “What’ll I do now?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” asked Ricki,
“I mean, what happens next? How do I get home?”
“How did you get here?” the other woman asked.
“I rode over with Crystal; my friend Crystal,” explained Hennie. “She disappeared last night and I haven’t seen her since.”
“You can take the bus into town,” said Ricki. “On weekends they run on the hour.”
Hennie nodded and started to walk away, then turned back. “All my money is gone,” she said, holding open her now empty purse.
Ricki scowled and reached into her own pocketbook and turned up two one dollar bills. “This isn’t a part of my job description,” she muttered resentfully, but then her features softened.
“Did Frank and Tony treat you alright?” she asked, as if just remembering that Hennie’s wellbeing was her responsibility.
“Who?” asked Hennie.
“Ballard and Chambers,” said Ricki.
Hennie frowned. “They practically blamed me for what happened,” she said. “And they didn’t seem very interested in finding the guys who did this to me.” Hennie felt a sullen spark of anger.
“The frat you accused,” said Ricki in a confidential voice, “is prominent on this campus and has a lot of friends. Both of the cops are alumni of the frat too, as are almost every member of the university administration. The A-holes,” she added.
“Then why do you even work here?” Hennie wanted to know.
“In this world, you have got to find someplace to fit in,” she said dispassionately, then went back to leafing through her magazine.
Hennie never heard another word from the university police, nor did she ever reveal to her parents or friends what had befallen her at the party. She was so beset with regret and guilt and self-blame that she forever consigned the incident to the dead past.
– – –
Hennie sat in her robe on a chair in the living room–she avoided the sofa upon which she had been assaulted–and, as with the incident nearly 20 years ago, wondered what to do next. Whom should she call? Surely there was someone she should tell. Hennie hadn’t had a significant other since the dissolution of her marriage eighteen months ago. Mark had always kept close tabs on his wife, and then, as now, she had no real friends. It had come as a shock when he told Hennie that he wanted out.
The breakup
“What are you saying, Mark?” asked Hennie. He had just graduated from school and begun making nebulous references to a future without her.
“I’m just saying,” he explained, “that I think we’ve grown apart. You want one thing and I want something else.”
This was the first that Hennie had ever heard of their diverging interests.
“I don’t see myself in the same space as you, say, 5 years from now, you know?” he said.
“Where do you see yourself then?” she asked, perplexed.
“Aspen,” he replied at once. Mark was an avid skier, and ventured there from their home in Kansas City every opportunity he had. As a long-time medical student, without a regular job, his schedule was at times more flexible than Hennie’s, who had worked for 10 years at a demanding job at the hospital. It wasn’t lost on her that his tenure as a student coincided with their years of marriage. Now, with his residency and his boards complete, Mark was ready to take a huge bite out of life–but without Hennie.
“Why can’t I be a part of that?” she asked in a bewildered voice.
He replied, “It just ain’t in the cards.”
And that was that. They’d had no knock-down, drag-out battles. Hennie offered barely a whimper. She’d long doubted her self-worth and had considered herself lucky to hook up with such a smart and attractive man. Of course she’d asked the obvious question.
“Of course there’s no one else,” he assured her.
Shortly afterward, calls began coming in from Adele, who variously identified herself as Mark’s lab partner, his colleague and finally, his fiance. It turned out that Adele Brennan was Mark’s new love interest, younger than Hennie by 7 years, taller than her by 4 inches, and lighter than the present Mrs. Davis by 20 pounds. Hennie saw a photo of Adele in Mark’s wallet and her heart ached at how pretty and sexy she was. But when the “other woman” began calling herself the new Mrs. Davis, Hennie angrily slammed down the phone, and did so every time she heard the soft purr of her voice. Which only nettled the man who was, for now, her husband. Then, diploma in hand, Mark moved out.
Mark’s younger brother Michael began hanging around, taking up the space left vacant by Mark’s absence. He and Hennie became close, but never lovers. They exchanged warm hugs and chaste kisses, but nothing more. To Hennie, Michael, 10 years younger than she, and whom she had known since he was a skinny teenager of 14, was always the little brother.
– – –
A week following her assault, Hennie was awakened by an insidious itching in her anal region. Fearing the worst, but knowing she should take action, she contacted a woman doctor she was friendly with and Sheila took a swab sample, sent it off to the lab for a NAAT and the next day told Hennie she had Chlamydia. The doc wrote a 7-day script for antibiotics and a week later Hennie was cured.
When Hennie first received her diagnosis, she sighed with relief; it could have been so much worse. She hated Michael now, for what he’d done to her and for how she felt about herself, but she knew she couldn’t turn him in. Mark would never forgive her, nor would his parents, with whom she continued to be on good terms.
