abstract world
are we running
out of paint


conversation corner . . . 
where we sit to check
our phones


trapping mix of flavors
in the casserole
heat dome


back then
how little we knew 
about anything


she tells me hubby
won't be joining her for dinner
widow


angle broom
yet my corners
unswept


toasting
her campaign contributions
party atmosphere


tubes
to the outside world
incubator


whispers of shadows
they tell me everything
about you


casting
his vote with confidence
fisherman



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). She lives in Iowa with her husband and three cats.

About the author 

Aliyeva Matluba Jakbaraliyevna was born on April 5, 1990 in Namangan district, Namangan region, Uzbekistan. She is studying fine arts and engineering graphics at Namangan State Pedagogical Institute.

She has been actively participating in public works, as well as attending classes regularly and getting excellent grades. The faculty has a graphics department and was able to attract talented students like Matluba to this department. Currently she is a member of the Students’ Academy established at the institute. 

She is a winner of the “My first article” competition organized at the institute. She got 3rd place diploma in the “Best Article Author” contest in Pedagogical Sciences.

In 2023, she was awarded the New Uzbekistan Science Propagator badge, established by the Academy of Science and Scientific-Practical Activities.

She received a diploma of the Academy of Arts of Uzbekistan, and in 2024, she received a diploma and a certificate for taking the 1st place in the category of Design at the 2023 Festival of Fine and Applied Arts, Education and Training.  

In 2024, she was awarded a diploma as the winner of the Namangan region stage of the republican competition “Navqiron ” in the Republic of Uzbekistan organized by the Union of Artists of Uzbekistan among creative young people, and was recruited to the republican stage.

At the moment, under the supervision of the associate professor of the institute, B. Oripov, scientific research is being conducted in the field of design of fine art (creating design based on creative ideas from fine art and grain products, fabric and decorative elements). In particular, during the 2023/2024 academic year, she published 4 articles in prestigious magazines and conferences, as well as a methodological instruction entitled “Specific aspects of Uzbek miniature art” and Artistic-methodological and professional principles of the work artists from Namangan. – methodical and professional principles) monographs were published in the German publishing house “Lambert Academic Publishing”.

Namangan, Uzbekistan

Read Nahyean’s first chapter here.

Echoes of Ravenswood



Part 2: The Descent

The friends landed with a thud, their flashlights flickering as they hit the ground. Groaning, they picked themselves up, realizing they had fallen through a trapdoor into a hidden basement. The air was damp and musty, the faint sound of dripping water echoing through the darkness.

"Is everyone okay?" Jake asked, his voice echoing slightly.

"Yeah, I think so," David replied, rubbing his sore shoulder. "Where are we?"

Emily shone her flashlight around, revealing a narrow corridor lined with old, rusted pipes and crumbling brick walls. The atmosphere was even more oppressive down here, the weight of the earth above them adding to their growing sense of dread.

"We need to find a way out of here," Sarah said, her voice trembling.

They began to move cautiously down the corridor, their footsteps echoing eerily. The whispering voices seemed to have followed them, growing louder and more insistent. It was as if the walls themselves were alive, watching and waiting.

As they turned a corner, they came upon a series of doors. Each was marked with strange symbols and covered in a thick layer of dust. The friends exchanged uneasy glances, the sense of foreboding growing stronger.

"Should we open one?" Emily asked hesitantly.

"Do we have a choice?" Jake replied. "We need to find a way out, and this might be our only option."

They chose a door at random, Jake turning the handle slowly. The door creaked open, revealing a small room filled with old, rotting furniture and stacks of yellowed papers. In the center of the room was a large, ornate mirror, its surface tarnished and cracked.

Emily approached the mirror, her curiosity getting the better of her. As she wiped away the grime, she gasped. The reflection showed not just their group, but also shadowy figures standing behind them, their faces twisted in expressions of agony.

"Guys, look at this," she whispered, her voice shaking.

The others gathered around, their faces pale as they saw the ghostly figures in the mirror. Suddenly, one of the figures moved, its hand reaching out towards Emily. She stumbled back, her heart racing.

"We need to get out of here, now," David said, his voice urgent.

