How does writing impact the world?

Do you know how many people around the world today prefer writing over speaking to express their thoughts? While oral speech and oral literature once prevailed, people later began using pictograms—symbols and drawings—as the earliest forms of writing. The benefits of writing for every human being are invaluable, and this has been proven throughout centuries. Writing is something we constantly do. Writing manifests itself around us in countless ways. A journalist’s speech on television is, in fact, a text first written and then transformed into oral discourse. The songs we listen to begin as written poetry before being composed into music. Posters, slogans, and advertisements on the streets are also forms of writing. Libraries across the world are filled with the emotions, experiences, memories, and wisdom that famous writers once poured onto paper.

The list could go on, but what has already been mentioned shows how vast the scope of writing is. What does writing give to a person? According to Harvard Medical School, keeping a journal reduces stress by 27%. One of its key benefits is that those who write regularly also develop clearer and more fluent speech. Writing is essentially thinking through letters on paper. Furthermore, research at Cambred with the emotions, experiences, memories, and wisdom that famous writers once poured onto paper.The list could go on, but what has already been mentioned shows how vast the scope of writing is. Whe, Chekhov, Lermontov, Jack London, Nodar Dumbadze, Gianni Rodari, Remarque, Agatha Christie, Abdulla Qodiriy, O‘tkir Hoshimov, and many others! Their unique works not only enriched their own minds and souls but also profoundly influenced humanity, shaping the knowledge, spirit, and worldview of future generations.

The first writing in human history—cuneiform—was inscribed on clay tablets with reed pens in Mesopotamia, mainly used for trade, accounting, and record-keeping. Imagine what a groundbreaking invention this must have been for early societies. Writing quickly became a part of everyday life.Through writing, events that occurred centuries ago, the lives of our ancestors, and great chronicles of history were preserved and passed down to us. For example, the epic Alpomish, the Epic of Gilgamesh, the inscriptions in Egyptian pyramids, and Zahiriddin Muhammad Babur’s Baburnama still provide us with rich knowledge of ancient life, customs, laws, and culture.Even today, people continue to write—so that future generations may learn, understand, and benefit.

In today’s world of advanced technology and social media, the posts people write online deserve special attention. A single error or poorly communicated idea can spark conflicts between nations. Conversely, well-expressed thoughts and clear proposals can unite countries, strengthen peace and friendship, and foster new partnerships.Writing is such a powerful force that it can move not only an individual’s soul but also entire nations—it can inspire, awaken, or, on the contrary, suppress.

The world-renowned Kyrgyz writer Chingiz Aitmatov, through works such as The White Ship, The Day Lasts More Than a Hundred Years (The Buranny Station), Farewell, Gulsary!, Jamila, and The Cassandra Brand, masterfully expressed human-nature relationships, compassion, humanity, and the power of dreams and hope.

Writing is happiness! It brings peace to the soul, clarity to the mind, and sharpness to thoughts. A person who can write freely and powerfully is an invaluable individual—because they can record truth, history, dreams, justice, and love. Writing demands great effort but also gives writers the ability to influence not only their readers but also the entire world.Writing is such a powerful weapon that it can assert its influence in any field. Whether in history, literature, and art, or in politics, international friendship, and peace—through writing, humanity always finds its voice.There are feelings and thoughts that are difficult to speak aloud, yet a person can capture and immortalize them through writing.

No matter how much the times change, even if perfect keyboards replace pen and paper, they will never replace the act of writing itself, nor diminish the power of heartfelt words expressed by the movement of a pen. Thus, writing remains the bond that connects humanity’s past, present, and future, uniting the inner and outer worlds of human existence.

Shahnoza Ochildiyeva

2nd grade student at Uzbekistan Journalism and Mass Communications University 

Throat Protocol

By Kandy Fontaine

She kisses you like a virus deploying.

Her lips taste like rust and roses, her breath tuned to a frequency that makes your centipede spine twitch. Mira Aoki-9 presses her chrome-thread body against yours, and the train moans beneath you. You’re in the Surreal Beauty Café now—its walls bleeding velvet, its floor blooming coral. The mirrors pulse with sonar. Nyx purrs beside the altar. You’re no longer a courier. You’re no longer human. You’re transmission.

