Bekobod MFY of the Torakorkan district of the Namangan region settled down in the district’s southern bottom share. In Bekobod village elderly narrate the tale of how, while the khanate of Akhsikent’s noblemen were coming back, tired of faraway battles, they rested under one mulberry in now “Qoʻrgʻon” street.
They were fond of the astonishing climate and decided to stay. Now I live in this place. And the Khanate’s noblemen were born with modern conveniences. And they built a fortress in their space. This space could be equipped with modern conveniences, so they also brought in others. In consequence, they organized a city block. This place bore the name of “BEKOBOD.”
My village’s tribal elders say that earlier somebody didn’t live here, and somebody didn’t do agriculture. Our village’s mentioned above share the given name “Polvon mahalla” to no purpose. In Aksident, working at nobleman position Rajab Alibek has come to migration . He has come to the end, built a fortress with his friends . The fortress has two doors, the quality of one door replaced the fortress’s hillock, and again the quality of one another door replaced the fortress’s down.
Bekobod village’s weather is clean , the village’s weather is pure water , and Bekobod’s people are sincere , good-natured . In our village there is an “Abdulwahab Qori jame ” mosque . Our village is developing day by day . Again New mosque started being built. Including, planned seamstress undertaking for 500 appropriate workers and there is an existent “Abdugʻaffor ota ” memorial souvenir . This person is our village’s pride. Again Number for 9 kindergarten taken liver itself 250 rather small and petite. And 600 students are studying. School Number for 55 is active. History be not future.
Komila Makhmudjonova was born on August 24, 2007, in the Torakorkan district of the Namangan region. Currently, she is a student of a specialized boarding school Number 4. She is one of the most active students at the school.
Kodirova Barchinoy Shavkatovna was born on September 15, 2008. She is a 9th grade student of the 15th general secondary school in the city of Karshi Kashkadarya region and is 16 years old.
You are Unlacing my heart’s matrix You are Brittle lacunae in my bones You are Baffled buffoon in my box You are My balatron from Barnum and Bailey Sputtering Inflected infected lexemes and locutions Morphological languid linguistics Brought down to ex haus tion… Having ab sconded from your flagRant lips All flags are waVinG wAr nings in wailing w inds Like a mal adJusted jester you jUst sit there Barely jEsting Like a Therapist on Theraflu So what am I to do?
Trounced goaded by your giant girth
Inside I am screaming!
Like a trapped Slattern to a pillory
Sh irking fictitious flames stolen from Zeus! You are an onus to my sanity
And an anchor to my vanity So the answer is NO! I don’t want to marry you! You are a bawdy brawny bozo! As we say in French: “Un grivois sans voix…”
Yet still you are MY burly brethren boor…
Giving fit formidable dry thumps… ˈyəummy- Come here…you BIG dumb c*m dump!
On dine ensemble ce soir, chéri?
Jacques Fleury’s book You Are Enough: The Journey Towards Understanding Your Authentic Self
Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured Haitian-American poet, educator, author of four books and a literary arts student at Harvard University Online. His latest publication “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self” & other titles are available at all Boston Public Libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, the University of Wyoming, Askews and Holts Library Services in the United Kingdom, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, Amazon and elsewhere. He has been published in prestigious publications such as Muddy River Poetry Review, the Cornell University Press anthology Class Lives: Stories from Our Economic Divide, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene among others…Visit him at: http://www.authorsden.com/jacquesfleury.
The near-death experience (NDE) came to me when, one afternoon, I went down to the beach of San Vicente de la Barquera, in Cantabria, when the beach was empty, the sea was rough and there was a red flag.
Drunk as I was on Hijoputa (son of the beach) brand honey brand, I went into the water, when suddenly, the waves caught me and dragged me towards the center of the sea, without being able to reach the sand of the beach due to the tiredness and exhaustion of my limbs that did everything possible to save me.
For me this was a lucid event, because I saw myself compromised with Death, since I knew that physically I would die if nobody came to rescue me, swallowing all the water of the sea with all its filth.
With almost no detectable heartbeat, and no breathing due to the water and algae that swallowed me, I traveled through a tunnel, observing a bright light, meeting a mythical being: Genghis Khan, who told me: -I’m meeting the neighbors; accompanied by Musk and Trump, who talked about the Big Con (big scam), and Frankenstein and Dracula, all of them united by mutual gravitational attraction, who were happy to see me alive, and talked about the NDE (Near Death Experience), listening to Genghis who told us:
-We live here now. Here and there, we live in a constant struggle between the Economic Damage Threshold (EDT), referring to the population density in which the costs of incurring in a genocide equals the benefits of not controlling the sale of weapons; and the Threshold of Action (TOA), referring to the population density in which a control action must be carried out, even by killing, to prevent the EDT from being reached.
