—————————————————————————————-

as another soul dies

dense fog, trash night

animals plotting in the

sewer

i didn’t have a murder/suicide

right after giving birth on my

bingo card

humans, the world’s most

dangerous animal

and here i thought opposable

thumbs elevated us

it actually only made it easier

to hold and shoot a gun

watch the money during the war

someone is always getting rich

as another soul dies

a woman asked me tonight why

i don’t have any children

i laughed, told her i never had

a death wish that strong that i

needed to have someone else

do it

she’s still trying to figure

that one out

been raining for almost 24

straight hours

these are the nights on the farm

i would listen to it hit the metal

roof

and then wonder which room

will need a bucket

——————————————————————————-

in a lonesome alley

a howling wind

caught out in

a pouring rain

a homeless man

told me once

pour a tall glass

of whiskey and

saw off a shotgun

and see which

hits your lips

first

he died of cancer

in a lonesome

alley years ago

it was the

whiskey

my friend

the whiskey

————————————————————

life is a video game

somewhere in the distance

i can hear my father saying

he went to vietnam to die

of course, he grew up poor

now, a generation with the

bravery of being out of range

life is a video game

just the weapons naturally

have human consequences

the innocent always die first

almost biblical it feels

why the stupid have to start

wars in the first place is a

completely different poem

this is about the ignorance

the unwillingness to

understand culture

to want the entire world

to bend the knee to the rich

and this is where some fuck

will remind me he nearly died

for my free speech

and i will thank him for that

and then explain the hypocrisy

of him wanting to take it away

———————————————————-

a little extra cash

bent spoon daydreams

the holy ghost needs

a little extra cash

light up a cigarette

under a no smoking

sign

listen to an old black

man play the saxophone

like jazz was just beginning

thumb through the pages

of on the road like you

have already lived it

a lady asks you to step

outside

she locks the door behind

you

they take cancer seriously

around here i guess

up two blocks is an

old bookstore

place where you found

old gregory corso books

for less than a dollar

place is now a clothing

boutique

light another cigarette

time passes all of us by

at least once

—————————————————————-

that clings to you better

one of those nights

where you hope to

fuck the pain away

depravity, a long

lost soul that clings

to you better than

any invisible friend

ever did

they never tell you

if you hate yourself

long enough, you’ll

never remember to

love anyone else

this is where the

dramatic music

comes in and our

hero disappoints

all of us yet again

dying alone is a

process that takes

way longer than

it appears on

television

a tall glass of

scotch

drunken showers

at three in the

morning is my

latest trick to

steal a few

hours of sleep

old enough that

the dreams are

now just waves

and flowers

meant for

a grave

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know where the bodies are buried. The three- time Best of The Net nominee and two-time Pushcart Prize nominee lives with his disabled mother in Ohio. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Yellow Mama, The Rye Whiskey Review, Night Owl Narrative, Disturb the Universe Magazine and The Beatnik Cowboy. His latest book, to live your dreams, published by Whiskey City Press, is available on Amazon.com. for more info on the book, go here: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/245883678-to-live-your-dreams.

Poetry Daylight 

On this sunny day 

filled with blue skies array,

made of ink and white clouds of paper 

The words come closer,

To the gentle timepiece of words 

A poem where goodness rests

And Angels blest,

In a place of golden heartbeats

In a great embrace where peace beats

Shines many colors of the rainbow.

Black birds 

black birds 

peck their tracks 

on the white snow

Out

Yes we are dirt

We are incapable of molding ourselves anew

Honestly we don’t even know who inspired us to move

Yes we are clay

We move falling and swallowing dirt and branches

Whether we are clay or dirt, no one knows and oh Lord

It seems to me that no one has ever truly molded us

Beauty hates us

And we bloom with our bellies out(side)

The eternal rain begins

We are like candles in the hands of a praying person

The broken glass of our faces

Time and death do not exist

And our dirty bird breaks out 

Of chest-cage into the clouds

Humility

1

Believe it or not

But I can disappear not without a trace but as unknown as the plague

I will swim in the bloody river of memory like Stalin

My voice will resound in all stadiums as if it were Hitler

I will explode like a star and destroy everything around

Nothing passes without a trace:

And if you think that you should start for good,

And if you already take up fighting for something:

You should know that you only multiply sorrows and discord:

Each of us is a small chest with a nuclear war inside

2

Good does not need to be fought for

My hands are overgrown with leaves

I am full of humility

Night, winter

Night, winter

Cold stubble burns;

A gash of wound 

Is bitterness 

And a stealthy weather,

Which unfurls marks of hope,

As winter is just another season.

