Stella Kwon is a high school student living in Virginia. Her artwork often explores quiet, introspective themes and is inspired by memory, nature, and the edges of ordinary life. She is currently putting together her art portfolio for university.
The Bites of the Mosquitoes
The mosquitoes bit me that night
I could not sleep the whole night
The condition was so drastic
Like the tortured dogs on the roads
The sun was still late to rise
Night, not the night only
A blood sucking night
Sometimes I stood up, sometimes I fell down
On the hot beach of the ocean
The sleepless nightmares for a while suffocated my breath
Though slightly I could avoid death
In this life and death I found myself
Where the sun rose
A shower of lightning ascended to relieve
Who is escorted by the inhabitants of Gaza in these suffering nights?
Can the fearful faces see the light of the day still?
Though the sun rises and awakens us all everyday morning.
Md. Mahbubul Alam is from Bangladesh. His writer name is Mahbub John in Bangladesh. He is a Senior Teacher (English) of Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. Chapainawabganj is a district town of Bangladesh. He is an MA in English Literature from Rajshahi College under National University. He has published three books of poems in Bangla. He writes mainly poems but other branches of literature such as prose, article, essay etc. also have been published in national and local newspapers, magazines, little magazines. He has achieved three times the Best Teacher Certificate and Crest in National Education Week in the District Wise Competition in Chapainawabganj District. He has gained many literary awards from home and abroad. His English writings have been published in Synchronized Chaos for seven years.
It started with a friend request.
I was operating under a pseudonym at the time, blogging about Kaiser Permanente and the physicians whose decisions had left scars—some literal, some systemic. I was part of a loose network of Facebook groups pushing back against corporate medicine, calling out malpractice, and amplifying patient voices. One day, a notification popped up: Kari Lee Krome has sent you a friend request.
I blinked. The Kari Krome? The original visionary behind The Runaways? The teenage firebrand who helped shape the band’s early identity before being pushed out of the spotlight?
She messaged me almost immediately. “You’re my hero,” she said.
I told her who I really was. I told her I was the world’s biggest Runaways fan. And just like that, we were off—an unlikely pair bound by trauma, rebellion, and a shared disdain for sanitized narratives.
Kari had suffered a brain injury in a car accident, and later, she told me, was harmed by a medication prescribed by a Kaiser physician. She was raw, brilliant, and unfiltered. She’d pop into my DMs calling me “Mister,” and referred to herself as my “little sister on a skateboard.” It was a nickname that stuck, and one that still makes me smile.
She gave me an insider’s view of the world behind the Runaways mythology—the depravity of Rodney Bingenheimer, the sickness of Kim Fowley. “I’ll need therapy for life,” she told me once, and I believed her. She spoke of being “incredibly naive” at 14, living with Fowley, and of being “undiagnosed autistic.” Her stories weren’t just confessions—they were dispatches from the edge of a cultural moment that chewed up girls and spat out legends.
When I asked her about David Bowie, she said, “He was a vampire.” No context. No elaboration. I assumed she meant his proximity to the same predatory circles—Rodney on the ROQ, the Sunset Strip’s darker corners.
We collaborated. We co-wrote six songs together. She showed me her songwriting structure—tight, poetic, emotionally surgical. She sent me a story called Mootsie Tootsie, a scabrous, hilarious, and terrifying piece about shooting heroin in a Taco Bell restroom. I published it in my William S. Burroughs tribute anthology. Her poem North of No North appeared in White On White: A Literary Tribute to Bauhaus, alongside contributions from Poppy Z. Brite, Caitlín R. Kiernan, and David J. Haskins.
She was only mentioned once in the Bad Reputation documentary about Joan Jett. It didn’t surprise me. Kari had little regard for the rest of the Runaways. She was the spark behind the band’s original concept, but her role was minimized, her voice nearly erased.
And then, about six months ago, she disappeared. No message. No goodbye. Just silence.
I don’t know what happened. I don’t know if she’s okay. But I know this: I will never forget our friendship. I still have mad love and respect for the woman who called me “Mister,” who gave me a glimpse into the machinery behind the myth, and who reminded me that the most powerful voices are often the ones the industry tries hardest to silence.
Kari Lee Krome is a survivor. A poet. A punk. A sister. And wherever she is, I hope she’s writing, skating, and slowly conquering her demons.
She deserves that. And so much more.