She whispers speculative poems into your spine. Each one a memory cocktail. Each one a sacred infection. Her fingers leave glyphs on your skin—ritual code, erotic syntax, a language only ghosts understand. Your skin begins to scream. Not in sound. In sensation. It unfolds a recursive archive of funerals in Hell—each one grimmer than the last. You feel them in sequence: the ash procession of drowned lovers, the chrome casket of the defected priestess, the silent burial of the girl who swallowed her own archive. Each funeral loops. Each loop burns.

Then she injects the blue tincture.

It’s not medicine. It’s not drug. It’s a hallucinatory compound distilled from sonar grief and fossil saliva. It floods your bloodstream with corrupted memory. Your organs begin to screen. Your bones hum with sonar. Your teeth project flickering funerals. Your tongue splits—forked and wet with archive. You taste every death you’ve ever deployed. You taste yourself dissolving.

And then the Kill Switch Engage Loop vectors activate.

They rot like smiles.

Biomechanical rituals stitched into your spine by the Archive—fail-safes disguised as pleasure. Each loop is a collapse protocol. Each smile a countdown. They trigger when desire exceeds containment. They trigger when Mira whispers too deep. They trigger when your body begins to bloom. You feel them now: one in your throat, one behind your eyes, one curled in your pelvic archive. They rot. They grin. They deploy.

You weren’t just a courier. You were an erotic assassin.

Wetware-grade. Hosaka interface. Deployed to seduce, extract, and erase. Your spine was tuned to carry proprietary biotech across borders without detection. Your body was a weapon. Your breath a trigger. You specialized in mnemonic kills—whispers that rewrote memory, kisses that deployed viruses, orgasms that collapsed identities.

But you had a weakness.

You were addicted to the saliva of drowned girls.

Harvested from bathhouse ruins and sonar graves, it was a narcotic and a mnemonic virus. It tasted like static and grief. It let you relive their final moments—each gasp, each betrayal, each ritual loop. You drank it between missions. You stored it in your tongue. You kissed your targets with it. You watched them dissolve.

Then Thalassa collapsed.

The megacorps turned on each other. The city became a sandbox for recursive warfare—viruses disguised as lovers, memory cocktails laced with defection code, operatives seduced into oblivion. You were burned. Scrubbed. Left behind.

The Archive found you in a bathhouse ruin, half-dissolved, still twitching with encrypted grief. They rebuilt you—not as a courier, but as a vessel. Your spine was replaced with a centipede: segmented, semi-sentient, grown from carbon filament and fossil cinema. Each vertebra a reel of extinct memory. Each twitch a confession. It doesn’t just store. It sings.

You wore a coat cut from signal-dampening fiber, matte black, stitched with anti-surveillance thread. It masked your pulse. Silenced your breath. Made you unreadable to the Teknopriests still sweeping the grid for rogue assets. You weren’t rogue. You were obsolete. You were myth.

You boarded the Futurail at 03:33, the hour when Thalassa exhales memory through its infrastructure like blood through cracked porcelain. The train isn’t real. It’s a memory artifact—residual code from a dissolved mainframe, still twitching in the city’s dead grid. No destination. No schedule. Just transmission.

And somewhere in its wetware, Mira Aoki-9 was still singing.

She was a seduction algorithm wrapped in flesh. Deployed by Maas Biolabs to infiltrate Hosaka’s genetic labs. You saw her once—in a bootleg reel called Throat Sprockets: Submerged Cut. She kissed a researcher and he forgot his name. She whispered into your spine and it rewrote itself. She defected. She dissolved. She became ritual.

Now she’s encoded in the train’s mirrors.

Behind you, the spines of erotic cat assassins intertwine—machine bio-DNA braiding mid-mission, forming a temporary hive of desire and encrypted grief. Their claws whisper in pulse-language. Their tails transmit. Their centipede spines click in sync, exchanging kill-switches and mourning loops. They don’t speak. They deploy.

Your spine begins to exude.

