First, here’s an announcement from contributor Frank Blackbourn, who asked us to share in our publication:

I hope this message finds you well. I’m reaching out on behalf of a woman in our community who urgently needs support to avoid eviction. She is a neurodivergent artist and mother who started a small Etsy shop to support her family by selling unique items that promote acceptance for the LGBTQ+ and ADHD communities.

Right now, she faces a critical challenge. Her only means of transportation—a van she relies on for her business and income—broke down, requiring $1,700 in repairs to fix both the suspension and antilock system. Without this van, she can’t attend events, make deliveries, or earn enough income to cover mounting bills. Every day the van sits unrepaired, her financial situation worsens, bringing her closer to eviction.

The impact of this breakdown has been devastating, and she now faces the immediate threat of losing her home if she can’t get back to work soon. By supporting her GoFundMe, you’re helping her cover these essential repairs, restoring her ability to work and allowing her to keep her family safe and housed.

Her GoFundMe link is: https://gofund.me/fec95926

Now, for this month’s issue, the Thin Fabric of Time. Many cultures mark a time to remember ancestors or deceased loved ones this time of year, believing the veil between life and death was thinnest at this time. Modern physics draws on fabric as a metaphor for space and time as fundamental dimensions of the universe.

This issue’s contributors address cultural memory, family heritage, grief, life and death, and the different generations.

Federico Wardal describes a new museum of antique relics that will open up in Egypt.

Jeff Tobin evokes our inextricable human connection to the past and to personal and cultural memory. Terry Trowbridge recollects the strong and competent women of past Saturday morning cartoons while lamenting his own human weaknesses.

John Grey speaks to our human powerlessness in the face of our own natures as well as the external world. Yet, despite this, we can still believe we are the centers of our own universes.

Xavier Womack’s poetry advises a person to heal the generational wound of not loving oneself. Rubina Anis shares her paintings of women of varying ages standing together.

Dilnura Kurolova celebrates the treasure of friendship. Azemina Krehic draws on contradictions as a metaphor for the irrational beauty of romantic love. Mahbub Alam expresses how love can create its own likeness to heaven here on Earth. Stephen Jarrell Williams shares a simple but elegant poem on spiritual and divine love. Closer to Earth, Noah Berlatsky waxes clever about a clumsy but perfect love.

Duane Vorhees presents near-operatic musical and poetic images of sensuality as Eric Mohrman gasps out miniature vignettes of romantic tension.

Janet McCann reviews Chuck Taylor’s new collection Fever, observing not just the sensuality of the work, but the many restrictions and ‘prisons’ in which the mostly male narrators find themselves and what that says about modern masculinity and men in love.

Philip Butera uses an unfinished painting as a metaphor for a fleeting love affair, highlighting the tragedy but also the inevitability of its bittersweet ending. Taylor Dibbert’s poetic speaker once again sets off on a jet plane after a harsh divorce.

Sabrina Moore reviews Brian Barbeito’s collection Still Some Crazy Summer Wind Coming Through, drawing out themes of nostalgia, grief, and the search for meaning.

Ozodbek Narzullayev reflects on a passing school year with nostalgia and wishes to stay in touch with classmates. Sevinch Shukurova outlines various types of sentence construction. Z.I. Mahmud churns Indian and Anglo-Saxon cultural iconography together in a cauldron of speculative fiction that ends in effusive praise of Shakespeare.

Dennis J. Bernstein and Jeffrey Spahr-Summers collaborate on artwork surrounding themes of chance and gambling. Sarang Bhand, Marjorie Pezzoli, and Christina Chin present group collections of haiku and renga, three different takes on several themes.

Maftuna Yusupboyeva celebrates the literary contributions of Karakalpak Uzbek poet Berdak and his place within Uzbek folk and working people’s culture. Marjonabonu Xushvaqtova rejoices in her love for books and reading. Aymatova Aziza celebrates the cultural treasures found within libraries.

Yolgoshova Sevinch offers her love and praise for her native Uzbekistan as she would to her parents.

