Through the lonely roads 



My heart flickers like a light bulb

The pain strikes in voltages

My blood runs completely cold,

As i look into the palms of death with empty eyes

With smeared ghosts of human imprints

Just a few o'clocks from midnight

And a few still till the beauty of the heavens rises



I've motioned fiercely,

On the deadly roads of gruesome art,

Spills of blood from rage and tears from empathy

Mourning songs from the night creatures

And exotic smells from nature



Flooded with the overwhelming need to run panic stricken

Like a frightened deer, so afraid

My feet glue to the ground

My heart flickers even more, startled

And i feel my hairs stand on end

holding erect until i let out a scream



Do i give up? Do i not ?

My memories all are labyrinths

I do not seem to find an escape

I nip at a canteen of courage and tell myself not to panic

Will i not?

Perhaps i said i was a woman too quickly,

Because i feel like a little girl



As the sun slips into the afternoon sky,

I keep telling myself not to panic

But i begin to shout but my own voice mocks me

In echoes bouncing off the walls of this dungeon that surrounds me

Just another series of fraught shouts, bringing nothing but my echo



My cries, my screams, my fear

They don't make me

Though sheer the climb is, hands, feet, like claws
 
I will work my way up like a spider

The sound of my own breathing and grunting is so loud it startles me




Ayanda Edna Dlanga is a young poet with a dream of becoming an acclaimed author. Fueled with a lifelong love for storytelling and expressing emotions as they are. 

THE ROLE OF DIGITAL INFORMATION TECHNOLOGIES IN THE IMPLEMENTATION OF CASHLESS PLASTIC CARDS IN BANKS

Lapasova is the daughter of Marguba Zakir
Student of the Jizzakh branch of the National University of Uzbekistan
lapasovamarguba04@gmail.com 
Phone: (90)-488-76-70

Abstract: The article contains a number of points regarding the analysis of the implementation of cashless settlements in commercial banks of Uzbekistan. 
Keywords: Plastic cards, digital technologies, mobile banking, SMS-banking, Bank-Client, retail banking services, banking system.
Enter. Currently, the process of opening plastic cards to customers is quickly prepared by commercial banks in our country through modern (EISA) programs.

The main part. In the conditions of financial globalization, the competition between banks to attract large corporate clients has increased, and the market of banking services in Uzbekistan is becoming one of the promising areas of ensuring bank income and competitiveness. At the moment, retail services occupy a special place in the market of banking services, and they are mainly aimed at satisfying the population's demand for financial and banking services. It is known that retail banking services are distinguished by a number of features, in particular, individuals are the main consumers, although the volume of transactions is small, the costs are higher compared to corporate banking services, and the services are aimed at meeting personal requirements. The President of the Republic of Uzbekistan Shavkat Mirziyoyev Miromonovich stated in his address to the Oliy Majlis that "wide implementation of digital technologies in the activities of banks will be in the center of our attention." The volume of retail banking services provided by commercial banks of our Republic is increasing year by year. The number of deposits intended for the population is increasing, the volume of operations with plastic cards is increasing, the practice of issuing consumer and mortgage loans is improving.

Resolution 2751 of the President of the Republic of Uzbekistan dated February 2, 2017 "to further encourage the development of the cashless settlement system, to meet the demands for plastic cards, terminals and related equipment, as well as non-bank transfer of funds special attention is focused on reducing turnover
of the President of the Republic of Uzbekistan " On additional measures for the further development of the cashless payment system based on plastic cards " No. PQ-433 of August 3, 2006 is provided at the beginning of the second letter of paragraph 1 to extend the period of validity of customs privileges until January 1, 2020.

Bank microprocessor plastic cards, manufacturers of payment terminals, processing centers of retail payment systems are effective from imported raw materials, consumables and components, software tools and licenses for the production of plastic cards, terminals, ATMs, infokiosks and other equipment. and ensure strictly targeted use and calculations by means of these, and in the future their production should be localized.