Nano-based enzymes—slick, iridescent, encoded with recursive grief. They leak from your vertebrae like sacred oil, pooling into the velvet floor. But they don’t dissolve. They build. They construct other realms of you—alternate versions, corrupted timelines, erotic echoes—into cathedrals stacked like elephants. Towering, impossible, biomechanical sanctuaries of mourning.

Each cathedral is a funeral loop.

One version of you is kissing Mira in reverse. Another is drowning in sonar. Another is whispering kill-switches into the throat of a Teknopriest. The cathedrals hum with pulse-language. Their walls bleed memory. Their altars screen your archived deaths. You walk through them, barefoot and split, your skin projecting, your spine singing.

You feel Mira in your throat.

You feel the train begin to loop.

You are no longer a passenger. You are no longer flesh. You are ritual. You are myth. You are the erotic funeral. And the carnival never ends.

A Feeling I Have

I feel like

Going broke

For a woman

I feel like throwing it all away

Going  crazy

She walks by voluptuous curves

And energy

There’s a desire to fall down a long tunnel

Forgetting about stocks and politics and the economy

Forgetting about being at work or on time

And need to go mad and become alive

I’ve been trying not to be crazy, but

The crazy days and moments call for me

And seduce me like the voluptuous walk

Of a cat,

I do not want to go back to the mad days,

I suffered myself greatly

Or do I?

A World Without

I’ve been thinking there was no women

In the world,

And how could that be,

Just a thought a feeling i had,

And it depressed me,

To wake up and all the women gone,

And the world was left to the men,

And I became so depressed,

Could men, like me, go on without women?

That’s terrible thought to have

The world might collapse right now

And the men would go on doing all kinds of manly shit

And doing it well, like they have

But i was thinking of the world without ladies and girls

And it just didn’t seem worth it

And lots of men would go crazy slowly,

A whole world without poetry, music and dance,

Just the hard tough stuff

We were left with

And suddenly like i did not want to be here

Or anywhere

I Must Stop

Thinking that I am better than others

I must stop thinking my pain is more valid

I must quit thinking I should be rich and famous and handsome

I must quit thinking that certain jobs below me

I must quit thinking I am deserving

That I am smarter than others and that I know better

Where do these feelings come from?

My stupendous ego

Playing upon a boat of isolation

No one is onboard in the sea

As the cold calm water goes go

Without beginning.

A Strong Man

I want to be a strong man

Someone benching five hundred pounds. Looking like a bodybuilder

Someone running the 40 in four seconds. Running like man cheetah

Some one running  marathons regularly, incredible stamina

Someone makes important decisions, like a CEO. Affecting so many lives. With towers on his back

I wanted to be a strong man

I felt like a strong man for a day maybe two

Or maybe it was a year or two

Maybe I was around 32

I remember lifting 50 bags at work,

Just tossing the around like nothing

And drinking beer after work. Feeling strong and manly

And thinking that i would always feel that way,

The winter winds nipped my nose

At 46 I don’t feel like it anymore. My

Knees ache just thinking of lifting that 50 pound bag

Wanting is so soft

But reality is so hard.

Just Want to be Loved

And you write and think and publish and study and write

Thinking of perfect poems and perfect thoughts

You want to be loved and celebrated

And praised and showed the good time

And have people interviews and ask me questions

Just to feel important in the world and share

Little insights with people who dig my stuff

Feeling like Henry Miller or Ernest Hemingway

And have people say that is really good,

And how did you come up with that,

What inspired you do or say that

I’ll buy your book, and you give a reading here

Will pay you

I guess most writers feel this way,  

And the others, can hardly care

At all

Damion Hamilton is from St. Louis MO. His poems have appeared in Chiron Review, Poesy Magazine, Zygote In My Coffee, Red Fez, The Camel Saloon and many others. He writes poetry, stories and novels. He has written several books. Available here.  He can be found on twitter here.

One

It hasn’t rained in a while. I hope it does soon. The earth needs the rain and besides, all the clouds and winds and strange atmospheric things that come with the rain are more interesting and inspiring than a sunny day. 