Marvelous Monday expresses a cultural group’s proud resilience despite poverty and injustice. Komron Mirza laments social and moral decline around him, yet resolves that the world is not yet ending. Rasheed Olayemi Nojeem laments corruption in his country’s judicial system while Jake Cosmos Aller decries the cultural ugliness of hate and authoritarianism. Christopher Bernard highlights the difficulty of choosing among political leaders with imperfect agendas and ideas.

Faleeha Hassan’s short story highlights the strength of a couple keeping their dignity under grinding poverty. Howard Debs’ poem comments on the reality of food service and on those who see the work as a game or a photo-op.

Dr. Jernail S. Anand reminds us that poets and cultural creators are as human as the rest of us, and urges people to be strong yet flexible, like water.

Doug Hawley relates his participation in a medical study on his capacity for balance. Cristina Deptula reviews Jennifer Lang’s new memoir Landed: a yogi’s memoir in pieces and poses, highlighting the quest for personal identity and space at the heart of the book.

Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa speaks to aging and learning from life as time passes. J.J. Campbell does the same, in his gruff and hardcore manner.

Giulia Mozzati-Zacco captures the scattered thoughts of a young woman nearing her death.

Mark Young conveys moments when the surreal enters our ordinary physical world. Maurizio Brancaleoni highlights humorous moments of life surrounding Halloween/Day of the Dead.

Patrick Sweeney proffers glimpses of the world and culture through sentence fragments. Texas Fontanella plays with words and syntax to craft prose. Saad Ali pairs original haiku with lesser-known historical paintings.

Later, Texas Fontanella plays with verbiage and syntax through disjointed text messages. J.D. Nelson highlights tiny bits of urban and wild life during fall. Rachel Bianca Barbeito crafts tender portraits of gentle puppies.

Turgunov Jonpolat outlines his volunteer work in climate ecology, made possible through an international educational collaboration. Muhammadjonova Farangizbegim Ma’mirjan discusses technology and gamification as ways to effectively teach the natural sciences, including ecology. Anna Keiko writes of psychological and ecological dreamtime and awakenings and the need to protect the environment.

Sayani Mukherjee recollects a languid and happy day in a small country village. Wazed Abdullah praises the steady presence of the stars. Maxliyo Axmatova reflects on the warmth, growth, and renewal brought by the sun.

Ahmad Al-Khatat speaks to the memories that live on in the minds of exiles from war, even on bright calm sunny days. Azemina Krehic reflects on the human cost of war and other violence to Bosnian women and girls.

Maja Milojkovic shares her hopes for peace among the world’s nations and peoples. Eva Petropoulou Lianou speaks to our universal human desire and need for love and mercy. Mesfakus Salahin describes the spiritual and human unity made possible through universal love.

Abigail George grieves over the loss of life in Palestine. Iduoze Abdulhafiz’ prose evokes the human trauma unfolding in Gaza. Jacques Fleury reviews Duane Vorhees’ poetry collection Between Holocausts, which grapples with that vast historical trauma. Daniel De Culla laments the grotesque tragedy of war on this Day of the Dead. Alexander Kabishev evokes the gross devastation of war through a tale of the death of a zoo elephant in Leningrad. Nuraini Mohammad Usman uses onomatopoeia to render digestion into poetry while urging world peace: making dinner, not war.

Ivan Pozzoni evokes the dark history among the beauty of his home Italian island. Alan Catlin describes varying levels of grief underlying a peaceful and beautiful place. Tuyet Van Do laments the human tragedies caused by recent hurricanes in the southeastern U.S.

Anindya Paul harshly evokes the loss of innocence in his poetry. Rukhshona Toxirova outlines ways for physicians to show compassion for patients at a tender age.

Isabel Gomez de Diego crafts images of childhood: a visit to a maritime park, a family photo with a young brother, dressing up for Halloween. Kylian Cubilla Gomez presents photographic scenes of nurturance: squash cultivated in a garden, children’s toys, Russian nesting dolls.