They backed out of the room, closing the door behind them. The whispering voices grew louder, now accompanied by faint, ghostly laughter. Panic began to set in as they hurried down the corridor, desperate to find an exit.

After what felt like hours, they came upon a set of stairs leading upwards. Relief washed over them as they climbed the steps, hoping to find a way back to the surface. However, as they reached the top, they found themselves in a large, circular chamber.

The chamber was lined with ancient, decaying bookshelves, and in the center stood a stone altar covered in strange, ritualistic markings. The air was thick with the scent of old, damp paper and something else, something metallic.

"Where are we?" Sarah asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Before anyone could answer, the door behind them slammed shut, and the room was plunged into darkness. The friends huddled together, their flashlights casting eerie shadows on the walls.

Suddenly, the altar began to glow with a faint, otherworldly light. The markings seemed to come alive, writhing and shifting like living things. The ghostly laughter grew louder, echoing through the chamber.

"We need to destroy whatever this is," Jake said, his voice filled with determination.

They approached the altar, their flashlights flickering as if the very air was trying to extinguish them. David picked up a heavy book from one of the shelves, intending to use it to smash the altar. As he lifted it, the room seemed to pulse with energy.

Just as he was about to strike, a figure appeared before them. It was a woman, her face pale and her eyes filled with sorrow. She seemed to be made of mist, her form shifting and shimmering in the faint light.

"Please, help us," she whispered, her voice filled with despair.

The friends froze, unsure of what to do. The woman reached out a hand, and they could see the marks of chains on her wrists. She seemed to be pleading with them, her eyes filled with a desperate need.

"Who are you?" Emily asked, her voice trembling.

"We are the lost souls of the Blackburn Mansion," the woman replied. "We were trapped here by a curse, bound to this place for eternity. Only you can set us free."

"How?" Jake asked, his voice filled with a mix of fear and determination.

"Destroy the altar," the woman said. "It is the source of the curse. Break it, and we will be released."

With a determined nod, David brought the book down on the altar with all his strength. The room seemed to explode with light, the air filled with a deafening roar. The friends were thrown back, their flashlights clattering to the ground.

When the light finally faded and the roar subsided, the friends found themselves lying on the cold stone floor. They groaned and slowly sat up, their heads spinning. The room was now eerily silent, the oppressive atmosphere lifted.

"Is everyone okay?" Jake asked, helping Emily.

Nahyean Taronno is a student of grade eight in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh. 

Knowledge is power!

 I was a school student. My life changed completely after a forty-year-old doctor of English language literature, a professor, came to our school and spoke to me. I was really envious of his achievements in life. he was looking for, he easily covered himself financially even when he was a student. Even while studying at school, he became a teacher, the profession he wanted. He graduated from school with a gold medal and entered a prestigious university on a grand basis During his student days, he expanded his business and also received the title of international teacher.

 Do you know what he told us?

 – Never dream of success, try to achieve success. Do not choose a good day or a good opportunity. Start today and now. Only then will you be among the successful! That’s right, you will stumble and fall. Know that the more obstacles and difficulties there are, the more success lies ahead! Work hard in silence, let success be your noise!

    Guys, one of the main reasons for my success so far was that woman.

 Keep this in mind:

    “Knowledge is power! Stop living in your dreams and use all your knowledge and action to make them come true. Because your future will be better than your past!”

distorted sounds 
in the front yard
black feathers

leg pulling
at the end of the bed
a lingering spirit

cat meows ...
a half eaten quail
in the garden

bedtime
a dark entity zooming 
through the doors 

midnight vision
in the bedroom corner
a headless woman

Gratitudes Three

I am grateful for Petrichor,
Intuition,
and for being born 
the Wrong Shape
to fit into Pigeonholes.



Confrontational Weird

It’s that [Special] moment
when Marina Abramović
stepped towards 
Rhythm O’s participants 
dripping with blood
and tears… and, they
ran away like cowards.
You cannot ‘Buy’… that
… Knowledge, Feeling,
Experience… to look 
the Aggressor/Betrayer 
in the face and see 
No Remorse whatsoever
… is to Understand 
that it is the Weak 
who ‘Attack’ the Strong
not the other way around. 
The ‘Snake’ which hides
in Human Nature… is
kept within the flimsiest 
of Cages, out of eyesight
… those who ‘Lack’
Courage ‘Hate’ The Light. 