I got away from these four firecrackers, addressing Genghis, the fertile man, who fathered more than a thousand children with his main wife, with minor wives and concubines that he incorporated into his flock thanks to his conquests, father of humanity, the “star cluster”, who had a goshawk peeking out of his fly, the most alert among the dead.
In the most plausible and arrogant way he grabbed me by the balls in the style that Musk and Trump do with women, forcing me to compose, in the shortest time possible, a poem, which I wrote with seaweed ink and a seagull feather on the back of a Nice of the north (Thunnus alalunga), but not before he told me:
-In the afterlife, the souls of mortals float in the infinite void like wandering stars; the ones that illuminate the most are those of psychopaths and serial killers, occupying the best places in stellar space. Those of other mortals are the turds that float in swamps, ponds, rivers or seas, and cling to water like ticks.
I was dumbfounded. And, when I tried to break the hawk’s neck, he ordered me:
-Come on! Write the poem.
I answered him, making a mistake in my words, because instead of saying: “Yes, my star cluster,” I said: “Yes, my star joke,” without him getting very angry because I was about to drown completely.
This was the poem I composed for him:
GENGHIS KHAN RESURRECTED
Genghis Khan, remembered Mongol
“Mongolo”moron, psychopath par excellence
Great Khan, great dog of Yinchuan
From the Republic of China
Admired serial killer leader
From Eastern Europe
To the Pacific Ocean
And from Siberia to Mesopotamia
India and Indochina
He has been incarnated in some humans:
The favorites, the chosen ones
Since the times of the Printing Press
As we see it
In the History of the times
In our emperors, kings, tsars
Dictators, presidents and heads of state
Whose label is mass extermination
And famine
As announced to us, in his day
A dwarf King Kong
Who died for our sins
On his deathbed.
Already as a child, Chinguis Jaan
That was the name of the guy Genghis Khan
When he was going up some stairs
He got dizzy and fell to the ground
And his group of friends told him:
-Chinguis, don’t be so mean
Be very brave
You were born to rape and kill at random.
He believed it wholeheartedly
Growing up among murders:
That of his brother and his best friend
Rapes of women
Whom he raped three times a week
Cutting off their clitorises with his sword
Making necklaces for himself
And for his warriors who killed the most.
He liked, well, what he loved the most
Was cutting off heads and watching them roll
Screaming these: -Bastard, murderer
You do nothing but nonsense.
His hatred of the Moors was infinite
As is shown today in the nations
Who elect at the polls, or outside of them
Serial killers to govern them
Before, for the desire to steal their jewels
And, today, to steal their oil.
He built pyramids
With corpses and mortal remains
As are seen today made
On the ruins of Palestine
Lebanon, Syria, Ukraine and other nations.
They say that, one day
He went inside his tent.
He peeked through a crack
Seeing one of his warriors coming
Who was approaching him
Fucking his most youthful mare in the ass.
-What did this great murderous Khan do?
He cut off the head of his youthful mare
Putting his brand new sword
In the backside of the warrior
His brand new sword, on the fly.
A fact that was praised by their conquered peoples
I once stood at the edge of a rusty, old bridge, looming over the abandoned train station below. To this day, I still wonder why I was drawn to that station, and why I wanted to end my life there. I come from a refugee family, a family that knew nothing about life in exile except how to eat, make money, drink, and work until you’d smoked through an entire pack of cigarettes. My parents were too old to work but too young to truly enjoy life. I had a twin brother who died just seconds after we were born. Maybe that’s why my mother always saw me as “the special one”—though never in a way that felt special to me.
My father cared about my health, but he cared more about the money I gave him from whatever jobs I could manage. Sometimes, he’d spend it on lottery tickets or buy my mother expensive gifts for no reason at all. On my birthday, all they talked about was my dead twin brother. I never felt their presence, their support. Eventually, I stopped going to school because I had no friends, and I lacked the knowledge I so desperately needed. Everyone from my high school moved on to successful lives. Even Linda—the only girl I ever truly loved.
It was love at first sight with her, but life dealt us both terrible hands. She survived a horrific car crash that left her with brain damage, but her parents weren’t so lucky. Afterward, Linda moved in with her blind, widowed grandmother and dropped out of school. She ended up working as a stripper at a well-known club, lying about her age with a fake ID.