Also, the regulations on non-cash payments in the Republic of Uzbekistan, the Civil Code of the Republic of Uzbekistan, "On the Central Bank of the Republic of Uzbekistan", "On Banks and Banking Activities" and in accordance with the laws "On Payments and Payment Systems" in the Republic of Uzbekistan, the procedure for making cashless settlements of legal entities and individuals using payment documents is established. One of the most widely used types of retail banking services today is plastic card services. Plastic cards have their advantages for banks and citizens. Also, today, making payments for various products and services through the Internet and electronic systems is becoming more and more sophisticated. The widespread use of plastic cards and mobile communication is creating the basis for the development of the sector. In particular, the use of information and communication technologies in areas such as consumer credit, remittances, and deposit operations is at an initial stage. It is also important to study foreign experience in further expansion of plastic card services. Looking at the foreign experience of plastic card services. This type of payment has been used in the Australian banking and financial system for more than twenty years. 

Over the past years, a lot of experience has been accumulated in this regard. Innovative ideas were introduced to the industry. As of today, the number of plastic cards in circulation is 6 per person. 6 issued plastic cards for each working population corresponds to ta. Credit cards are used within the specified limit, and the debt incurred through the plastic card is returned to the customer within a convenient time. International "Visa", "MasterCard" and "American Express" bank credit cards are mainly used in Australia. In recent years, as a result of the decrease in the demand for cash and the expansion of cashless payments, the number of payment terminals installed in sales and service outlets in the country is increasing significantly. In our country, as a result of the development of the settlement system through plastic cards, the demand for cash is decreasing year by year. In particular, in comparison to 2018-2019, there is an increase in the number of people carrying out operations and sales through bank plastic cards.

Summary. The development of bank card transactions, the possibility of introducing a scoring credit system, the gradual development of services such as "internet-banking", "mobile-banking", "SMS-banking", and the improvement of services such as money transfers and electronic payment in our republic determines the prospects for the development of retail banking services.

Useful literature:
1. "Economy and innovative technologies" scientific electronic magazine. No. 1, January-February , 2014
2. Decree of the President of the Republic of Uzbekistan on the strategy of actions for the development of the Republic of Uzbekistan in 2017-2021
3. Bekchanov M., Abdurakhmanov R. Plastic card - a modern means of settlement. // Market, Money and Credit. No. 9. 2012.B.14
4. Abduvakhidov F. Accounting in commercial banks./ Study manual. - T.: "ECONOMY-FINANCE", 2012 - y.

Weightlifter’s Dilemma, or Upon Looking at a Surrealist painting by Andrew Ferez

(Photo above is of a clown’s face with purple curly hair and white face paint and a big nose suspended above a desk with a microphone)

What the body lifts and carries
Around like a second skin
It sooner memorizes the weight
As it grows inured to the pain

Clowns must be the unborn
Children of Sisyphus, smile
Despite and in spite of –if they only
Knew art is more than a discipline

Takes a while for the heart to catch up
When it does, it surrenders the key
To a floodgate that opens at three
Next thing you know, each morning

The heart wakes up in a circus tent
Of acrobats juggling heavy objects
Handles them like they’re made of air
Who cares about weightlifting clowns?

——-
Biographical note:

Emeniano Acain Somoza, Jr. considers himself the official spiritual advisor of his roommates, Gordot and Dwight – the first a goldfish, the other a Turkish Van cat. His works have been published in The Poetry Magazine, Moria Poetry Journal, Fogged Clarity, Everyday Poem, Loch Raven Review, The Buddhist Poetry Review, The Philippines Free Press, Troubadour 21, Full of Crow, Indigo Rising, Asia Writes, Triggerfish Critical Review, Troubadors 21, Gloom Cupboard, TAYO, Haggard & Halloo, and elsewhere. His first book, A Fistful of Moonbeams, was published by Kilmog Press in April 2010. His second, Kleenex Theory, published by Createspace-Amazon, came out in 2015. He is busy anthologizing emptiness and boredom at the moment.