THE STONE
It is the awakening of beginnings,
A pulse born from the silence of ages,
The first memory of existence,
And the voice of the question when it emerged from fear.
In the hand of the first human, it became a tool that holds life,
A spark that lights the darkness,
A ember that preserves the body from the cold of annihilation,
And the first line on the cave wall.
It was a home when a home was unknown,
A sky to seek shade beneath,
A ground that bears the tremor of a step,
And a language that speaks without letters.
From it the story was launched,
Upon it the cry was broken,
In its hollows the trace dwelled,
And through it, humans understood the meaning of being.
In all its transformations, it bore witness,
In the grave, a mark,
In the temple, a symbol,
In the crown, glory,
And in sculpture, immortality.
O you,
Silent one who thinks,
Heavy one who speaks with wisdom,
Secret one dwelling at the edge of time.
I AM NOT AN IDOL
I am not an idol,
nor a silent wall where your voice hides when it fears the void.
I am the breath of the universe when its chest feels tight,
and I am the wound that refuses to become a scar.
I am woman,
not a shadow that follows you wherever you walk,
nor a mirror that polishes your face to see your own glow in it,
but another face of truth,
questioning you when you long for forgetfulness.
I am not a stone that adorns your throne,
I am a wave uprooting silence from its roots,
and a land returning to the seed the whisper of eternity.
You want me as a chain,
but I want you as a journey,
searching with me for a meaning beyond flesh and blood.
I am not an idol,
I am a question dwelling in your eyes,
and an answer written only with the freedom of the soul.
I am woman,
and if you understood me…
if you stood before me without fear and without dominion,
you too would become… human.
A TEST FOR CONSCIENCE
In the silence of closed homes
The stone bleeds from the heat of bodies,
And the gaze of shadows trembles in the corners of the soul,
As if time itself fears to witness.
The hand that strikes is but an echo,
An echo hiding in the hollows of the heart,
And a letter lost amidst the silence of screams,
A soul learning to live without a voice.
In every wound, a river of questions is born,
And in every tear, the philosophy of existence takes shape:
Is freedom merely a distant dream,
Or a secret hidden in the depths of anguish?
The woman is not merely moving silence,
Nor a stone dwelling between walls,
She is a light slipping through the cracks of pain,
A river flowing despite the chains,
And wisdom that cannot be broken by the striking hand.
Every fracture teaches the stone to dream,
Every tear gives the shadow new colors,
Silence becomes a cry,
Pain opens gates to light,
And resilience births a new horizon for life.
Violence against women is a test of life,
An experiment of human awareness,
A test for conscience,
And where the soul endures,
Light springs from the depths of the stone,
And dignity learns it cannot be killed,
Silence becomes strength,
And freedom echoes in every heart that remained silent,
Until the world understands that true power
Lies in respect, and in enabling the soul
To bloom without limits.
TAGHRID BOU MERHI is a Lebanese-Brazilian poet, journalist, and translator, whose writing carries echoes of multiple cultures and resonates with a deeply human spirit. Born in Lebanon, she currently lives in Foz do Iguaçu, Brazil, after spending significant periods in various countries, including eight years in Italy and two in Switzerland, where she absorbed the richness of European culture, adding a universal and humanistic dimension to her Arab heritage.
Taghrid writes poetry, prose, articles, stories, and studies in the fields of thought, society, and religion, and is fluent in six languages: Arabic, English, French, Italian, Portuguese, and Spanish. This allows her to move between languages and cultures with the lightness of a butterfly and the depth of a philosopher. Her works are distinguished by a clear poetic imprint even in the most complex subjects, combining aesthetic sensitivity with a reflective vision of existence.
To date, she has published 23 original books and translated 45 works from various languages into Arabic and vice versa. She has contributed to more than 220 Arabic and international anthologies, and her works have been translated into 48 languages, reflecting the global reach of her poetic and humanistic voice.
Taghrid serves as the head of translation departments in more than ten Arabic and international magazines, and she is a key figure in bringing Arabic literature to the world and vice versa, with a poetic sensitivity that preserves the spirit and authenticity of the text.
She is renowned for her refined translations, which carry poetry from one language to another as if rewriting it, earning the trust of leading poets worldwide by translating their works into Arabic, while also bringing Arabic poetry to the world’s languages with beauty and soul equal to the original.