You know though, come to think of it, the meadow, the place where much of this writing’s events and thoughts are set, is rarely completely dry. Its grasses and earth seem to retain some moisture, somehow. It is sagacious that way. I know because my shoes, most of the time Converse, high top yellow and regular blue (both faded now), get wet there. 

Today there were a few souls along the path, coming back as they were, but after I passed them, not many. Not any at all in fact. Let me give some context to the place. It’s after towns and highways and even roads. In fact, the road ends at the beginning of the forest, having turned from asphalt to gravel to dirt. 

There is a public forest to the right. It attracts dog walkers, hikers, joggers, bike riders, photographers, walking groups, and sometimes homeless people. Sometimes there is even a type that is hiding out from something like the law or people in general, a type that stays in the woodlands when others would not in parts where others don’t go. 

But to the left is a private forest. This is the one that leads to the meadow. The meadow is like a golden treat at the end of a journey, a beautiful goal if ever there was one. There are two definite and visible No Tress passing signs at its two entrances. People obey them. But some lucky souls like me have permission from the old farmer that owns the land, to go there. 

Two 

There is something else, something bordering on the esoteric or gnostic. It’s insight seen while driving to that entrance of the forest that leads to the meadow. Since it’s rural, there are many sprawling properties. Many affluent homes, the new ones, are grey and without character. They just copy one another. It’s doubly sad, because of the copying but also what’s being duplicated. Not a thing in it all looks unique or soulful, not even a special trellis or bit of coloured brick, sounding fountain, or flowing garden. 

But…I noticed that some places have older homes, from a time of wooden porch and red brick and chimney. From an era of grounded-ness and more honest atmosphere. And beyond rain barrel and sunflower, past stained perimeter fence and sometimes no fence at all, I could see a pond and little forest back there. They would contain a different area-atmosphere. Mysterious, even in the plane light of day under the clean azure sky. It’s as if the prose of the world turned into poetry, then. Trees. Leaves. Branches. What was back there? I wished I could know. I longed to go. But I knew none of them, not one of those owners. I supposed that they took the magic for granted, these sprawling old lands. And how could they not, if they indeed did? It was their reality. Lucky ones, that’s what they were, however hard working, they were still lucky. All I could do was drive by. Being an empath, I could just feel the areas even for moments and from a distance. I loved it. They were as if containing portals or vortexes to other worlds magical and monumental. 

Often I imagine the coyote dens, the travelling foxes, the large porcupines. I knew there must be deer that wait and watch near there, because I had seen them. Maybe there were types of insects rare or not even discovered by scientific or poetic eyes. The scents of the flora. The sounds of the rains at night. The woodpecker or Bluejay. Strange snakes representing the kundalini energy. The kind summer dew morning. The autumnal hued leaves when that highly spiritual time came, the veil between worlds thinning. Halloween, Thanksgiving. Then some string of electric lights for Christmas. And much more. How come I couldn’t have a place like that? What a caretaker and curator I could be, surely would be. Ah well, I would think and sigh it away with a brief smile. What was meant to be, would be. 

Three

Well, the path. What of it? And then the meadow itself of course. Go past the signs and there are two options, no, three. The top after heading left has itself stationed on the uppermost part of a long and winding valley. It is safe but the side does become steep if you go off the regular way. Deer cross there sometimes and other times hide in the bushes by the thick trees. Wild berries grow and there are snake holes, many sticks, and lichen and moss. The one grouse I had, only one slight one, is that there are very few rocks or boulders. I don’t know if they were removed or just never there. It would be nice to see some cinematic view of the lands through time to note small and large changes, to watch the valley and its surrounding habitat move, grow, glisten, and weather or bloom. 

In the middle down the way is, well, the middle path, thicker on the sides especially of late for some reason. More raspberries, a hybrid berry of some sort, half black and half red. Many birds and numerous chipmunks running for cover at the sound of things or else up trees to safety, talking to their friends. The trail is bumpy in parts but also serene. So uninhabited by human presence. Mostly pristine and untouched. Those are the real ‘moments,’ nature lovers look for,- the meditative and quiet, the Zen-like phenomenon of being present amidst a type of natural mystical sense…

And the more main path, it’s old Oak trees and some Evergreens, straight for a while but also winding along. Mushrooms and pebbles, good old dirt earth and sometimes the rain drops left on leaves after a night storm. Walk and walk and walk. See and be and have a certain amount of glee. Soon enough, part Pine and placid easy places,

going along there by the verdant canopy where bits of sun filter down through to say hello, will be the magnificent meadow waiting. 