Stephen House grieves over and remembers his deceased mother. Graciela Noemi Villaverde grieves for the loss of her mother’s gentle spirit. Lan Qyqualla draws on a variety of ancient Western myths to lament the loss of his wife.

Nurullayeva Mashhura’s tragic tale of a neglected grandmother reminds us to care for our elders. Rahmiddinova Mushtariy offers praise for the nurturance and teaching of her father. Ilhomova Mohichehra comes to realize how much she values and respects her father as she grows more mature.

Michael Robinson recollects the loving fatherhood he has found from God in a piece describing his Christian salvation and personal journey from wanting to die to having a fresh new life.

Fhen M. crafts a vignette on a comfortable porch, a liminal space between the interior and exterior, inspired by change and transition.

Brian Barbeito speaks to the poetic and mystical meanings he finds embedded in each season, with wisdom in autumn and winter.

Chloe Schoenfeld captures the aftermath of a festive event, the small chaos after the elegance. Seasons change and time passes for us all, and no “mountaintop experience” can last forever.

Jacques Fleury shares wisdom from a teen dying of cancer to motivate us to live with passion and joy. Mashhura Ahmadjonova reflects on the whirlwind passage of time.

Mykyta Ryzhykh depicts a ghostly ship where all the mariners have turned skeletal, forgotten even by history. David Sapp also comments on our mortality and how others will eventually lose our memories in the swirling fog of time.

Before that happens, please take some time to savor this issue of Synchronized Chaos and honor each of the contributors by letting their voices be heard.

I say the end of time…

Although they are young, they are in their eighties

Old people have a poor wallet

Don’t get up in the morning prayer

I don’t think it’s the end of time

Mother of orphaned children

Let them throw it aside

It’s worth it like a commodity

I don’t think it’s the end of time

If you see it, you will be amazed

They hurt your heart

Markets that sell honesty

I don’t think it’s the end of time

A cemetery after an inauspicious year

One Qur’an in one unreadable year

We have no faith left

I don’t think it’s the end of time

It’s time until dawn

Rest until noon

Even the night passes in sleep

I don’t think it’s the end of time

Beamal is a genius scientist

The mistake of Kufr-u Shirk

His fatwa is a lie

I don’t think it’s the end of time

Adultery became commonplace

Buildings of faith collapsed

Chests like eyes were opened

I don’t think it’s the end of time

Women are not hot for men

I can’t help but think about prostitution

A handkerchief wrapped in condolence

I don’t think it’s the end of time

People build palaces

If they walk without Peshwa, they are murids

Ignorant people laugh at us

I don’t think it’s the end of time

What is the dream of everyone

The cure in the kingdom is the singer

So “Navoi” is in the room

I don’t think it’s the end of time

You are complaining, O Mirza

It’s not good manners

Don’t take the punishment in Mahshar

I don’t think it’s the end of time

Komron Mirza was born on March 30, 2001 in Sherabad district of Surkhandarya region. At the moment, he is a student of Applied Psychology, Faculty of Social Sciences, TerMU, Termiz city, Surkhandarya region. He is a creative and future master of his profession.

Absence of Justice 

If justice is kicked out of a society 
If the social class, offends
And escapes justice 
If money transforms to gum and seals the mouths 
Of the jurists and law enforcers
If the judicial system is sick
Bad deeds, spread quick quick 
Suffering ravages commoners
Great nations of the world 
Are places of no nonsense 
Where wrong doers
Receive full wrath of the law
Regardless of their social status
Saboteurs are caged. 
That's why they are great
No nation can be great If corrupt elements, 
Are bigger than the law
Evils spread fast, when evil doers aren't punished
 

Lice Dress

Nadia was the eldest of three sisters, but also the heaviest and the largest. Perhaps that was why her marriage came somewhat late in life. She had only boarded the marriage train when she turned thirty. Her bridegroom was ten years older. Like most soldiers completing mandatory military service in the Iraqi army, he was discharged by an official decree when the Iran-Iraq War ended, eight years after it began.

