Mother laugh… Mom, laugh, let go of sadness,

This world is not full. Rejoice and be filled with happiness,

I forget the pain. Mom, laugh, stop Pox from your feet,

See my happy fate, My dreams lead to happiness‌‌

“Summer with Kamalak!”

Summer! The heart of this season is full of love and happines! Even the sun, green Nature and wonderful gardens have special beauty and kindness . Especially summer is the favorite season of the little ones. Because they go on summer holiday. Summer shares love to all children! In the Republic of Uzbekistan also school classes are completed in may, and the summer holiday lasts until September. During these three months, children have a rest in different camps or at home with their family. In my hometown, children’s time always goes enjoyable with modern camps, bathing pools , playgrounds and, of course, delicious ice creams! The summer holiday of children of Uzbekistan is really joyous with Children’s organization Kamalak . The Children’s organization Kamalak has been operating under the Youth Union of Uzbekistan since 2001. This organization is loved by so many children. Apart from, there is a lot of youths who grew up with it. This organization always tries to worry about every child and support their talents. Captains of the Children’s organization Kamalak operate in 12 regions of our republic, Tashkent City , Republic of Karakalpakstan and all districts. Currently, the chairman of the Republican Rainbow Children’s organization is Madina Baratova. And the captains of the whole Republic are headed by Rukhsora Shakirova.The Children’s organization Kamalak has organized many new projects by this day. One of these projects is that- “Summer with Kamalak”. As soon as the summer holidays begin, a start is given to this project. Enterprising and aspiring, active captains in all regions of our country take new initiatives.  They visit various places.A lot of different  events, intellectual games, creative work contests and sport competitions are organized for children at the  camps.  Of course it’s amazing!

  This year, too, according to tradition, this project continues in all regions of our country. Kamalak captains who work in the regions are visiting not only camps. They are organizing this project at also neighborhoods.The activities under this project are rainbow-colored. For example, in June, during “Summer with Kamlak” project the captains of Navoi region visited the children’s camp which called  “Perfect generation’’, The captains of Surkhandarya region visited the  ‘Amudarya’children’s camp, the captains of Namangan region visited at Zahiriddin Muhammad Babur amusement park, the captains of Fergana region visited School No. 5 in Fergana, the captains of Bukhara region visited the remote neighborhoods in the region and organized the “Summer with Kamalak” project.Within the framework of the project “Summer with Kamalak”, a lot of new projects and events are held in all regions of the Republic, as well as in remote neighborhoods and ovules, in order to make children’s free time meaningful.

 Of course, this project is sharing joy again to children.

Summer is more joyful , unforgettable and meaningful with the “Summer with Kamalak”project!  This project will continue  around Uzbekistan for a long time.

Kamalak-rainbow(in english).

Shahnoza Ochildiyeva

Uzbekistan

Ghoul

Fenster Loomis, an eight-going-on-nine-year-old boy, loved playing in the cemetery. In school, he had been struggling to read, but now he was enjoying much success at perusing the tombstones, grave markers, and monuments in the old graveyard. It helped build his math skills as well; with the subtraction of the dates of birth from the dates of death he could calculate the age at which each person had been at the time of their passing. He was becoming markedly talented at arithmetic for a third grader.

His parents, when told that their only child was whiling away his time at the old graveyard, with its black metal fence, overgrown weeds, and ancient grave markers, simply shrugged. Who was there to care enough to lodge a complaint against young Fenster? What trouble could he possibly get in there? What Jesse and Helen Loomis did not know, nor even suspect, was that their son, now on summer vacation prior to entering the fourth grade, had taken to vandalizing the eternal resting places of the village’s forebears.

Fenster would deface the tombstones with a hammer and chisel in order to make nasty words from what was inscribed. He would struggle mightily to overturn the markers of those whose presence for whatever reason did not please him. He would pee on the monuments, screaming giddily all the while. Fenster Loomis was, of, course, quite insane.

Few people visited the old burial ground; it had reached capacity at least seventy-five years before, which meant that no one remembered anyone who was there interred. Which suited Fenster right down to the ground.

Just prior to his ninth birthday, young Fenster was struck by a new and exciting idea, which was engendered by an old creepy movie he’d seen on channel 8 late one night: grave robbery. Fenster didn’t aspire to collect body parts in order to fashion a monster, as the uncanny Victor Frankenstein had done. No, he wanted the watches, rings, bracelets, necklaces, and other pricey baubles with which the dearly departed – or, as Fenster unfeelingly called them, the corpses – had been buried.

Employing a pick and a spade borrowed from his father’s garden shed, he made his first ambitious foray into grave robbery. Working in the late afternoon sun of July, Fenster worked through nearly four feet of turgid soil before he struck paydirt: the coffin lid. With a final swing of the pick, he smashed through the casket with a loud crunch. His eyes wide, Fenster knelt before the revealed sarcophagus and shoved his hands into the depths of the vessel.