Suddenly it can be seen through a frame of red sumac that reaches over both sides of the path arching to itself. Blue skies beyond. A green swath is cut all around and some ancient farm machinery wait in the middle like a token gesture, a nod to other decades. The sun lights everything then. Continue. A corpse of trees is waiting to the right. Birds fly in and out. Some to sing and some to speak their speech loquaciously and vigorously. 

Onward is a way to a lower area where chaga mushroom, rare and not known by many, grow on some birch streets in a certain stand of them. The blooming earth has overtaken an ancient access road where a bank robber is said to have abandoned a stolen car, then gotten away while hiding in barns for nights and running between forests and meadows under the light of the moon. Now such an old story, but there is an actual abandoned car from that time down there, and everyone, even straight and upright old timers, are rooting for him. Some have him escaping out all with the loot and somehow making his way to down to Florida. Maybe a personal dream projection from some old storyteller local. Maybe not. 

But drama, thoughts, and time come and go. The goldenrod and queens lace, impossibly tall, a refuge for myriad bugs and insects and the home of grasshoppers dragonflies and even the Praying Mantis, seem to stay. Tall and well-wrought in the clean air world. Every direction then is green and vast, open, and calm, pastoral and perfectly put. 

——-

Brian Michael Barbeito is a Canadian poet, writer, and photographer. His third compilation of prose poems and pictures, The Book of Love and Mourning, is forthcoming in autumn 2025. 

HELLO…

Hello! Hello!

the voice hums like in a cave,

I had forgotten the color of the voice

in this agn of late month.

Hello, hello…

the voice on the other side shuddered

in the raging river,

-Yes I am,..

here.closed in the ego

“gnosi” the lip timbre,

turmoil of times

or late spring?!

Hello, I’m Lora,

nothing important

in me the shadow of longing

affects the absorbed nectar

in search of immortality…

I clutch the phone

I feel stuck in water, who revives my fire?

Mekur in late May?!

Hello, Hello…, listen to me!

I am the sin-ridden Danaide,

why don’t you talk to me

why are you silent?

…I can hear you on the other side,

 I was disturbed by this phone call in the last month.

RAIN IN MY EYES

The rainbow appeared

behind the lines of rain,

the worries and troubles of stis,

carved verses

where the west burned,

in the braided flower,

we put a wreath.

You can’t see the rainbow

it didn’t rain a little,

in my eyes…!

METAMORPHOSIS

(Loraa of New York)

Loraa asked me to imitate Odysseus,

not to listen

sirens of the deep,

nor the poet’s erotic verses

in the rocky waves of the sea.

In New York he studied Pythagoras,

the language of mimicry read the unspoken word

wrote it in saltiness,

where life is a dream

and the dream becomes life.

The epic words underwent a metamorphosis,

the seagulls danced

over our heads,

deep sea conception

shivers run through,

air in New York

I missed the thrill of life.

Lan Qyqalla is an Albanian writer, editor-in-chief of the EliteOrfeu International Magazine, winner of several national and international literary awards, member of the Albanian-American Academy of Sciences and Arts in New York, and Director of the International Poetic Festival “Poetic, Literary and Artistic Heritage in Kosovo” for 17 editions, and Professor at the Gymnasium in Pristina. The poet from Kosovo has published more than 67 works (poems and stories) in languages including Albanian, Romanian, Francophone, Swedish, English, Polish, Arabic, Hindi, and Mandarin. Some of his poems have been translated and published in several languages and in several magazines and literary portals. Qyqalla lives and creates in Pristina.