The only work he could find then was as one of the construction workers who lined the sidewalks each morning with simple hand tools that they carried wherever they went, brandishing a trowel, a large basin, and occasionally a small hatchet. These manual laborers swarmed the sidewalks all day long.

This type of work became hard to find once oppressive international sanctions were imposed on Iraq. Then most people could not afford to repair their houses or to build new homes or shops. Many dwellings and stores looked rickety or about to collapse. Their owners were incapable of restoring them and just used them, expecting them to collapse at any moment for any reason or no reason at all.

For these reasons, a manual laborer was extremely lucky to work four days in a row. Patrons with projects picked the youngest, strongest men who could complete the repairs or new construction in the period of time agreed on by the employer and the worker.

Thus, Ala’, Nadia’s husband, found that his chances of finding work decreased each day, even though he attempted to hide his age by shaving daily, using the same razor till it wore out.

He also dyed his gray hair with cheap, imported, black Indian henna that would only mask his gray hair for a limited number of days. Despite his stratagems, his luck finding employment was poor.

2

The couple did not think seriously of having a child until more than a year after their wedding. They would respond to anyone who asked why they had not had a child with a formula they had agreed on: “We will be blessed with a child when God so wills.” Actually, the wife was concealing with great difficulty the heartache she felt at not having conceived sooner but could not admit this even to her husband. How could they assume responsibility for another person when they lived in dire poverty that they seemed to have no way of escaping?

The couple tried to limit their contacts to their immediate families. If, for example, they were invited to the wedding of a relative, one spouse would feign illness, and the other would take responsibility for informing their families of this malady. Then news of this illness would spread with great speed among their relatives until their prospective hosts would realize that this couple would not be able to attend the ceremonies.

Although the costs associated with attending them were slight, one could not go empty handed. A guest would need to bring something, even if only some fabric for the bride. Finding the money for such a purchase, though, was difficult for this couple.

The only ceremonies that one or both attended were funerals and wakes. Whenever Nadia heard that some relative, friend, or neighbor had died, she would go early in the morning to present her condolences to the surviving spouse. Then she would volunteer to prepare for the women’s wake, cooking whatever she could or preparing tea and serving it to the women mourners as they arrived from various regions. The services she provided would take the place of any financial contribution she would otherwise have been expected to present to the spouse, mother, or sister of the deceased.

Her husband, for his part, at every ceremony of this type, would stand in the men’s tent beside the children or male relatives of the deceased and receive condolences from all those who attended; then people would think he was one of the brothers or the eldest son of the deceased, especially after he allowed his beard to grow longer and let the gray to show in the hair on his head.

Matters proceeded in this way for more than a year until one evening the husband came home from work totally exhausted, his entire body coated with dirt. Then his wife felt certain that he had found work that day and rejoiced to see him return like that. She rushed to heat water over a small kerosene stove she placed in the bathroom. Next, she fetched a large, clean, blue towel, which she hung from a nail hammered into the wall in the bathroom, before retreating.

Once her husband had finished his warm bath, he sat down while she quickly fixed a meal. Then he recounted what had happened that day and situations he had experienced while working. Even though he spoke with evident enthusiasm, his wife had difficulty forcing herself to listen to him, since she was worried about something.

After speaking nonstop for half an hour, her husband noticed his wife’s concern and asked, “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing,” she replied as she removed the plates from the dinner mat and placed them on the footed tray, which she was about to lift and carry to the kitchen.

This upset Ala’, and he reminded his wife: “You know I don’t like to converse by asking questions.”

“My sister is getting married two days from now, this Thursday,” she replied anxiously.

Then she rose calmly, lifted the tray filled with their plates, and left the room.

“So soon?” Ala’ asked. Then he bowed his head thoughtfully.

4

A few minutes later his wife returned with a small brass tray with two tea glasses on it and placed it before her husband. She sat down facing him. Although the couple were seated in the same area, separated only by that small tray between them, news of this impending wedding plunged them into a raging sea of reflection.

“God is generous,” Ala’ reminded his wife after taking a sip of tea. “Today I will try to buy a secondhand gown for you from the old market. There is no need for you to give your sister a present. Siblings are not expected to give presents—isn’t that so?”