Not really knowing what to expect, Fenster allowed the excitement of the moment to carry him away. Thrusting his hands into the muck, he was relieved to find not goop, guts, and glop, but rather, mere layers of dust. Using the spade, he enlarged the aperture and sifted through the contents. At last he found something hard and small and, pulling it out, shiny. It was a ring – a wedding ring. He peered at the tombstone, which disclosed that the deceased was Margaret Hatcher, who had lived between 1825 and 1879. “She was 54 when she croaked,” murmured the graverobber indifferently. In more than a half century, Fenster decided, the old broad should have accumulated more than one lousy ring. He plunged again into the hole he’d made and threshed through the bodily remains of Margaret Hatcher, but turned up nothing else. Glancing at her tombstone, he noted that she had died on this very day, July 7.

Next, Fenster disinterred the remains of another corpse, this time a man, Elmer Wooden, who had lived seventy-one years, between 1840 and 1911. Elmer offered up several valuable articles: a well-used but finely-crafted meerschaum pipe, a diminutive pinkie ring, and curiously, a rather garish brooch. Rummaging through the old man’s suit jacket, he also found a really stunning bracelet that was festooned with gems. Glancing back at the gravestone, Fenster noted that Elmer had likewise passed on that very day, July 7. Huh, thought Fenster. That was a coincidence. Pocketing the bracelet and necklace, he stored the pipe away and slipped the ring onto his finger. Fenster moved on to the next grave site. And so it went. over the remaining three weeks of July, Fenster, motivated by the riches he’d so far purloined, despoiled more than 100 graves, none of which produced any more treasures. Fenster grew disheartened, tossing off his earlier success as beginner’s luck. As August commenced, it became just too hot to continue with the toil, and Fenster quitted the cemetery. He took with him his concealed stash.

Curious, he consulted the village library to check out Margaret Hatcher and Elmer Wooden, who had generously provided him with the five keepsakes that he now kept in a cigar box in the bottom drawer of the dresser in his bedroom. What he found intrigued him: Wooden had served time in the penitentiary for – get this – graverobbing. His whole family seemed to have had a scurrilous reputation for one thing or another. And Mary Hatcher was Elmer Wooden’s maternal aunt. Fenster filed this information away for later use.

As induction into the 4th grade neared, Fenster wondered just what he should do with the swag he’d confiscated. An answer appeared straight away on the occasion of his father’s 39th birthday. His mother, Helen, as was her habit, gave Fenster money with which to purchase a gift for his dad. Rather than journeying to Macy’s, as she had suggested, Fenster took out the meerschaum pipe he’d found with the late Elmer Wooden, wrapped it gaudily – he knew his parents were charmed by the infantile and primitive manner in which he packaged their presents – and gave it to his father.

Jesse Loomis was impressed. An avid pipe smoker, he regarded the gift with keen appreciation. “You know,” he said around the table at the birthday dinner, “they haven’t made this particular meerschaum for at least a hundred years.”

Uh oh, thought Fenster regretfully.

“Where did you find it, Fen?”

Fenster furrowed his brow in thought, straining to find a convincing answer. But, in addition to being an abject graverobber, Fenster Loomis was also an accomplished liar. “At a Resellit shop in the village,” he replied duplicitously.

“I love it, son. Thank you.” Father and son grinned happily.

Later, as they were doing the dishes, Jesse leaned close to Helen and remarked, taking up and fingering the high-relief meerschaum, “I wonder how Fen could possibly have afforded such a thing?”

“Why,” asked Helen, “is that one expensive?”

“Yeah. In this shape. It must have cost at least $300.”

“Really?” asked Helen, her eyes widening in surprise. “I only gave him $40.”

“Well,” said Jesse, gripping the stem of the old pipe comfortably in his jaws, “he got it at a Resellit shop. Maybe they didn’t realize what they had.”

On the first day of fourth grade, Fenster took a fancy to blonde and pretty Hermione Brown, probably the hottest girl in the class, he thought. He longed to get close to her. She, on the other hand, did not return Fenster’s feelings at all.

“Go play in the traffic,” she snarled when he asked her to sit by him at lunch. Fenster blinked in bewilderment. Not only was he the tallest boy in his class, but he was by this time the best reader as well, plus he was a whiz at math. So he sat by himself and contemplated his dilemma. The solution occurred to him almost instantly: the trove of loot that he’d ripped off from the corpses at the cemetery.

The next day, he walked boldly up to Hermione and said, suavely, for a nine-year-old, “The sun rises in your eyes and reflects in the gems in this necklace.” Not bad, he thought to himself, proffering the brooch.

Hermione was utterly shocked, and being a greedy child, she immediately took possession of the bauble and dedicated her soul to her new benefactor.