Back When I Was A Drunkard

“Who the hell is Belle Elmore?
… you crawled out
from behind the settee 
late last night… around
the guests’ feet… 
over to the coffee table
… spoke her name
into that old Dictaphone 
… then, disappeared
back to whence you came.
Eh, drunk?
of course you were ‘Drunk’
… but, at least you weren’t 
‘Juggling Knives’ again
or ‘Remote Reading’ Diary
Pages of the Ladies present.
We sold a bunch of copies
of your new book…
which, you refused to sign
after the first one… 
upon which you cryptically
scrawled… She’ll simply
end-up ‘Blaming’ Monte Carlo.”



Spent Recharging 

… you don’t need ‘revenge’
but a bigger cup,
for that one overfloweth.
Your dazzling ‘Smile’
has become a weapon
after scaling over adversity
… and your ‘Composure’
a Silent Strength that is Elite.
The Sage nodded respectfully
at your Honesty and Calm
… and claimed, that you were
dressed in Spiritual Armour.
‘Renounce’ and ‘Accept’
… ‘Letting Go’
is always a new Beginning
… take it, and run forward.
Be selective who you listen to
… ‘sticks and stones’
are thrown by small people
trapped in crippling insecurity.
‘Integrity’ is earned slowly…
along a path of… Self Control.



Blemishless

I like the things
which make her ‘Real’,
‘Individual’ and ‘Unique’.
She’s shy,
and a little insecure
about the adolescent 
self-harm scars…
but me,
I could kiss them,
one by one,
until the cows come home.

A stretchmark 
is where you became
a Mother.
And broken heart
after broken heart…
you refused to walk
the weak path of bitterness,
and are strong enough
to still love, and give.
Perfect, to me, 
is not blemishless
and doll-like…
it’s a woman 
full of character,
alive within her own skin.


Bleeds Into Another

At the ‘Knitting-Stage’
… conversation
is littered with
“I was just going to say that”.
Yawning is contagious,
in normal folk, right
… but, when you’re almost
unconsciously racing
each other to start… 
it’s special, you know.
I like the way you ‘Stand’
within yourself
… an entire universe
all by yourself…
except, you’re not
‘All By Yourself’, are you…
I’m tagging along for the ride.


… Almost Spoon-Dippable

You cannot cheat Time
by breaking apart clocks,
revisiting past experiences,
nor by Wishing 
rather than Action.
Complaining, is a snare,
and you’ve got your ankle
and elbow stuck fast.
That’s not Schizophrenia,
exactly,
behind her frowning forehead
… it’s Hurt … 
and I’m proud to stand
watching her bravely
try to bucket it empty.
They’ll Finger-Point
no matter what you do,
the gift this knowledge gives
is Freedom.
Down the road is either
another Mountain or Molehill,
depending upon your Character.
Out of the Crowd,
apart from the Racket and Noise
… is where 
the Imagination riots uncorrupted,
and the Maya Blue Sky
becomes almost Spoon-Dippable.


Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems and short stories published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet. His novel Crazy Like Emotion was recently released upon the public by Close To The Bone Publishing.

Treading Water						

Winded, throat burning,
I’m feeling the taunt
of the finish line

How many 
things in aging body
and my life need fixing—
how many relationships
are set akilter

Whimsically, 
try sometimes forgetting 
the balance,
shut the laptop,
listen to the rain
on the window

On a quiet afternoon,
when my face 
studies yours,
what psychedelic radiance 
glows within irises?

On the night of a party,
I wonder who will
flick off the room’s lights 
and watch the night-shadows
when we leave.


Heather Sager lives in Illinois where she writes poetry and fiction. Most recently, she has contributed poetry to The Dawntreader, Meat for Tea, The Opiate, orange juice, The Stray Branch, The Nature of Things (Lone Mountain Literary Society), and more journals.