– – –
A couple of nights later, on the midnight shift at the hospital, Hennie observed an older woman, perhaps late 40s or early 50s, talking to the intake registrar. The woman was in the company of what turned out to be her daughter, a girl of perhaps 15. The young girl reminded Hennie wistfully of herself at that age. The older woman sported a black eye and had been crying, but had a fierce look on her face. Hennie returned to work.
“That woman,” said Norma, a 50-ish charge nurse on Hennie’s shift, “just reported a rape.” Several women were drinking coffee and gossiping in the break room.
“Yes,” said Milly, another nurse, a recent grad from nursing school who was several years younger than Hennie. “She said it was her husband. Law enforcement and the Crisis Intervention Unit have been summoned.”
“My God,” said Norma. “How can she turn in her own husband?” she wondered aloud. “Her husband is the attorney for this hospital. He is very well respected and earns a great deal of money and is well connected. If she were to succeed at sending him to prison over a marital dispute, where would that leave her family?”
“It was rape,” Milly reminded her, “not a marital dispute. At least that’s what she says.”
“A man cannot rape his own wife,” said Norma doggedly. “By definition, it can’t happen.”
“Whose definition?” Milly came back, “a man’s? She said it was forced sex and she has the black eye and the vaginal tearing to prove it!”
“A husband and wife are a unit,” maintained Norma. “You don’t turn in your lover…”
“What’s love got to do with it?” asked Milly. “When a man forces himself on you, he gives up the title of lover and comes away with the role of assailant. And predator.”
“You’re so much younger,” said Norma dismissively. “When you get older…”
“I wouldn’t tolerate a man who would force himself on me–at any age! Would you, Norma?” she asked.
Norma blushed and turned away, saying nothing.
“I’m not trying to embarrass you, Norma,” said Milly, taking a seat next to her boss. “But think of Mrs. Mason, the rape victim. She has three daughters. They know what happened. It’s happened before. And it’ll happen again, if she doesn’t act.”
“Why do you bring her children into it?” spluttered Norma.
“Because,” said Milly calmly. “She doesn’t want them growing up with the idea that having sex with your wife when she doesn’t want it is normal. What would that say about her? About them? They would be more likely to form relationships with abusive men themselves.”
The three women sat in silence and contemplated what had been said.
Kevin
It was only by chance that, over the weekend, Hennie encountered her one-time beau Kevin. He was the first male figure with whom she had formed a significant romantic relationship two years following her assault at the frat house. Then 18, she was attracted to Kevin’s wide shoulders and pleasant manner. Kevin was not, unlike the other men and boys she’d dated over the past two years, sexually aggressive. He was, as Crystal once pegged him, a “teddy bear.” And perhaps that was the problem. He was boring. Like all teenaged girls, Hennie was viscerally attracted, even after the assault, to the bad boys, the slender young men who smoked and drank and rode motorcycles. But, Kevin thought he was in love with her.
“Will you marry me, Hennie?” he asked, dropping to his knee at the ice skating rink one night after they’d dated for several months.
She was taken aback. She genuinely cared for the man, but she felt she was too young to even know what love was.
Other skaters observed the scene and spontaneously cheered and applauded. Hennie was embarrassed.
“Kevin, get up off your knee,” she hissed furtively.
Eventually, to keep from hurting his feelings, Hennie introduced Kevin to a friend, and a year later, Kevin and Crystal were wed. Today she met up with him again. When Kevin spotted her in the produce aisle at Kroger, he immediately enclosed her in a bear hug and swung her around in the air. She grew stiff, still a bit queasy about personal intimacy, no matter how innocent or well meaning.
“How are you, Kevin?” she managed to ask. He released her.
“I’m good, Hennie!” he said.
“And Crystal?” she asked.
Kevin instantly became more subdued. “Crystal and I split up,” he revealed. “Two years now. She’s doing good, we still talk. She’s engaged to some guy.” He scuffed his shoe on the floor.
“And the kids?” she asked. Kevin and Crystal had two daughters. Hennie received the yearly Christmas and birthday cards from her friend, but she’d heard nothing of the split.
The joy returned to his face. “Fine. Just fine. They live with Crystal, in Jefferson City,” he said, referencing a town a hundred miles distant. To her unasked question he said, “I see them two weekends a month and then for a full month in the summer. It’s kinda’ hard on the girls, but we do the best we can, you know? I moved back to town,” he revealed. “My job.”
Hennie nodded.
“How are you and Mark doing?” he asked because he had to. He had never cared for Hennie’s husband.