Ananya S Guha

Shillong

India

HONESTY KNOWS NO NATIONALITY                                                                         

Muslimbek Abdurakhimov                                                                        

Computer Engineering Specialist       

                                                                           

Annotatsiya

Mazkur hikoyada kundalik hayotda uchraydigan oddiy savdo jarayoni orqali halollik, mas’uliyat va insoniylik kabi fazilatlar yoritiladi. Muallif Rossiyada tahsil olayotgan paytida quloqchin sotib olish jarayonida yuzaga kelgan kichik muammo haqida hikoya qiladi. Sotuvchining vijdonli munosabati, xaridor oldidagi mas’uliyati va halolligi voqea orqali ta’sirchan tarzda ochib beriladi. Asar insoniy qadriyatlarning millat va hudud tanlamasligini ko‘rsatadi.

Kalit so‘zlar: halollik, savdo madaniyati, mas’uliyat, insoniylik, sotuvchi va xaridor munosabati, ishonch.

Аннотация В данном рассказе через простой случай из повседневной жизни раскрываются такие человеческие качества, как честность, ответственность и порядочность. Автор описывает ситуацию, произошедшую во время покупки наушников в период обучения в России. Несмотря на возникшую небольшую неисправность товара, продавец проявляет честность и ответственность перед покупателем. Рассказ показывает, что такие человеческие ценности, как честность и добросовестность, не зависят от национальности и границ.Ключевые слова: честность, культура торговли, ответственность, человечность, отношения продавца и покупателя, доверие.

Annotation This story highlights values such as honesty, responsibility, and humanity through a simple situation from everyday life. The author describes an incident that occurred while purchasing headphones during his studies in Russia. Despite a minor defect in the product, the seller demonstrates honesty and responsibility toward the customer. The story emphasizes that human values such as honesty and integrity go beyond nationality and borders.

Keywords: honesty, trade culture, responsibility, humanity, seller–customer relations, trust.

Story

I study in Russia. Recently, I bought a pair of headphones. Since the distance was quite far, I asked the seller to deliver them to the place where I live (my rented apartment). He agreed and brought the headphones. I received the product, but the delivery person did not give me even 15 minutes to check it. Therefore, I had to test the headphones later. After he left, I tried them. Unfortunately, the volume control buttons did not work, although the rest of the headphones worked perfectly. I thought, “Never mind,” and decided not to tell the seller about it. After some time, unexpectedly, the seller himself contacted me on Telegram. He asked how the headphones were working. At that moment, I told him the truth — that the volume control buttons were not functioning.

The seller immediately called me and sincerely apologized. He then refunded the full price of the headphones. What surprised me the most was that he also told me to keep the headphones as a gift. Although I am still young, I have visited several countries. In those places, I have also faced various problems while shopping. In many cases, sellers would turn off their phones or simply ignore messages.

This incident proved something to me once again: honesty and conscience do not depend on nationality. Once again, I was impressed by the honesty of the Russian people.

About the Author

Muslimbek Abdukarimov is a computer engineering specialist with a higher education. He works in the field of modern technology. His writings reflect real-life events, human values, and meaningful situations from everyday life.

The Lake of Stars

By: Adham Boghdady – Egypt

Here…

Where the valleys stretch out to meet the horizon,

The mountains rose up to speak their eternal words,

And that lake slumbered peacefully,

Gazing with its wide smile

Upwards toward the sky—

The sky, which became a roof of serene blue,

Sent its color to the lake,

So its waves shivered in ecstasy,

And it burst into happy, hearty laughter.