At Christmas, the fourth grade celebrated the holiday with a party. Because there were students who came from poorer homes, it was decided not to exchange presents. Ms. Bristol, the teacher, however, eagerly accepted anything that the children brought her way. And Fenster, taking advantage of his diminishing cache of gems, gave Ms. Bristol an elaborate opal ring – the pinkie ring he’d discovered among the effects of Elmer Wooden. Ms. Bristol’s eyes opened wide, then she relaxed. No fourth grader would gift his teacher a real opal, diamond, and gold ring; it was obviously a knockoff, but it was sweet, she thought. At once, she raised Fenster’s grade point average by a half point.

The ensuing summer, Fenster attended summer school, taking an advanced algebra course with students two grades ahead of him. What with his studies and his unofficial girlfriend, the beautiful Hermione, still fully smitten by his largesse, Fenster had no time for graverobbing. But then a strange thing occurred.

On July 7th, algebra class was in session. Ms. Bristol, the fourth-grade teacher, was subbing for the algebra instructor, and wearing her fancy ring. She had tried several times to remove it from her finger, but it was stuck on. Baby oil, soap, petroleum jelly – you name it – nothing worked. But it wasn’t too tight, and it was gorgeous, so she just kept it on. As her students grappled with a math test, Ms. Bristol began feeling the ring tighten on her finger. It was crushing her! Students looked up curiously as he strained to remove it, but it was hopeless. She screamed frightfully as the ring cut all the way through her finger, leaving a severed, bloody digit wriggling eerily on her desk. Students shrieked in alarm, and Ms. Bristol sobbed in pain. The blood kept flowing out of her mangled hand, and she soon bled out.

Fenster, like all the other kids, was shaken. He only vaguely associated Ms. Bristol’s terrible fate with his gift. He hadn’t noticed that she was even wearing his ring. Paramedics, police, and the coroner were all summoned; class was cancelled for the remainder of the week, until a new instructor could be found.

That evening, Fenster met with his unofficial girlfriend in the park. Sitting on a green-painted bench, they reflected on the unhappy ending of their fourth-grade teacher, Ms. Bristol. Fenster recalled with relish the untimely demise of their teacher. Remember: he was insane. Tears seeped out of the little girl’s eyes; she’d loved her teacher and, though greedy, Hermione wasn’t crazy. Soon they were talking gaily about happier things when suddenly Hermione drew her hands to her neck and gasped in pain.

“What’s wrong?” asked Fenster with concern. He really liked Hermione.

But Hermione couldn’t talk; the necklace was cutting off her wind and strangling her. Fenster tried to dig his fingers under the necklace chain, but it was too tightly fixed to his true love’s neck. Fenster shouted at others in the park to help, and a policeman turned up; but he had no better luck than Fenster. After struggling for ten minutes to help the little girl, the policeman and the EMTs he’d called failed. Hermione was dead.

Mr. and Mrs. Loomis showed up at the police station to reclaim their son, whom the authorities had taken into protective custody to question. They also feared the obvious trauma that observing a teacher as well as a friend mysteriously die would have on any child. No one could offer any explanation for the sudden and violent deaths of the teacher and the girl.

The Loomises did their best to console their son; speaking out of his presence, they conversed on young Hermione’s tragic passing. “I wonder,” said Helen, “where she got that horrible necklace?” But Fenster heard. He often eavesdropped on private conversations. His eyes grew big as saucers as he recalled that it was he who had given the jewelry to both Hermione and Ms. Bristol. What could it mean? he wondered wildly. Was it some sort of retribution from beyond the grave? He found himself panicky and sweating.

Then he remembered: the meerschaum! He had given his dad the antique pipe he’d found in the old man’s casket. Was it some kind of bizarre coincidence? he wondered. What might happen to his dad? He rushed from his room and into the living room, where his dad was scrunching tobacco into the meerschaum. Before Fenster could say a word, his father scraped a kitchen match on the side of the box of matches and applied the flame. Then Fenster thought, it’s only a pipe; what could possibly happen? His question was answered moments later, when the air grew fiercely hot around the chair in which Jesse sat. Then a miasma of burning flesh suffused the air, and a potent, terrible effluvium of gray smoke wafted through the air.

Mr. Loomis seemed not to even be aware of what was happening. He drew heavily on his pipe, smiled with pleasure, and then released a stream of fragrant smoke. Next, he suddenly and spontaneously combusted. Tentatively, Fenster approached the recliner and saw there was on the cushion a thin, charred outline of what had once been his father.

Fenster Loomis, already insane, had in a matter of hours lost his girlfriend, his favorite teacher, and his beloved father to horrific violence and death. He never recovered from the trauma and was institutionalized for his own good. There he remained for twenty years. Upon release, the first thing he did, even before going home to his mother, who he had not seen since he was nine years old, was visit the old cemetery, where all the trouble had begun. The shadow of despair seemed still to hang over the place, although it had in fact been paved over and converted into a parking lot for a 7-Eleven store. Shrugging, Fenster walked the half mile to his former home. What he found there surprised him.