Saturday night
she wears her 
pressed-flower face


which came first
her madness
or her art


behind me
phantom shadow
with a fist


round faces 
 built of cubes
  featured in
   rectangular galleries
    with oval windows


I tell complete strangers
about my pain . . .
climate despair


Swiss-cheese memory . . .
glimpses of past weddings
some of them hers

Roberta Beach Jacobson
Indianola, Iowa, USA


Bio: Roberta Beach Jacobson (she/her) is drawn to the magic of words–poetry, song lyrics, flash fiction, puzzles, and stand-up comedy. Her latest book is Demitasse Fiction: One-Minute Reads for Busy People (Alien Buddha Press, 2023).

A Concise Anatomy of the Esotericism between

a Surajmukhi¹ and Madhumakkhi²

for Nashwa Y. Butt and Umme A. Ali

after The Sunflower by Gustav Klimt (Austria), 1906–1907 CE

If we could see the miracle of a single flower clearly our whole life would change.

– Siddhartha Gautama (Buddha)

   I.

“You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours”—

such utilitarian dictums can hardly ever qualify

as the koh-e-noor³ (in a queen’s crown) to embellish

the Throne of Esotericism – the omniscient guardian

of the coalescence b/w a surajmukhi and madhumakkhi,

as the subatomic electric charges labour to preserve an atom.

N.B.

The exordium and epitome of the aforesaid hum-nafasi⁴

manifests naturally on the grounds of Bauhausian Minimalism:⁵

each simply gives ‘n takes ≯ one’s ^original/_organic ^desires/_dreams!

   II.

AND the Fruits of Philanthropic Labour:

the ↑ the volume of donation of the floral nectar,

     the ↑ the rate of generation of the extrafloral nectaries;

the honey from the bee’s belly relishes the reputation

     as the universal remedy for all manner of ailments;

the mysterious constituents of God’s formulae

     for the propagation of ^macro/_microcosms are laid bare.

© Saad Ali

______________

^1. Surajmukhi (Sanskrit): Sunflower.

^2. Madhumakkhi (Sanskrit): Honeybee.

^3. Koh-e-Noor (Persian): Mountain of Light.
^4. Hum-nafasi (Persian): Breath-sharing companionship.

^5. Bauhaus (1919–1933 CE): The European Modernist Movement/German Art school – with an emphasis upon:

a) combining crafts and fine arts, b) functionality, and c) minimalism (in architectural design).

Le Souvenir: Clay Spinning Top

for Maimoona & Anwaar

after The Spinning Top Game (Le jeu De Toupies) by Nasreddine Dinet (France), 1924 CE

   The famous Mall Road connects the Cantonment area to almost all the major towns and boulevards of the Metropolitan. (The City still has a long, long journey to complete to be truly known as a ‘Cosmopolitan’.) Thanks for the very dual carriageway – with a lush mixed cluster of Pepal, Amaltas, Mahwa, Ticoma, Gul-e-mohar, and Kachnar trees for a green belt (wide dividing strip) – for, it will also take you to the Old City in < 45 odd minutes – provided you don’t travel during the rush hours; provided the weather, power supply, traffic lights, and traffic wardens behave themselves.

   On the way to the Old City, you find an assortment of classic and (post-)modern iconic buildings – from The British Raj Era, too – on either side of the 8–10 km long stretch: Governor’s House, Alhamra Arts Council, Aitchison College, National College of Arts, Museum, Cathedral Church of Resurrection, Masonic Temple, Bagh-e-Jinnah, et cetera. … The Bagh-e-Jinnah (formerly: Lawrence Gardens) is also a home to a 150-year-old tree – Banyan (a hybrid of Banyan branches + Karnikar branches (Kanaka Champa)). … And, if you happen to be an aficionado of history/architecture/arts, you can easily become overwhelmed by the (colour) schemata of the (post-)colonial portrait that the very route happens to be; you can easily find yourself teleported to the late 19^th–early 20^th century CE—when the iconic (London’s) red double-decker buses were also in service in conjunction with the tonga service. Back in the 1930s–40s, the City of Lavapuri/City of Gardens¹ offered an exemplar landscape of (the British/European) modernity.