She is also president of Ciesart Lebanon, holds honorary literary positions in international cultural organizations, serves as an international judge in poetry competitions, and actively participates in global literary and cultural festivals. She has received dozens of awards for translation and literary creativity and is today considered one of the most prominent female figures in Arabic literature in the diaspora.
Her passion for writing began at the age of ten, and her first poem was published at the age of twelve in the Lebanese magazine Al-Hurriya, titled The Cause, dedicated to Palestine. Since then, writing has become an inevitable existential path for her, transforming her into a flower of the East that has spread its fragrance in the gardens of the world.
Anhedonia
I can’t cry
The tearducts are dry
Its been long since death
I still have deep respect
For people who can at will
Break open a floodgate
On something real hard
While I just stand there
Laughing at the littlest detail
I sit on sad movies that make people go ape shit
I get the stories but when shit hits the fan
The sadness never gets to me
What price joy?
A pill that my doctor says to keep a black wolf at bay?
International Day of Peace
The essence of a firefly in a child’s palm,
a faint spark against perpetual night,
echo of laughter in a valley of silence.
Hummingbird graffiti on a concrete wall,
a color that breaks the monotony of hatred,
a musical note out of tune with a war anthem.
Origami cranes,
a thousand wishes folded in paper of hope,
an army of dreams invading reality.
It is not a white flag of surrender,
but a secret garden blossoming ideas,
a weeping willow’s embrace
comforting the warrior.
A river of ink writing new stories,
a canvas painting possible futures,
a constellation of joined hands
illuminating the universe.
GRACIELA NOEMI VILLAVERDE is a writer and poet from Concepción del Uruguay (Entre Rios) Argentina, based in Buenos Aires She graduated in letters and is the author of seven books of poetry, awarded several times worldwide. She works as the World Manager of Educational and Social Projects of the Hispanic World Union of Writers and is the UHE World Honorary President of the same institution Activa de la Sade, Argentine Society of Writers. She is the Commissioner of Honor in the executive cabinet IN THE EDUCATIONAL AND SOCIAL RELATIONS DIVISION, of the UNACCC SOUTH AMERICA ARGENTINA CHAPTER.
leviathan
Dictators ride to and fro upon tigers which they dare not dismount. And the tigers are getting hungry.
Winston Churchill
my sweet boy
oh die in this doll dress
like a god in the arms
of a disbelieving priest
iron rivers bring sand
and suffering on their waves
iron birds bring emptiness
and dampness in their beaks
iron hands bring thirst in their palms
from this sea of fingers
like from waves LEVIATHAN crawls out
his constitution and plenary sessions
of deputies float out onto the plain
silt and silt like pain and pain
interfluve of emptiness and emptiness
and in the middle HE
floats
LEVIATHAN
my friend my
brother my
reflection
my monster
I love you at sunset and at dawn
I vote for you in elections and without a choice
I die for you and I don’t know who you are
because of you I lose
my brother
my son my father my
reflection
and future
priests bless your bloody fangs
war is going on but you
but YOU
don’t resurrect anyone
and hide in your cast iron waves
like in a dead man’s tea night
my sweet boy
you must to die
in this doll dress
you must to die
like a god in the arms
of a disbelieving priest
like silence that is sacrificed
although this silence
will never be broken
HIS eyes are white
like ashes and night
and three times more is ashes of battle
your eyes are sad boy
they are so black as if
leviathan tore you out
and replaced you with stones
when you were a baby
everyone wants to die but doesn’t know it
everyone wants to kill the leviathan
everyone wants to be the leviathan
everyone wants to kill kill kill
because that’s fatalism
the leviathan falls asleep after
lunch along with the thunder
of guns and statechannels
the boy falls asleep
and never wakes up
again
if someone wrote prose about this
the blood would drip like poetry
snowflake isotopes
descend on the city
everyone knows that this city
belongs to the leviathan
gasoline waterfalls descend
from the mountains of scrap metal
sleep my boy sleep
we will wake up in the forge
we will put the seal of emptiness
on your chest and sleep again
in the death row
kill kill kill death
kill kill kill the military
kill kill kill flowers
sleep my boy sleep
we will not wake up
the colonel will arrest us all
and the knot of forced humility
is already hung around our necks
god is coming
the dead are drinking
the silence
*** The author’s version of the poem, that was published in another edition in O:JA&L; Open: Journal of Arts & Letters