***

At night,

The sky drew its curtain,

And the stars said:

“O Lake,

Let your surface now shine with pearls,

Be a brilliant mantle

That captivates the minds!”

***

The stillness of the valleys called out to me,

“Come to the lands that found their meaning in silence,

Where the water touches the lips of the stone,

In the Lake of Secrets.”

Fleeing the clamor of life…

I left behind the noise of the cities

And went to an invaluable clarity.

In the mirror of the water,

I saw a splendor

That time had not yet visited.

I swam like a soul wandering without a body,

Hovering around water made of silk.

It is the night of the inspiration of feeling,

At the Lake…

Where the voice of secrets unites with the pearls of the stars forever.

1. Behind the Ironing Board

Hiding for hours

behind the ironing board

in the stuffy room at the back of the house,

body rigid with fatigue and fear.

How much longer?

Will they find her?

Burn her—as they did the others?

Outside, the voices of Nona and her mother,

nonchalance carefully masking naked fear.

In a corner of the room, 

on the pallet-bed, Mahattaya—

Usually so loud with life,

whose kindness made the loneliness

bearable. Now lies, silent and stiff.

Paralyzed. Petrified.

She dozes, and dreams

of the highlands of her childhood.

The air fresh and spicy

like the tea she and Amma used to pluck,

Chilly nights in the little line-room,

squashed between Akka and Thambi,

Stomach hollow with hunger,

heart heavy with hope.

She came to Colombo 

in the winter months of ’82.

Eyes dazed with the heat and hurry.

Crying herself to sleep, clutching letters from home—

“We bought shoes for Thambi, and school books,

medicine for Appa’s cough-

 with the money you sent.”

Amma’s words—

Such a comfort and consolation.

Looking after Baba.

Baba—such a strange conundrum

of angel and devil: a temper erupting

like a burning cauldron.

Little fists beating her,

A tongue scalding her.

Yet, Baba—cuddling close, sharing sweets, 

chattering endlessly, calling her name.

Baba now, crouching beside her

Behind the ironing board,

the mischievously wicked face—now wan.

Sent to the back room with sharp orders

not to speak so loudly in Tamil.

Voices. Violent, virulent, veering closer.

Loku Nona’s voice, calm.

“We’re Sinhalese.”

Silence.

I breathe again. 

They are leaving…

But then—a rough voice.

“Where are your daughter’s husband and child?”

I stop breathing, pull Baba close—

eyes seared, heart raging.

Waiting for the flames 

To rise, engulf—

And burn us,

Whole.

2. Rapture that Never Knew my Name

Slipping in guiltily,
like a would-be thief for sweets,
I stand, outwardly nonchalant,
behind the empty pews.

Memories flooding like a spring breaking free—
Sunday mornings,
lost in dreams while the priest intones,
knees gritty from kneeling on unswept floors.

Amma’s voice—tinny in its high pitch,
singing lustily to prudish hymns.
Rising, kneeling, crossing, genuflecting.
Waiting for the rapture
which never came.

Now, older than Amma was then,
inside that familiar, sacred space,
by chance, not choice,
I stand again, listening—
for rapture that never knew my name.

3. After our Laughter

He used to walk down our middle-class lane

every Saturday afternoon,

A boy my age—a barefoot scarecrow,

with a heavy sack of cow-dung.

Walking bravely, 

a smile as bright as summer—

amidst the boos

and insulting names.

A smelly, funny creature selling cow-dung

to fertilize our plants.

Pausing in the midst of hide-and-seek, hopscotch,

badminton and blind-man’s-buff,

we laugh and cheer at this hilarious distraction

from our conventional, cosy, Colombo existence.

A cheerful clown with cow-dung.

Years wheel by,

neighbours scatter, 

games give way to grown-up routines,

childhood memories blur into nostalgia.

Until, one Saturday afternoon—

A gleaming car.

A tall, polished stranger. 

Something suddenly familiar

in that smile—as bright as summer.