   *

   This past Summer of ’23 CE, I had had to make the journey – via the very boulevard – to my grand/parents’ ancestral town called Islampura (formerly: Krishan/Sant Nagar) to re-procure a clay spinning top from an old seller of old clay toys. Reason being: the helper had managed to break one from the pair that sat atop my workstation in the study at my place, while she also left the assortment of my journals, fountain pens, ink pots, poem scribbles, pen pouches/holders, lead/mechanical pencils, pair of mechanical keyboards, marble paperweights, cigarette/case + lighters, metal/wood ashtrays, ceramic incense burner, A3/A5 sticky notes, and books hither and thither.

   The clay toy can be easily classified as a souvenir in today’s IT/AI Age. I doubt, if the contemporary generations – Generation Z & Generation Alpha – are even aware of its existence, let alone being aware of where to acquire one. … The clay toy is even far, far older than the times when my grand/parents used to play with it in the streets – laid with bricks made of clay.

   *

   I’m yet to learn to properly operate it – wrap the thin string around its top, middle, bottom; then, with a flick of the wrist unleash the spinning top so as to induce a hundred or so anti/clockwise rotations to it per release.

   Every now ‘n then, I manually make the souvenir whirl on the palm of my left hand – wrong-hand – with a musical adaptation (remix) of رقص ذرات / “Poem of the Atoms” by Jalal al-Din Balkhi (Rumi) playing in the background via YouTube:

O’ Day, rise! So that the particles begin their dance

…

The souls become mystified and joyfully dance

I whisper in your ear where they will dance

..

Every particle, whether joyful or sad,

is infatuated with the light of the Beloved!²

© Saad Ali

______________

¹ Lavapuri (Sanskrit): According to the Hindu tradition/mythology, the City of Prince Lava/Loh – son of God Rama and Goddess Sita (see the Hindu epic poem Ramayana by Valmiki (Adi Kavi/First Poet). Modern day Lahore – the capital city of the Punjab province in Pakistan.

² English translation by Reza Fattahi.

by the force of space + time

for N. Karfakis, L. Jacobs, E. Rahim & Nashwa Y. Butt

after Metaphysical Triangle by Giorgio de Chirico (Italy), 1958 CE

   i

the dandelion seed-light tips of S’s fingers don’t seem

to be familiar with the hypotheses of a beam of light

as the vessel of hypotheses and/or the theoretical theatrics

of e=mc^2[1] and/or the Einsteinian relativity of space + time^[2]

and/or the laws of motion of Newtonian gravity^[3] and/or

the Galilean invariance^[4] and/or Copernican heliocentrism.^[5]

   ii

the wine cork-light fingers simply cannot match the momentum

of the ripples of the keys on his black + blue + red themed

Keychron K2 Pro Chinese mechanical keyboard.

the buraq-like^[6] keys seem too euphoric to perform an ascension

into the superverse of ars poetica. but like the Icarus’ wax-wings,

S’s sunflower petal-light fingers don’t seem to possess

neither the empathy nor the valiance of one Prometheus’

to meet the singularity and be rendered ashes.

   iii

i know a (prose) poem is seeking a refuge

in the cave of these apophthegms ‘n paronomasias.

i know by the time the rails of verses emerge

from the slumber – of a sleeping gypsy’s;

utterly unaware of the sniffing hungry lioness –

maybe in 300 years or so – like the Seven Sleepers

of the cave – they will only be meeting the light of day

to learn of the obsoleteness of their currency.

   *

and i am rather afraid, too afraid to install an anchor of period

anywhere on the floor of the galley. the vessel is best left

trembling in the wake of the seismic gravity of letters.

© Saad Ali

______________

^[1] e=mc²: Theory of Special Relativity by A. Einstein (1905 CE) – with an emphasis upon: a) ‘inertial frames’ (speed of light is constant), and b) merger of space and time; where, time = 4^th dimension.

^[2] The Theory of General Relativity by A. Einstein (1917 CE): ‘Gravity’ is a result of the shape of space-time/geometry of the universe.

^[3] The Three Laws of Motion by Sir I. Newton (1687 CE): Principle of Inertia, Principle of Momentum, and Principle of Action/Reaction.