“We were divorced last year,” she said bleakly.
It was Kevin’s turn to nod.
“Are you seeing anyone?” he asked.
“No,” she said, “are you?”
Kevin shook his head no. Hennie could almost see the wheels of fantasy turning round inside her old boyfriend’s head. After they exchanged phone numbers and email addresses, Kevin made his exit, saying that his children were waiting for him in the car. As he departed, Hennie could see the hopefulness on his face. She smiled wistfully. She was unwilling to close any doors.
– – –
The next morning, when her shift ended, Hennie visited the hospital library and there checked out a DVD on sexual assault. It was part of the institution’s continuing education program. At home she inserted the disc and watched attentively. She had a lot of questions. 40 minutes later, she paused the DVD, and then pressed Replay and watched it again to the end. The recorded presentation, delivered by a well-known, rather radical proponent of women’s rights, made a number of what Hennie felt were salient points.
“A woman, be she a student, a daughter, a wife, a mother or a complete stranger, is more than a semen receptacle, accountable to the whim of any man…”
Hennie scribbled this down on a pad.
“Every woman has worth,” the lecturer went on, “equal in every respect to that of any man.”
But the most important concept that Hennie took from the DVD lecture was the statement: “Rapists are motivated to assault women–or other men–not by lust or the attraction they feel for their victims. Their most powerful motivation is the infliction on their weaker victim, of a sense of shame, humiliation and abject helplessness. A rapist,” she concluded, “is on a power trip! And there is only one way to combat the inimical forces of misogyny and sexual abuse, sisters, and that is seize back the power!”
Hennie found herself nodding at the words.
– – –
On Dec. 1, precisely 30 days after her former brother-in-law sadistically raped her, Hennie visited the police station in her hometown, accompanied by her attorney. There she filed an official complaint of forcible rape against Michael Davis.
Before the inevitable grilling began, this time by two female detectives, her lawyer turned to Hennie. “Are you ready for this?” she asked her client.
“Bring it on,” she replied, for all the right reasons.
They were twins — born from the same body, living two different sorrows. One carried illness, the other carried guilt. When a letter arrives wrapped in the scent of nasturtiums, one sister must face the truth she’s buried for years: love can be painful, and forgiveness even harder. A quiet story about loss, jealousy, unspoken love, and the haunting ties of sisterhood.
— Goodbye…
Her voice rang out like a “hello” meant for tomorrow.
I quietly watched her walk away, swaying like the spring breeze.
In her hand, a cane — tapping against the ground with a rhythm of its own.
“Look,” she said, “the nasturtiums are blooming. Aren’t they lovely? Pick one for me…”
I looked around. I had never noticed nasturtiums here before. And yet now, branches burst open with blossoms. Gently, I picked the finest bud and handed it to her.
With weak, trembling fingers, she caressed the flower.
A soft breath escaped her.
“It smells beautiful… When you visit my grave, bring nasturtiums. Nothing else. Okay?”
“It’s too early to talk about death, little lady,” I said, trying to smile. “You’ve got a long life ahead.”
I didn’t believe my own words.
She didn’t reply. She only smiled, smelling the flower deeper.
“Lay me next to it someday…”
I wanted to say, ‘Why are you hurting me like this? Why use death to scare me?’ But I said nothing.
“When we get home, we’ll sew matching dresses. With nasturtiums. Just like before.”
She stayed silent. Inside, I knew she was counting the ways we were no longer the same.
My arms ached. Light things grow heavy when you hold them too long.
“Look — we’re home.”
I gently lowered her. She couldn’t stand, just sat on the ground, breath shallow.
I helped her to her chair.
“Stay tonight… please.”
Her voice trembled, pleading. I couldn’t say no.
“Open the window,” she said. “Let me see the bright world. I’m tired of the dark.”
I opened it.
The spring breeze carried in the scent of medicine, sorrow, and memory.
I wanted to cry.
I looked at her — eyes closed.
Was she asleep?
I touched her hair — wet with sweat.
“Sleep well, my nasturtium…”
— I’m sorry about your twin…
My friend’s words pull me out of the film of the past.
My eyes still gaze toward the window. The wind gently flutters the curtain.
— If you want, I can stay with you?
— No… I want to be with her.
I press the scarf, still smelling of nasturtiums, to my chest. My friend silently leaves. I lie on the bed that feels emptier without her.
As I reach for an extra pillow, a white envelope slips to the floor. I pick it up — the scent of nasturtium instantly surrounds me.
Inside: a small note and the dried flower — the same one.
I open the letter.