Once she heard her husband would buy a dress for her, one she could wear to this event, Nadia felt slightly relieved, because all her clothes looked worn or frayed. As far as a present was concerned, she had kept six tea glasses that were beautifully decorated on the outside with attractive colors; one of her relatives had given them to her for her wedding. Fortunately, that set of glasses was still in the original box.

All the same, she would keep this present a secret between her and her sister. Her husband had no need to know about it, since he might conclude that his wife was a spendthrift, careless, or not sufficiently concerned with the needs of her own household.

After lunch, the couple chatted about the youngest sister’s engagement, which had been announced only a month earlier. When the husband felt sleepy, he seized the cushion that rested beside him and stretched out almost automatically on the ground with his head on that pillow and sank into a deep slumber.

Approximately an hour later, when the husband woke from his siesta, he found that his wife had completed all her daily household chores and was seated near him, crocheting. “I’ll go to the old market now,” the husband said, rising and beginning to leave the room. His wife smiled and then quickly locked the door behind him before returning to her crocheting.

She spent the afternoon with her normal routine, and before long the sun was setting. The voices of muezzins were raised to call worshipers to pray, amplified by loudspeakers on the roofs of mosques small and large. Houses then turned on their lights after lamps on the main streets and alleyways were illuminated.

After Nadia had performed her prayers, she heard her husband’s fingers tap on the door and she rushed to open it. Ala’ greeted his wife and handed her two plastic bags; the blue one contained potatoes and eggplants. Inside that bag was a clear sack with a few dates. The second bag was black and had tied ribbons around it. She hurried to take both sacks to the kitchen.

When he saw her leaving, her husband remarked, while pointing to the black bag, “I think it’s the right size.”

After unloading the contents of the blue bag into the little refrigerator that occupied a small corner of the kitchen, the wife returned to her husband, carrying the black bag, but found he had spread his prayer rug to perform the sunset prayer and left to perform his ablutions.

After sitting back down in her usual place, she edged the bag toward her. She opened it and drew the dress from it. Once she spread the dress out on her lap, she began to scream in alarm: “lice! lice!”

The husband rushed back into the room with water from his ablutions dripping from his face and arms and found his wife trying haphazardly and with obvious disgust to put the dress back in the bag.

“Burn it,” Ala’ instructed her. “Get rid of it! We have enough problems as it is.” Then he began to perform his prayers.

Nadia had not heard what Ala’ said and understood the exact opposite. So, at midnight, when she was certain that her husband was sound asleep, she slipped from her bed, left the room, removed the bag from its place, opened it, drew the dress from it, and placed it in an old clay pot that sat in a corner of the kitchen. Then she poured kerosene on it till it was saturated, covered the pot, and set it aside.

Finally, she went back to bed, after washing her hands several times with soap and water. The next morning, once her husband had left to find work, Nadia went to the clay pot, opened it, and was horrified to find dozens of black bodies of tiny insects floating on the surface in the pot. She cautiously removed the dress from the pot, spread it on the floor, and then poured the kerosene and the dead vermin down the kitchen drain. She repeatedly washed out the clay pot with a sponge she soaked in soap and water.

The dark red dress seemed to be free of insects but stank of kerosene. Then she thought she would cleanse the dress of the smell by boiling it in hot water. She filled the pot with water, placed the dress inside it, lit the kerosene stove, and placed the pot on top of it. After the dress had boiled for about half an hour, she removed the pot from the stove and left it to cool for a time. Then she removed the dress the pot and repeatedly rubbed it between her fingers with soap and water.

Much of the kerosene’s odor had disappeared, but the red color also had lost some of its former brilliance. After soaking all night in kerosene and then boiling in hot water, the dress had lost its splendid color. Nadia squeezed the water out of it thoroughly with her hands and then climbed to the house’s flat roof to hang the dress on the clothesline there, securing it with two small, wooden clothespins.