^[4] The Theory of Special Relativity proposed by G. Galilei (1632 CE): the laws of motion remain the same in all ‘inertial frames of references’ (objects moving at a constant speed).

^[5] The Sun-centric Astronomical Model proposed by N. Copernicus (1543 CE) – opposed to the 2^nd century CE Geocentric Model (Earth at the centre) by C. Ptolemaeus.

^[6] Buraq (Islamic tradition): Chimera (with a body of horse, head of human, and wings).

Biography

(Wordcount: 153)

Saad Ali (b. 1980 CE in Okara, Pakistan) has been brought up and educated in the United Kingdom and Pakistan. He is a bilingual poet-philosopher and literary translator. His new collection of poems is titled Owl Of Pines: Sunyata (AuthorHouse, 2021). He has translated Lorette C. Luzajic’s ekphrastic poetry and micro/flash fictions into Urdu: Lorette C. Luzajic: Selected Ekphrases: Translated into Urdu (2023). He is a regular contributor to The Ekphrastic Review. He has had poems published in Synchronized Chaos. His work has been nominated for the Best of the Net Anthology. He has had ekphrases showcased at an Art Exhibition, Bleeding Borders, curated at the Art Gallery of Grande Prairie in Alberta, Canada. Some of his influences include: Vyasa, Homer, Ovid, Attar, Rumi, Nietzsche, Freud, Jung, Kafka, and Tagore. He enjoys learning different languages, travelling by train, and exploring cities/towns on foot. To learn further about his work, please visit: www.saadalipoetry.com; www.facebook.com/owlofpines.

History Guide

Sometimes history becomes a burden,

a block, a block in the road we can bump

over or go around. It never gets out of

the way on its own, especially here in

Europe where tour guides feel compelled

to place the churches and buildings we pass,

place them in the context of time. Sometimes

they can stretch it, shape it to fit the moment

and group riding along on their every word.

There were fires and bombings, assassinations

and dynasties that disappeared. There were

religious wars that are hard to explain, explain

how whole cathedrals changed, switched sides

a few centuries back. But the old stuff seems

tame compared to things tourists might recall:

WWI and WWII and who was neutral and who

fell victim, and there’s the Berlin wall and all

the things connected to it, countries freed and

never wanting to return to the walls of various

sorts. It’s their history, so their take on it varies

place to place, personality to personality, with

the guilty being charged or found not guilty.

Most tourists belong to the half listen and nod

off club. Most of what the guide struggles with is

lost on them – lost in this strange place and time.

                   Climate Change

This is not the climate we were born into,

It’s the climate we brought on ourselves.

They even warned us, but we continued

Until we arrived here, surprised for some

Reason. As if all this wasn’t predicted. Just

Watch tremendous downpours and floods.

Then feel the heat rising and harvest these

Empty fields. Swim out in water as warm as

Bathtub water, even hotter. Watch weather

Programs trying to explain what’s happening

As if we can take it in stride – microbursts to

Macro, cyclones to hurricanes, fronts and

Storms of every sort. We get more of them

To name, as if they were our children acting

Out, beyond our control. We love “climate

Change” and “global warming.” We’ve come

To love getting our words to fit what’s going

On around us – like Adam and Eve naming all

The animals they came across. Our version of

This naming may be about the end and not

Some beginning that will play out as we watch.

                                                    In Line

We’re in line

This time

To check

Our legitimacy –

Passport Immigration Inspection.

In line

This time

We know how it goes

Step up

Get a nod

Or sent off to the side.

It’s like a moment

From a movie

About Hitler and Nazis.

Imagine the fright

The worry

As if we were

Jews and gypsies

Hoping to pass

To get the nod

And not the other.

Yes, we’re in line

This time

But history has saved us

At least for now.

Previously published in Children, Churches and Daddies 

Kitten
 

"Cream of Wheat," said the young woman with a sigh, closing the menu and addressing her waitress.  It was 6 a.m. and Georgia had bustled into the Corner Diner, simply ravenous from a hard night's work.   She could have chosen to eat anything. but no, she still had a few pounds to lose, so she would be good.  It was very hard, however, and Georgia was in a constant struggle to contain her appetite; she loved to eat. 