“My dear… Are you still changing pillowcases? (You’re smiling, I know it.) I’m going toward a light where pupils shine the same. Please don’t cry. I’m not mad you didn’t become my donor. I love you. I never said it when I was alive, did I? I’m tired. Maybe if you hadn’t left me that day out of jealousy, I could’ve lived longer. I’m not mad at you. (Strikethrough): Damn it, I am mad. I hate you. I wanted to live. At least until I was twenty-two.
You’re a coward. At least admit it after I’m gone.”
Even the nurse writing this down for me probably knows you better.
I know I’ve been cruel. I always blamed you for everything — my sickness, my loneliness, my blindness. Hurting you made me feel lighter somehow. But it never lasted. I liked watching you suffer with guilt. Because I was already walking toward death. We were twins — same body, different pain. When I fell, I wanted you to fall too. Do you see what a terrible person I was? I wanted you to be just as broken. I only ever wanted you to say:
‘It’s my fault. I left my sister alone. I’m the one to blame.’
But you always ran.
From guilt.
From me.
From truth.
Isn’t fate cruel?
When we were born, they thought you’d be the weak one.
I was the healthy twin.
But you lived. And I…
Our parents always took care of you more. You were the sick daughter.
I was jealous. I know it sounds silly, but…
I wanted to be sick too.
I thought being sick meant being loved. I envied you.
And you envied me. You wanted to get well. I wanted to fall apart.
Mom always said, ‘You’re strong, you’ll manage.’ You used to carry me. I made you — the sick sister — carry me. What a manipulative, selfish child I was.
I hurt myself on purpose.
I wanted bruises. I just wanted someone to notice me too.
Looking at me now…
I realize God gave me what I wished for. I always thought sickness meant love. I was wrong. You only understand the value of something when it’s gone.
Yes, I jumped from that tree on purpose.
I did. If I could turn back time — I’d never do it. That day, I had a school competition.
Everyone’s family was there — except mine.
You had one of your attacks again.
I was angry.
I thought, “Mom only needs her sick daughter.”
So I jumped. After that, you got better.
And I finally got our parents.
At first, I liked it. Then I began to suffer.
I blamed you for everything.
You ran away.
Forgive me, please.
I know you couldn’t be my donor.
I always knew.
Don’t blame yourself.
Just live.
I loved you.
I never said it out loud.
P.S.
When the nasturtiums bloom — remember me.”
I wanted to scream.
Inside me, something broke — like a dam collapsing.
But this time, my tears were silent.
“You didn’t know…” I whispered.
I held the letter to my chest, hands shaking.
“That day… I pretended to be sick.”
So our parents wouldn’t go to her competition.
I was jealous too.
Of the smart, healthy girl…
I curled up at the edge of the bed.
Now, no one’s here.
Just me, the letter… and the scent of nasturtiums.
“It was my fault… my fault…” — I murmured, lips trembling.
It was hard to admit.
But it was the truth.
1.大地流彩
文/肖世嘉(小荷诗社，11岁)
五彩缤纷的世界
也有流光溢彩的大地
春天的大地穿上了绿油油的衣裳
绿是希望的象征
这份希望绿是独属于春天的大地的
夏天的大地戴上了深蓝的帽子
深蓝的大海有着无穷的奥妙
这份奥妙蓝是独属于夏天的大地的
秋天的大地穿上了金黄的毛绒大衣
金黄的毛绒表示着丰收的稻田
这份丰收黄是独属于秋天的大地的
冬天的大地披上雪白的披风
雪白的白雪和枯萎的大树形成了一种凄凉美
这份凄凉美是独属于冬天的大地的
The Earth Flows with Colors
By Xiao Shijia (Xiaohe Poetry Club, 11 years old)
This colorful world
Also has a radiant earth
In spring, the earth puts on green clothes
Green is a symbol of hope
This hopeful green belongs uniquely to the spring earth
In summer, the earth wears a deep blue hat
The deep blue sea holds endless mysteries
This mysterious blue belongs uniquely to the summer earth
In autumn, the earth dons a golden fluffy coat
The golden fluff represents the harvest fields
This harvest gold belongs uniquely to the autumn earth
In winter, the earth wraps itself in a snow-white cape
The snow-white snow and withered trees form a poignant beauty
This poignant beauty belongs uniquely to the winter earth
2.无题
文/邹斯宇(小荷诗社，9岁)
大树伤心的时候
会落下一片叶子
但人类会觉得是一处美景
Untitled
By Zou Siyu (Xiaohe Poetry Club, 9 years old)
When a big tree is sad
It will drop a leaf
But humans will think it’s a beautiful scene
3.人生
文/雷雨晗(小荷诗社，10岁)
有些人的人生像苦瓜一样苦，
而有些人的人生像糖一样甜。
人生很苦的人想要人生变甜，
首先他得适应生活，
就像不喜欢吃苦瓜的人一样，
只要坚持下去他会变得很喜欢吃苦瓜，
那就代表坚持得了生话的各种苦。
所以，
一切都有可能。
Life
By Lei Yuhan (Xiaohe Poetry Club, 10 years old)
Some people’s lives are as bitter as bitter melons,
while others’ lives are as sweet as sugar.
