Just Another Familiar Face

 His face was all over

 the TV news and the front

 page of all the local

 papers.  It was a familiar

 face to me and the answer

 to one of those trivia quizzes

 you never expect to get

 the answer to: What the hell

 were all those cops doing

 in Richute’s used car lot?

 What they were doing was

 putting the arm on this clown

 I’d been dusting off in

 a series of bar jobs for

 years.  I knew, he was no

 good and not too bright ,but

 killing your sister in law

 and leaving her wired to the

 front door handle with a coat

 hanger and leaving her on

 the block God forgot was

 beyond stupidity.  Being dead

 was bad enough but leaving her

 on Elberon Place, a block from

 where he lived, was not too bright,

 especially with a record

 like the one he had.

 When the captain said,

 “Round up all the usual

 suspects,” they didn’t have

 far to look.  

The Invisible Men

 They knock on the old guy’s

 door with a baseball bat.

 It’s like A Clockwork Orange

 in black and white.

 “Open up, like right now

 or there’s going to be big

 trouble.”

 “Go away, you’ve got no

 business being here.”

 But they do, kicking down

 the door, knocking him

 senseless and rifling all

 the cabinets and drawers,

 withdrawing his life savings.

 On the way out they kick him

 and extra few times in the

 head leaving him senseless

 in a puddle of blood.

 Across the street, in the bar

 with no name, they buy rounds

 of drinks for their friends

 and hangers on, drowning out

 the sirens with classic juke box

 rock and roll. Tipping the bartender

 twenty big ones, they hit

 the bricks around two.

 Later, when questioned, no one

 in the bar remembers seeing

 anyone matching their descriptions.

“We need to talk.”

She said, in a way that meant:

she spoke and I listened.  

I thought about how this one-sided

conversation was about to go,

wondered which transgression

she was going to harp on.  

There were so many to choose from.

As she began to speak,

the opening scenes from the black

and white move, “Night and the City”

began on the muted TV next to

where she was standing.

I watched Richard Widmark

running for his life; long shadows on

concrete and cobblestones.

Soon he’d be trying to steal a good

woman’s money but she was wise to

his ways. Hid her money elsewhere

even if lied and stole from her,

she loved him anyway.  Who could

take advantage of someone as

beautiful and as kind as Gene Tierney?

Richard Widmark could.

I wasn’t the kind of guy someone loved

that much.  

“You’re not listening to me, are you?”

“No.” I admitted.

I watched Widmark rifling through

Gene’s pocketbook. It would all be downhill

from here.

Blood Thirsty Cannibals

The cabbie who was going to

kill himself, dropped me where

Madison meets Lark downtown.

Later, I would think, he must have

been marking his declining years

by how may teeth had fallen out

and it was almost time to die.  

There were a few stories going

around about how he did it but none

of them involved an open coffin so

we’ll never ever know for sure.

I had a reading on Central upstairs,

at the Boulevard bookstore after a slow day

working the bar on a New Year’s Eve.

There was a major weird vibe just being

where I was, nearly seventy degrees outside,

in work clothes, sober and seriously

needing a drink. Didn’t matter much

where, I thought, picked a bar and

wandered in.  The mauve neon should

have been a dead giveaway but I wasn’t

thinking atmosphere, what I was thinking

was Johnny Walker Red now. Called for

a Rob Roy and stared into the face of the most

clueless person who had ever stood behind

a bar. Then I saw all of his lip licking friends

in the backbar mirror staring at me as

if I were chum on the waters. Jesus Harry

Christ, I thought, tried again.

“You’ve heard of a Manhattan, right?

Think Scotch instead of Rye, and pretend

you are making one of those with a whisper

of Dry Vermouth and lemon twist.

You know how to do a lemon twist, right?

If not, I’ll show you. Make it one of those

mini-shakers and pour it over ice and no on

gets hurt, okay? There might even be a nice

tip in it for you.”

Drinking was my avocation in those days

and I took my work seriously sort of like

a blood thirsty cannibal before the main meal.

Thought to myself, that wasn’t a half-bad

title for a poem. I had over an hour to kill

before the reading.  I could get a lot of work

done in an hour. All I needed now was

to keep the piranha at bay, some bar napkins

to write on and a pen.

The Man on the Windshield

Jumps off thruway

overpass, lands on car

doing 70, maybe, 80 m.p.h.,

goes airborne, lands on

windshield of second car,

rebounds off the soft

shoulder/verge. Lives.

Says, the whole experience

gave no meaning to phrase,

“Bad acid flashback.”

Says, it was his third suicide

attempt.  Failed. Sues everyone

involved. Loses. Walks with

a limp now. Looks like shit.  