 

As if scenting blood, the waitress asked, leaning in, "You want anything to go with that, Hon'?" 

 

Georgia thought hard for a moment, scowled, then said, "Yes!  Three eggs, over-easy, bacon, sausage, a breakfast steak and toast."  The more she thought of food the more she was compelled to order.  Okay, so she wasn't being so good.  "And a glass of orange juice, coffee, and a short stack," she added hastily.  Then she said, "do you have biscuits and gravy?"  The waitress just stared at her.  "Half order," said Georgia determinedly.

 

"Will there be anything else?" asked the waitress sardonically.

 

"Yes," said Georgia.  "Don't forget the hot sauce!"

 

"Wouldn't wanna do that, Hon'," the other woman assured her, then smiled and

flipped closed her order pad.

 

Georgia looked past the counter at which she sat and into the kitchen, in the rear

of the restaurant. There she spied what she supposed was the cook, a really tiny

woman with freckles and a red bandana wrapped round her dark hair.  She

appeared to be smoking a blunt.  Georgia was rather intrigued.

 

"Order up," snapped the waitress, ringing a bell and slipping order receipts under little spring-loaded hooks in front of he kitchen window.  "B & G, hamburger, chiliburger, three over-easy, breakfast steak, short stack, full stack and another

B & G..." 

 

Georgia could see the little cook roll her eyes as the waitress rattled on, then take the reefer from her mouth and next tackle preparing the food. The waitress returned, filling Georgia's coffee cup, said,

 

"Wanna donut?  They're free.  These are the old ones. They were fried last night, and we don't charge for them after 6 a.m."

 

"Sure," replied Georgia, still voraciously hungry.  She glanced at the waitress's

name tag, saw "Marj"  emblazoned on the plastic.  The ageless waitress ducked

her head into a display case and turned up a blueberry donut, served it on a

small plate.  "I could get you a fresh one, but then I'd hafta charge you a buck."

 

"Thanks...Marj."  The other woman smiled. 

 

"I'll just check on your order," she said, and then swept back to the kitchen.   She returned.  "Comin' right up, Hon'."

 

Georgia had a sudden idea.  "Say, Marj," she said, would it be alright if I go back to the kitchen and talk with the cook?"

 

"Help yourself, Baby, she could probably use the company.  Her name's Andrea."  Georgia smiled her thanks and slipped off her stool and headed back to the rear.  Stealing down a corridor marked by really terrible paintings of children with big eyes, Georgia edged up to a half wall separating the preparation area from the dishwashing area, laid her elbows upon the barrier. 

 

"Hi, Andrea," she said.

 

"Hey," replied the cook, scarcely looking up.  And Georgia could see why:  upon

the grill were arrayed sausages, eggs of every type, hash browns, American fries, French toast and her own breakfast steak.  Underneath a bacon press were six slices of sizzling, snapping bacon.  Georgia licked her lips.

 

"I'm Georgia," she volunteered.

 

"Good for you."  Andrea continued with the frenzied cooking.

 

"So...you're the cook, huh?"  Turning, the little cook regarded Georgia.  Looking steadily at her, she said,

 

"No, I'm the astrophysicist working this sector of the universe."  Georgia blinked, but then Andrea smiled, robbing her words of any offense.  She snatched slices of toast from an array of toasters and slathered melted butter across them.

 

"How can you work so hard when you're stoned?" Georgia asked suddenly.  

Andrea lifted the bacon press, flipped the slices of bacon, wiped her spatula

on a wet towel; then she flipped the eggs, rolled up an omelet, plated biscuits and drizzled them with white gravy.  Finally she transferred all the cooked meat to a bed of folded paper towels, plated the meat and turned again to face her visitor.

 

"The real question," she said, "should be: 'how could I not be stoned and still

work in this shit hole?' "  She crossed her skinny arms and smacked the bell with

the blade of her spatula.   "Order up!" she snapped out. Marj appeared at the window, retrieved the food, said,

 

"It's slow right now; take a few minutes if you want, Hon'," she gestured with her head to Georgia, "with your new friend."  Food in hand, Marj withdrew.  Georgia furrowed her brow. 