Before she began to prepare lunch, Nadia put a lot of Vaseline on her hands to hide how dry they had become and the color their skin had acquired from handling kerosene. After frying the eggplant in olive oil, she prepared to heat water for her husband, who liked to bathe in warm water during the summer.

She filled another pot with water, placed it on the kerosene stove, and lit a match she had removed from its box and tried unsuccessfully to ignite the stove. Nadia made a second attempt but still nothing happened. So, she snuffed out the match and dropped in on the floor. Then she lifted the kerosene stove and found that it was very light—so light that it was certainly empty of kerosene.

At the customary time, her husband returned from his demanding search for physical labor but did not feel a need for a warm bath, because he had not found any. He merely washed his face and hands with water from the tap.

While eating lunch they both discussed the wedding that was scheduled for Thursday and how early they would need to leave for it that day so they could help the hosts however they were asked.

When they both had finished lunch, the husband asked, “Is the tea ready?”

“We no longer have enough kerosene to prepare tea,” the wife admitted, hesitantly, while trying to avoid looking at her husband.

“You need to pray a lot that I get a job tomorrow,” the husband remarked in a tone of voice that sounded more hurt than playful, “or we’ll be obliged to eat raw potatoes!” Then he left the room.

While the couple was busy with the rest of their day, the dress hung on the clothesline even as the sun began to set. As each section dried, its color turned pale pink.

By Faleeha Hassan

Translated by William M. Hutchins

Submission: Synchronized Chaos: Rengay 
           By Marjorie Pezzoli,  Christina Chin  & Sarang Bhand
_______________________________________________________


1
Sanctuary 

curtains drawn
fireplace crackles          
chrysanthemums drop petals     Marjorie Pezzoli 
 

then a heron forewarns 
the birds of hurricane             	  Christina Chin  

                       
uprooted children 
from faraway land
sleeping under sky                     Sarang Bhand 


mist settles in
soft gray clouds 
blue skies soon                          Marjorie Pezzoli 


looking up to sky in hope
bowing down to earth in faith       Sarang Bhand 


in the air
aroma of coffee and chai
grandma's tea table                     Christina Chin


2
Mountain Top

adjusting  
to long night
new time zone                          Christina Chin
 

the earth spins 
eucalyptus bark peels             Marjorie Pezzoli 


changing sky
at every mile 
long road trip                           Sarang Bhand 


unsolicited—
passenger giving 
directions                                Christina Chin


a scenic detour 
much needed break                Sarang Bhand 


sky show 
brilliant production 
no tickets needed                   Marjorie Pezzoli 






3
Windswept     

rising sun
that you sent 
to my side                               Sarang Bhand 


mist rises
evergreen branches               Marjorie Pezzoli 


roadblock ahead 
fastening a neck collar 
pretending to sleep                Christina Chin


stuck in traffic
together we catch
figments of time                      Sarang Bhand 


a house on an island 
king tide                                  Christina Chin


steadfast evergreen 
branches waltz with wind
she dreams about clouds       Marjorie Pezzoli 

A plea 

 Beloved like my mother

 God gave you to me

 I live as your child

 My life is devoted to you, my country.

 Let me lean on you, my wing

 I will say it will not pass

 I am sorry for the ingratitude

 I give my life to you, my country 

 Don’t be offended by me

 If you are sad, I will be the one

 Do not be humiliated in the hands of Yav

 I give my life to you, my country

 My sister, brother, don’t shed tears

 I will never leave you

 May the sun not leave your head

 My life is devoted to you, my country.

 Running to your service

 Be the only one for you

 Pulling out my heart

 Homeland, I give my life to you.

 I will finish it before I die

 Yozai senchun epic shout

 My eyes are a charm for you

 My life is devoted to you, my country.

 The throne of other countries is not needed

 It’s okay if I’m in your arms

 A heart that does not love you is heartless 

 My life is devoted to you, my country.

Yolgoshova Sevinch, Bukhara Region, Kogon District, Barkamol Avlod Children’s School, member of the “Yosh Kalamkashlar” club, 9th grade student of the 17th school in the district, “I bow to those who know you”, 1st place winner of the regional stage.