I’d go there sometimes, buy an ordinary beer, and sit pretending I was waiting for a friend. I avoided making eye contact with anyone except the bartender, a divorced woman who seemed as lost as I was. She and I would have fun together occasionally when her kids were with their father in another city. My life was never important; I felt like an unwanted child in God’s land. My days were dull, each one bleeding into the next unless I was too drunk or too depressed to notice.
Then one day, the bartender took her own life. They found her hanging in her living room. No one knew why or how it had come to that. Her children were oblivious, but her ex-husband heard the news and eventually sent them to an orphanage. They were too young to understand that their mother’s death was linked to her battle with alcoholism.
After that, I developed a new habit—going to the abandoned train station to think about ending it all. I felt like there was no one left for me. Who did I have to live for? I wasn’t old, but the grey hairs were already creeping in, along with endless negative thoughts. The bartender had been the only one who knew about my visits to that station. After she died, I felt more alone than ever. Sometimes, I would stay at her house, and she’d treat me like a boyfriend, a lover, even if it was just for a few hours. But after she was gone, the silence became unbearable.
Linda noticed the change in me. I became quieter, more withdrawn. She started talking to me again, trying to reach out. One night, I told her everything that had been weighing on me. I even told her that it would be my last night at the club. When I said that, she started to cry, and so did I. I ran out, not wanting her to see me break down, and I ended up at the train station again, ready to end it all.
But then Linda appeared, wearing a man’s autumn jacket. She screamed my name, ran toward me, and hugged me so tight I could barely breathe.
She whispered, “I love you. Hug me tight and let the world fade away. Your embrace is my refuge, where I feel truly alive.”
With a broken smile, I replied, “When I see you or talk to you, I don’t have to work so hard to be happy. It just happens.”
We kissed under the night sky and took an Uber back to the club, where Linda handed in her resignation. For good.
On Monday, we all resumed school and everyone promised to study well. On that week, we all wrote our first test which was to test the seriousness of a student when they have gone away for holidays. Like water in a basket, the first, second, and third weeks came and passed. On the fourth week, a new student was enrolled in our class, a female student.
We have a classmate called Ummul Khayr who acted as if she knew the girl before. They were classmates in the formal school she attended.
On Tuesday morning, the new student introduced herself to the whole class. She was friendly but a bit proud.
Fatima was the kind that felt proud of herself in the classroom which I hated. So I spoke to her rudely about her arrogance but it led to a serious odium between me and her in the classroom. Fatima and I never spoke to each other in a good manner but we were always being rude to each other. We always had to fight in the classroom every single day since the day we had a misunderstanding with each other.
The first term went by without counseling with each other but we would always find new abusive words to stab each other with. The second term came again and went by but still battling also the third term. We were given a holiday for the end of the school year which makes me think about the issues. I asked myself: Should I stop this rubbish fight? or what will I do?
After the resumption of SS2, I tried my best possible ways to dodge the girl problem but all went in vain till the day I slapped her but still regretted my actions.
The first term passed by and we resumed as “not friends not enemies” and I really enjoyed myself like that. The second term was so special to me because I met the love of my life. In the middle of second term, the school embarked on a excursion to “BILKI BAB”. On that day, I just don’t believe myself when I realized that “NURAINI AND FATIMA” were chatting and smiling with each other.
I have a classmate called Salihu who saw us talking to each other. He announced it to the whole class member and wrote on a paper that “Nuraini and Fatima have started playing love”. some of my friends told me that is there a wish and Salihu said he had a dream about it before.
On our way back to school after the excursion, the bus was full with the story of the new Romeo and Juliet. We continue like that until the speech and prize giving day of my school. The school gave one month holiday that distracted our relationship. So as a newbie poet I wrote a poem and placed it on my cupboard.
Fatimah You are like a weapon that budged the gap between me and odium You are the bridge that bridges my ribs to build a household of love in my heart You are halal theft who took my heart without permission You are a kind kidnapper that kidnapped my feelings and emotions You curtained my heart so that nobody has access to it again Let me tell you, Fatimah My heart is your palace Where you can do anything you like inside, Twerk yourself as fun My heart is a palace that the kingdom In it never ends but you are only the queen forever.
We resumed SS3 in which I became shy of her. So I wanted her to first speak to me but no response.
NOW I bought a chocolate and wrapped it in a lovers’ package gift container, I dressed up in a very ironed suit and walked to the front of the classroom. I brought out the gift and started writing with three colors of markers on the whiteboard.