 

"What'd she mean?" Andrea laughed raucously. 

 

"Marj thinks I'm a crazy lesbian and eager to take down any fresh meat that comes within trolling distance."

 

"Are you, a lesbian, I mean?"

 

"Why, you interested?"  Georgia shook her self, said,

 

"No.  No, of course not!"

 

"Why of course not?" Andrea came back.  "You ever been with a woman?"

 

"No."

 

"Ever been with a man?"

 

"Yes.  Of course."

 

"How many?" asked Andrea.

 

"Five!" said Georgia defiantly.  This gave Andrea pause.

 

"Five.  Well, you been around some.  Five men, huh?" Georgia blushed. 

 

"Well, no.  Two, actually.  I did it once with my prom date and then four times with another bo...man."

 

"How old are you, Kitten?"

 

"My next birthday, I'll be nineteen," said the girl, smiling a little.  "Why, how

old are you?"

 

"Aww, that would be telling," Andrea replied.  Georgia sulked a bit.  Andrea laid the blade of the spatula on the grill, said, "C'mon, let's get high."

 

"You're already high," the other girl pointed out.  Andrea waved that off and led the way to a storeroom, piled high with stacks of flour, sugar, potatoes, onions and all  the rest. 

 

Georgia examined her new friend:  she was small, even pixieish, and swarthy of complexion, like she might have some Hispanic blood, she thought.  Her work clothes weren't much:  overalls and a white thermal shirt underneath and the tiniest shoes that Georgia had ever seen.  She wore rectangular spectacles upon the bridge of her nose.  Her hair was pretty, cut short.  The two girls found a spot on which to perch, on an enormous bag of oatmeal.  Andrea busied herself rolling a new joint.  She was quite an expert at it, thought Georgia.  Her fingers moved so fast.  Completing her task, she handed the cigarette to her companion.  Georgia examined it as if uncertain what to do with it. 

 

"Light it, Kitten," said the little cook.  "You got fire?"

 

"Uh...no, I don't smoke, usually."

 

"Here, come here."  Andrea scooted close till their legs were touching and flicked her lighter.  Lighting the joint, she flicked the lighter shut with a loud snap.  Georgia took an enormous toke, instantly began coughing spasmotically.  Andrea pounded her on the back.  "Jeez, lightweight!"  Georgia, still coughing, nodded.

 

"I am.  I'm sorry."

 

"You ever been high?" Andrea asked.  Georgia nodded. 

 

"Just once.  That was here, tonight."  Andrea twisted her lips wryly and shook her head.  She took the joint, inhaled with gusto, held the smoke inside, then released it contentedly.

 

"Doesn't your boss care if you smoke grass on-the-clock?" asked Georgia.  Andrea shook her head. 

 

"Marj?  Nothin' she can do about it."  replied the little cook.

 

"How come?"

 

"My step-dad owns this joint and, since he's balling the manager, neither of them have anything to say about it.  So long as I keep my mouth shut, things are copasetic."

 

"What about your mom?"

 

"What about her?"

 

"Don't you feel guilty, her not knowing?"

 

"Hell, she's screwing at least two other guys herself," she exclaimed with a frown.

 

"You have a weird family." offered Georgia.

 

"Tell me about it."  She waited a beat.  "Say, Georgia, do you date anyone now?"  Georgia shook her head. 

 

“No, I was seeing this guy, Devon, but..."  Andrea interjected, 

 

"You mean, 'Mr. four-times?' "  Georgia nodded..

 

"Yes.  He told me he wanted to  'see other people' and that I was ‘smothering him.' "

 

"What a turd!  Gets you in the sack and then he dumps you."  She huffed.

 

"Do you...think you might be interested in....a girl?"  Georgia’s head snapped up.

 

"You mean you?  Is that a proposition?" she asked, dumfounded.  Andrea said nothing.  They passed the joint back and forth several times.

 

"Why, Andrea, are you lonely?" asked Georgia with genuine concern.