Those who live a bitter life want their life to turn sweet.
First, they have to get used to life,
just like people who don’t like bitter melons—
as long as they persist, they will come to like bitter melons.
That means they can endure all kinds of hardships in life.
So,
everything is possible.
4.无题
文/张雨涵(小荷诗社，11岁)
老天这是怎么了
总是在流泪
让大地、河流都变成了汪洋
让大豆、棉花都在潜水
让鱼、虾都在遨游
农民苦不堪言
雨过天晴后
一切都恢复了平静
Untitled
By Zhang Yuhan (Xiaohe Poetry Club, 11 years old)
What’s wrong with the sky?
It keeps crying
Making the earth and rivers turn into a vast ocean
Making the soybeans and cotton seem to be diving
Making the fish and shrimp swim freely
The farmers are overwhelmed with suffering
After the rain stops and the sky clears
Everything returns to peace
5.花
文/胡裕乐(11岁)
她静静站在那儿
人来人往都夸她
美丽、清新
可我却说她不屈
你不信
那是你没有看见她
在淤泥里的挣扎
Flower
By Hu Yule (11 years old)
She stands there quietly
People come and go, praising her
For being beautiful, fresh
But I say she is unyielding
You don’t believe it
That’s because you haven’t seen
Her struggle in the mud
6.我不算谁的附庸
王韵瑶
也不是某段的支流河
比起这些
我更想成为一场顷刻间的滂沱
旷野间乍起的风波
又或是唐朝遗风外
悬着的唯一月色
人生本就是一首诗歌
而他们的文字浅薄
不该被潦草地印刷着
所以在我笔下
一重山有一重山的错落
我有我的平仄
I Am Not Anyone’s Appendage
By Wang Yunyao
I am not anyone’s appendage
Nor a tributary of some section
Compared to these
I’d rather be a sudden downpour
A gust of wind rising in the wilderness
Or the only moonlight hanging
Beyond the legacy of the Tang Dynasty’s style
Life is originally a poem
Yet their words are shallow
Not to be carelessly printed
So in my writing
One range of mountains has its own arrangement
I have my own rhythm
Su Yun’s Poem:
栅栏
我学会笨拙的飞
或是跳跃
我就去爬盯我千遍的栅栏
用我沾上的泥点记录
我所填过的格块
填满一面
包括尽头挤压变形的铁丝
我忘记笨拙的飞
或是跳跃
我就去走俯视我千遍的横杆
用我脱落的绒羽记录
我所歇息过的桩头
走满千寸
包括中间被冰雹敲掉的木板
当我已经无力，溃烂
就让我的骨头
凭着记忆粘在铁网十字的中心
凝视人巷学会苟活的人们
用混着羽毛捏的泥人
标记十字路口的空间
The Fence
When I learned the clumsy flight
or the leap
I went to climb the fence that had stared at me a thousand times
using the mud spots stuck to me to record
every grid I’d filled
Filling up an entire side
including the twisted wire at the end
When I forgot the clumsy flight
or the leap
I went to walk the crossbar that had looked down on me a thousand times
using the downy feathers I’d shed to record
every post I’d rested on
Walking a thousand inches
including the plank in the middle, knocked off by hailstones
When I’m finally powerless, decaying
let my bones
stick to the center of the iron net’s cross
staring at the crowd in the alley—people who’ve learned to survive by compromise
using a mud doll kneaded with feathers
to mark the space at the crossroads
Biography
Suyun, 17 years old, is a member of the China Poetry Society and a young poet. His works have been published in more than ten countries. he has published poetry collections Yang Fa Wan Wu (Inspiring All Things) and Rui Yu Zhe Si (Wise Words and Philosophical Thoughts) in China, and WITH ECSTASY OF MUSINGS IN TRANQUILITY in India. he is the recipient of the Guido Gozzano Orchard Prize of Italy, the Special Prize for Foreign Writers of the City of Pomezia (with the organizing committee hailing him as “a craftsman of Chinese lyric poetry”), the “Cuttlefish Bone”
Award for Best International Writer Under 25, and the Creative Award of the Naji Naaman International Literary Prize of Lebanon.