Anatomy of Broken Lines

Each time I look at the headlines, I see thick dark clouds condensing into a pool of vague bloody rain, with each drop piercing deeply into this world’s melanin. Altering its colours from green to purple, boring into the deep depths ocean of this spaceship.

‎This ocean I say, isn’t just a billion water drops, it is not even a thousand sea fully converged to form the Atlantic this accursed world has ever seen. It is the waters of original sin sinking into the skin of dry land.

‎This is to say our bodies has become a vessel of transmutation, decaying into a Tabernacle caving original sin, because grief lives in us. It becomes a synonymous hyperbole of who we are.

 A pillar of broken stones shattered due to Earth’s rotation, colliding like a planet that chewed itself due its body has indeed become a mechanism of digestion. Breaking flames down into minute pieces of hatred.

‎‎This world has become a filament of dead songs, composed by the torn face of wind. Floating in fireballs that even the numbers in this world lacks the vocabulary to number.

‎‎She carries this world’s flesh, she nurtures them in her womb while she patiently awaits the rise of a bloody moon.

‎‎Only then can we know the true definition of pain, because metaphors itself cannot define it, poetry can only feel it using crooked lines.

‎But the truth can only be seen by telescoping into torture knowing its colour, its genetic material. Untill then this is reality in a fantasy of a broken world.

‎

‎Anthony Chidi Uzoechi, an obsessed Sci-fi writer whose imagination Journeys beyond the heavens of creativity. He is a bonafide member of the Hill Top Creative Art Foundation Minna, a Short story writer, a Poet, Pen artist and a Theologian. He’s an Indigen of Imo State Nigeria. Asides studying and being a Shakespeare Anthony Chidi Uzoechi is an addictive studier, he studies anything significant that comes his way.

‎Just like how the universe is without bound in suspense, Anthony  Journeys into unraveling the deep depth of creativity through writing.

‎Facebook: Anthony Chidi Uzoechi 

Instagram: @anthonychiuzo

X: @anthonychiuzo

‎

‎

The rapid expansion of digital technologies has redefined the foundations of modern societies. This paper examines the multifaceted role of computer literacy as a determinant of human capital development in the twenty-first century. By analyzing its impact on education, professional competitiveness, information security, social interaction, and personal growth, the study underscores the necessity of integrating digital competence into both national strategies and individual development agendas.

Introduction

The twenty-first century is widely described as the era of digital transformation. The accelerated growth of information and communication technologies (ICTs) has reshaped nearly all domains of human activity, from education and healthcare to governance and business. International organizations such as the World Bank and the United Nations emphasize a strong correlation between a nation’s digital capacity and its economic performance, educational quality, and institutional effectiveness [1][2]. Within this framework, computer literacy emerges not merely as a technical skill but as a strategic resource for sustainable human development in the globalized world.

The Role of Computer Literacy in Modern Society

1. Education

Digital literacy enhances learners’ autonomy and fosters innovative approaches to knowledge acquisition. Access to online databases, electronic textbooks, and interactive platforms facilitates self-directed learning and critical engagement with academic content. Empirical studies by UNESCO suggest that educational systems with high digital competence levels achieve up to 30% higher learning outcomes compared to systems with limited digital integration [3]. This demonstrates the catalytic role of technology in academic advancement.

2. Professional Development

In contemporary labor markets, computer literacy constitutes a baseline requirement rather than an added qualification. A survey conducted by the World Economic Forum in 2024 reported that 92% of employers demand at least fundamental digital competencies from potential candidates [4]. Moreover, ICT proficiency enables professionals to adapt across diverse fields, including medicine, engineering, business, and creative industries. The global shift toward remote employment further illustrates how computer literacy facilitates access to international labor markets, thus enhancing global workforce mobility.

3. Critical Thinking and Cybersecurity

Computer literacy encompasses more than operational skills; it includes the capacity for critical evaluation of digital content and responsible online behavior. Given that cybercrime inflicted economic damages exceeding 8 trillion USD worldwide in 2023 [5], awareness of cybersecurity practices has become essential. A digitally literate population is better positioned to safeguard personal information, resist disinformation, and contribute to the establishment of a secure digital ecosystem.

4. Social Interaction

ICT has revolutionized communication and collaboration, fostering both local and global integration. Tools such as video conferencing, e-learning platforms, and social media networks enable individuals to participate more actively in civic and professional life. Estonia, for example, is internationally recognized as a digital nation where over 99% of government services are provided online [6]. This model illustrates how digital competence enhances transparency, efficiency, and citizen engagement in governance.