 

"Well, yeah, sometimes."  She paused a moment.  "I just don’t meet many guys that you know, you can trust, you know what I mean?"  Andrea seemed subdued now.

 

"Have you had bad experiences with boys?"  Andrea nodded.  "What happened?" asked Georgia.

 

"Give me another hit off that reefer," said Andrea, then,  "It was a member of my own freakin’ family, Georgia."  The other girl’s eyes opened wide. 

 

"Who?   You mean your brother, or your uncle, or..."

 

"My father," she cut her off.  "My own freakin’ father."

 

"What happened?"

 

"When he lived with us he used to drink, at night.   My mom would get pissed and go off and leave him.  And he would...come into my bedroom and...”"

 

"No!  Your own father!  I’m so sorry, Andrea."  Georgia put her arm around the other girl’s neck, pulled her close.  Andrea began to quietly weep.  "What happened?" Georgia wanted to know.

 

"He hurt me.  He really hurt me, then said if I told, he would kill my little sister.  I was afraid."

 

"How long did this go on?"

 

"Almost a year."  Tears leaked out of Andrea's eyes and disappeared into the fabric of her blue overalls.

 

"How did it end?" asked Georgia.

 

"I told my mom and she didn’t believe me at first, and then she actually caught him in the act"   She threw up her hands, blew out a breath.  "Nuclear explosion."

 

"And they got a divorce?"  Andrea nodded. "Then your mom met your step-dad?"  Georgia prompted.

 

"Uh-huh.  He was my mother’s divorce attorney and they ‘fell in love,' whatever that's supposed to mean."

 

"How long ago did all this happen?  How old were you?" Andrea took a shuddering breath. 

 

"tt happened nearly five years ago; I was fourteen," she said.

 

"You’ve had a lot to deal with," observed Georgia and hugged her again.  She glanced back toward the kitchen.  "Don’t you have to get back to work?"

 

"No," said the little cook.  “"I just prep and the a.m. cook comes on; he was a little late this morning.  And then this afternoon I'll help clean up and prep for the evening cook; leaves most of my day free."

 

"So what do you do all day, when you're not setting up for the cooks?"

 

"Hang around and get high."

 

"Do you see any boys?" Georgia asked.  Andrea shook her head. 

 

"No, I guess I have a problem trusting after what happened with my dad."  She stared at her hands in her lap.   “Sometimes it gets hard, Georgia, not having anyone to...touch you.”

 

"Do you really...like girls," asked Georgia.  Andrea frowned, shook her head no.

 

"I don't like them, that way," she explained.  "It's just that girls are a whole lot less scary than boys, you know?  I mean, I've got a cousin who's gay and hey, he's my cousin, I love him.  I'm not against gays or lesbians.  But, it's just not who I am."  Georgia nodded her understanding. 

 

"That's how I feel, too.  Not all males are human garbage, Andrea."  The little cook sniffed.

 

"They’re not?" she asked uncertainly.

 

"No.  The men...boys, I’ve known haven’t been all that bad.  Not monsters, not like your dad.  The really bad ones are somewhat rare, I think.  You’ll find someone."

 

"I will?”"

"Certainly.  You’re cute!”"  The other girl grinned shyly. 

 

"Have you made any girlfriends?" Georgia asked.

 

"Just one.  That was here, tonight..."  Both girls smiled.

 

"I won't be your lover, Andrea, but I'll be your girlfriend; your BFF!  Deal?"

 

"Deal."  They sat in companionable silence for a few moments.

 

"Does your step-father hate you because you’re blackmailing him over Marj and everything?" Andres smiled bashfully. 

 

"No, I made up all that stuff about Mom and Dad cheating on each other."

 

"Why?" asked Georgia, baffled. Andrea shrugged. 

 

"I don’t know; to make myself seem more interesting?"  She smiled some more.  She asked, "are you going to keep your arm around me for the rest of the morning?"

Georgia arched her brows. 

 

"For just as long as you want.”"  Andrea leaned in and kissed Georgia almost impossibly softly on the lips.

 

"Thank you, Kitten."