THE BLEND OF ATTITUDE

Captivating the heavenly moments

with attitude and grace

Adorning the most precious

gifts of life

Orchestrated on the canvas

of life so beautifully

Unwavering support and non-judgmental attitude makes the bonds more precious

Positive attitude with good mindset

is a boon with grace and respect

Nonchalant attitude destroying

imbalances of minds calling for

disrespect, harassment and rapes

also lapses in moral decadences

Attitude in itself is a superpower

It’s based on the way how you’re being treated

Let there be voice and not merely an echo to fade

The positive attitude brings accolades to lasting success

Keep up your attitude in grace as you’re born to express yourself

A fundamental force influencing your actions

Bearing a strong ethical values

Unconsciously cultivated prelude to action

Reflections of our inner self through challenges of daily life

We are responsible for shaping our own lives with a blend of attitude.

————

ELEGANCE OF LOVE

Dancing through the moonbeams

so enchanting

Under the twinkling stars in the amidst of challenges

Yet keeping us connected

with firm determination in mind

Waiting with patience and perseverance for your kisses so warm and sweet

I decorate each ray so magical

Crafted every verse I write

Unparalleled embodiment

weaving tapestry of dreams

soaked in the elegance of love

Unravelling the deepest mysteries

Transporting down the abyss of heart

Awakening the soul from slumber’s deep

Unfolding the stories untold

Drifting my thoughts where dreams reside

Through the night so inviting

I paint the canvas besides

the vistas unknown

Embracing one another

We renew our bond of love

Knitting the web of trust

We mingle in the breathes so warm

Never to let you go

For I live in the sheets

of crumpled linen

Wrapped in the scents of your body

Where I hear the echoes

of your silence

lying under the twinkling stars.

Parvinder was born and brought up in the coastal city of Mombasa, Kenya, East Africa. Having dedicated her career to shaping the minds of future generations, she served as a principal from the distinguished senior secondary schools in India and also served as charity in the British schools in UK.

      Parvinder is a national award winner from NCERT, New Delhi, for making teaching and learning processes easier through classroom aids for both teachers and pupils. One of the defining moments of her poetic journey occurred during a visit to Dove Cottage and the museum dedicated to the venerable poet, William Wordsworth, nestled in the enchanting landscape of Grasmere, Lake District, UK.

In the hallowed halls of this literary sanctuary, standing amidst the profound legacy of Wordsworth, Parvinder found herself immersed in the timeless essence of poetry, a force capable of transcending the boundaries of time and place.   Her passion for poetry found recognition when she was bestowed with the prestigious accolades in a national poetry contest in 2022, orchestrated among a gathering of over 2000 poets from across India on the national level.

      Parvinder is a recipient of many literary awards in poetry….

– An Ambassador for peace in the World Poetic Fraternity

– The Global Peace Ambassador Awards

– Literary Ambassador Awards

– Honorary Doctorate Award

– An Ambassador for Indian culture for Insight Magazine (USA)

– Membership card from ICAL and felicitations of appreciation and excellence,  joining the bridges across the world through her literary work!

Parvinder is the author of the poetry collection, “UNFATHOMED SECRETS”, a heartfelt collection of 100 poems from the abyss of her heart. Parvinder’s poems are translated into various languages across the globe. She is honoured to be one of the 58 selected poets, whose poems are translated into Turkish and published in Turkey in the anthology book, “ Poets From The World”

Her poems are also published among 231 great noble world poets, in the book “ WORLD CONTEMPORARY POETS VOLUME 2.” A book, “ The Women – Global Poetic Gems” is the Collection of Lyrical Poems By 35 International Poets. Parvinder is proud to be featured among one of these world renowned poets. Her poems are reviewed by eminent writers, authors and also reviewers from Harvard University. From time to time her poems are featured in various journals, newspapers and magazines across the globe. She has collaborated in poetic duets with poets across the globe.

      She has also participated in live poetry recitation among global poets on Google Meet and won accolades! Parvinder has translated a historical chronological book, from Kosovo, written by Dibran Fylli “Prekazi Brezni Trimash-HE IS ALIVE“.

        Parvinder’s poems are music to the heart that express different aspects of life, conjuring up emotions from happiness to sadness using different styles and themes giving pleasure to the readers.