5. Personal Growth

On an individual level, computer literacy broadens opportunities for lifelong learning, entrepreneurship, and creativity. Platforms such as Coursera and Udemy democratize access to education, allowing millions of learners worldwide to acquire new skills and advance their careers [7]. Furthermore, digital tools encourage personal development by supporting creative expression, intellectual exploration, and participation in the global knowledge economy.

Conclusion

Computer literacy has evolved into a fundamental prerequisite for success in the contemporary world. It contributes not only to academic and professional advancement but also to the protection of digital security, the strengthening of civic participation, and the enrichment of personal life. Consequently, policymakers should prioritize the integration of computer literacy within national education and development strategies, while individuals should recognize it as an indispensable component of lifelong growth. Ultimately, digital literacy represents the cornerstone of sustainable progress in the information society.

Hasanbayev Sardorbek Ne’matjon oglu — born on January 1, 2009, in Namangan district, Namangan region. He studied at Secondary School No. 22 in the district until the 6th grade, completed the 7th grade at Specialized State Boarding School No. 21, and is currently an 11th-grade student at the Namangan District Specialized School. From childhood, he has been passionate about English, mastered it thoroughly, and holds an international IELTS certificate.

The Metamorphosis of Dreams

I gather the faces of people,
in the treasure of folly,
engraving upon my poor dress
a song, a silent prayer.
I add colors to creation,
to weave a metamorphosis,
one after another,
echoing the depths of happiness.
I am your dream,
O people of reason,
a condition veiled in wonder,
eyes gazing towards tomorrow.
The streets are empty,
hearts outstretched,
trodden by the weight
of silent doubt.
I adapt to grandeur,
inhabiting an incapacity,
visible to all,
my nakedness, my fragility.
My feet are nailed
to the pavement’s face,
showcases of sorrow,
where hope feels faint.
Sometimes it sighs,
and sometimes it softens,
your dream, O people of words,
is sweeter, but often forgotten.
For I am the one who wanders,
or do people wander with me?
A dervish in a circle,
lost in a memory.
I emerge, my soul pours forth,
between its lines, the strings
of longing for the sanctuary’s robe,
and the blessings that true love brings.
They slept upon the shoulders of time,
testimony of interwoven moments,
signs of exchange,
a miracle yet to be found.
***

A Martyr
Sign me up, right here,
To a womb that defies history’s commute.
Inscribe my name.
Never did I nurse from the breasts of women in a slave market.
I could not trust mystics,
Nor did their bells ring recognition in my heart.
A million fears
My fears, multiplied a millionfold,
When I find death staring into my life,
When I see coffins stacked,
Black as the tears of rain.
May God grant you a long life,
To console homes filled with sorrow—
The bodies of the martyrs,
Whose lives gifted you freedom.
Beside the widows and orphans,
Gallows craft your dreams,
Selling your heart on the very first road.
Be a martyr.
***
A frame to image painful
Sorrows planted deep inside hearts,
Awakening seeds of fear,
With horror facts concealed and capped.
Dressed in the wear of silence,
The sorrows of the day were sown—
A sign upon a grave, a dub
To the slow death of man, unknown.
Silence is no picture of them,
Without a paint, it’s stark and grim.
Accepted: you die anonymous,
Though in your truth, you live a dream.
Though your heart in desert carries home,
Though your age was right for your own land,
Accepted: you die anonymous,
Like Zia’s glory, a vanishing strand.
When such a spirit’s light extinguishes,
And disappears, a beautiful dream ends,
Accepted: you die anonymous.
Too, houses died, their doors against walls bend.
Her streets, they mourned; the night came, withered,
Leaving a body, chronically loved,
A shiny star, whose songs no longer tethered
To the moon, now silently removed.
Rumored, the last beats from your heart,
You felt and then announced absence.
Faces passed like dreams, printed apart
On the plate-blooded board of lost essence.
Regrets the eye which saw of leaving
At mystery. It was not inspiring—
A frame to image aching, ever grieving.

***
Probability

The wheat stalks breathe you in,
Braid your letters for the evenings.
And stir your songs the day they met
Upon his face, the silence… the flock of stillness.
Depart to where we began our journey,
Indeed, the streams hold but fragments.
To a time squandered,
Forgive my death when I choose you,
To the mercy of the devout, in protest,
To the dwelling of the wound,
The distance of desolation.
And your endurance was to borrow
From the star, the day of collapse’s rituals.
Within you, the debasement of poems eludes,
Towards the sunrise.
And you quiet above some plains
The languages of apprehension,
In your sailing times.
You soothe the blaze of solitude… cities,
And pour into the eye the tears of reunion,
Branches from the beginning we were,
For the land of severance.
We carry to it the beseeching letters,
To write in love,
The beloved’s spinning song.
And you still swear by the earthquake,
So as to prepare a new homeland,
Which the questions lost in their lament,
And the impossible bolted its gates
With bursts of time that began to depart.
You never left the harvests of remembrance,
That we were quenching.
With your silence, visions will not overflow
The boundaries of emptiness.
And we…
Are in vain.

***

The child residing deep inside me

The child residing deep inside me,
When fear ignites, blazes with delight,
Shattering every frame,
Out into the street, he openly proclaims
His right to taste a morsel of truth.
With utter innocence, he’d plead with the sun’s rays,
As they arrived to confiscate tomorrow’s darkness.
He never knew that the morrow,
Lying slain on the heart’s threshold,
Was already sacrificed.
The child residing deep inside me,
Quietly gathers fragments from the shadow
Of the girl fallen from the window of desire.
He passes from beneath the navel,
To the furthest lip at the edge of the house,
Retreating to the corner, at the furthest bank,
And in the dark rooms, he rattles
Matchboxes.
The child residing deep inside me,
Has but one hand,
With it, he gathers the world before him,
Drawing it in clusters.
And within his notebook of dreams,
He scribbles, then redraws.
The child residing deep inside me,
Is inherently stubborn.
He demolishes every dream in an instant,
The moment he awakens
To a new dawn.

Abdel Latif Mubarak, also known by his Arabic name عبد اللطيف مبارك, is an Egyptian poet and lyricist born in 1964 in Suez . He is widely recognized as one of the most important poets of the 1980s. His poems have been published in numerous literary journals in Egypt and the Arab world, including Arab Magazine, Kuwait Magazine, News Literature, Republic Newspaper, AI-Ahram, and The New Publishing Culture . ^[ 1 ]

Abdel Latif Mubarak’s fame rests on his distinctive poetic style, which skillfully combines the beauty of words with profound reflection on aspects of life and humanity. His verses are imbued with sensitivity, emotion, and a profound understanding of the human condition.

Over the years, Mubarak has received numerous awards and accolades for his work. In 2014, he was honored with the Arab Media Union’s Shield of Excellence and Creativity, recognizing his significant impact on poetry and literature. In 2021, he also won the prestigious East Academy Shield of Excellence and Creativity, a testament to his continued perseverance and dedication to his craft.

Food Poisoning

He has a solid case

Of food positioning

And he hates this 

So much

The only bright spot

Is that the bad stuff started

When he was 

In his hotel room.

Taylor Dibbert is a poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of, most recently, “On the Rocks.”

Self-Doubt

Thoughts may turn against themselves

They wont let me be

Self doubt fills 

This endless sea.

This whole scenery

May be a picture

Right in front of me.

When I can look past this

picture of 

A false scene

I’ll know that

I am now free

My captor knows that I have fled

And they have set

A trap for me.

When I return

To the woods

Self Doubt lays in wait for me

They’ll rope me up and lead me down

to a grand old tree

With a grand old hanging

Just for me.

Poem in Which an Eclipse Passes, but You Still Don’t Love Me

That day, I watch two dancing fish

in our campus garden’s pond. I call

the pale one Moon and red one Sun

and imagine they are us.

Empty-bellied, light-deprived,

Moon brushes Sun’s face with their tail

until the dance stops.

Moon swims away,

alone.

That’s how I know Moon is me—

queer fish in a straight pond—

and you are just another Sun.

That day, you watch the real eclipse

somewhere else on campus,

staying far from my orbit.

I sit with the fish and plead:

Can we at least love each other

in Eclipse Time?

That transient, mystical minute when

moon and sun can embrace?

But the moon strays from the sun again,

and you don’t come to dance with me.

We are still who we are, and

even an eclipse can’t change us.

Sea in Me

“But [my love] is all as hungry as the sea,

And can digest as much.”

—Twelfth Night

What’s inside me isn’t sad.

It leaks not just from my eyes.

It’s soaked my insides all

this time. Those who’ve waded by

never dared to dive

into the depths of

desperation

gurgling in my guts.

But you have whetted the sea

in me: waters I swallowed

for so long.

Ink in your hair has

dissolved in my skin.

Now my body aches to regurgitate

you in floods of liquid love

I’ve never shared on paper.

You see them in their sea-green glory:

saliva-waves of love,

acid-waves of love,

sweat-waves of love,

milk-waves of love,

blood-waves of love!

You baptize yourself in it all.

I will let it lap you up.

Ollie Sikes (they/them) is a young queer writer based in Dallas, TX. They hold a double BA in Creative Writing and Theatre from Butler University. Currently, they’re interning with Copper Canyon Press and EJL Editing and serving as Editorial Assistant for Broad Ripple Review. Though they were published multiple times in Butler’s undergrad lit mag, this would be their first professional publication.