His mother, Helen, had remarried – to another woman – and Fenster, whose awareness of LGBTQ issues had been impeded by the two decades in the state hospital, could not come to grips with her decision to wed “Barb.” Helen gave Fenster a warm, if awkward, reception, hugging him fiercely. He met his new stepmom, but they had little to say to one another.

“Your old room is there for you, Baby,” Mom told him through tears of joy. As Fenster shuffled down the hall to his room, he eavesdropped on Helen and Barb:

“I swear, Helen, this isn’t what I bargained for five years ago when we were married. I think he’s not too tightly wrapped. Did you see the way he stared at me? It was creepy! I’m afraid. I think he’s dangerous.”

“He’s my only child, Barb,” said Helen. She had lived alone for years before she had met her wife and desperately didn’t want to lose her. “Give Fen a chance,” she implored. “Your birthday is next Friday, on July 3rd. Fen will help celebrate it. Be patient. Just through the month… okay?” At length, Barb grudgingly agreed.

When Friday rolled around, Barb’s misgivings hadn’t changed, although Fen tried to reach her. At the party, he even handed her a gift he’d wrapped in his own inimitable way. She was taken aback.

“Oh, Fen,” she said. “You didn’t have to buy me a present.”

“It’s a bracelet,” he told her. “Mom said when you were married, you never exchanged rings.” She opened the package.

“It’s beautiful,” she managed, a little guiltily. “Where did you find it,” she asked, slipping it around her wrist.

“I bought it at a Resellit shop,” he told her, smiling.

Eternal Love 

You probably remember on a rainy day, 
Our paths crossed for the first time. 
Raindrops soaked us,
Our love started from that day! 

We used to meet on that street every day. 
There would be no anger, no sadness, 
We thought that fate, our luck, 
Smile at us, eternal love! 

What happened in between remains a mystery. 
Who said what, took the blame, 
Doubt and fear struck our loving hearts, 
Alas, eternal love is damaged! 

We met again on that street, 
At that time, at that promise, 
The eyes are looking at the ground, in sadness, 
See, eternal love did not endure! 

We parted in the age of insatiable youth, 
We wrote a new epic in the garden of love, 
He lives in a dream, in a floating mirage, 
Eternal love that enchants us!

Elmaya Jabbarova was born in Azerbaijan. She is a poet, writer, reciter, and translator.

Her poems were published in the regional newspapers «Shargin sesi», «Ziya», «Hekari», literary collections «Turan», «Karabakh is Azerbaijan!», «Zafar», «Buta», foreign Anthologies «Silk Road Arabian Nights», «Nano poem for Africa», «Juntos por las Letras 1;2», «Kafiye.net» in Turkey, in the African's CAJ magazine, Bangladesh's Red Times magazine, «Prodigy Published» magazine. She performed her poems live on Bangladesh Uddan TV, at the II Spain Book Fair 1ra Feria Virtual del Libro Panama, Bolivia, Uruguay, France, Portugal, USA.

Hisar is a spring that opens its eyes in the heart of the mountain ranges: first it merges into a stream, then into a river, and it is a land that shares life with endless deserts.  A country with four seasons in its bosom, the mornings are bright and the days are magnificent.  Bagri is an oasis with countless natural resources, minerals, and underground reserves.  The people are very hardworking!  At the same time, from afar, you can hear the hooting of galloping horses and the screams of riders who have entered the field.  These traditions, combined with beautiful melodies, indicate that ancient values ​​are still alive.  Listen, it seems as if the sounds of thirst are being heard from somewhere… It is an expression of a land that is angry with those who interfere with the peace and tranquility of the eternal ice stable in its mountains, and the blue fire that burns in the expanses of Avazchol is kind to its friends and cares for its guests.

 Kashkadarya!  A place of sweet fruits enjoying the generous sunlight… Kochkak figs, Kasbi almonds, Varganza pomegranates and Pandiron apples are world famous.  It is not for nothing that the popularity of Kashkadarya tandiri and Chiyali’s yakhsin has traveled all over the world.  You won’t find these mouth-watering dishes in any other country.

 You can see the national achievements of Shahri Kesh and its unique values ​​from Shahrisabzcha embroidery.  Your heart is full of sophistication.  It is this passion that will lead you to the places where classical music and status are pulsating.

 Like my grandfather, the fertile mountains of Wokham speak of the past.  The ancient monuments – cisterns – erected on the side of the caravan routes seem to confirm that the words “earth” and “mother” are twin concepts.  Yes, this is a fertile and blessed land like our mother: The ruins of Erkurgan, which lie in ruins for centuries, are a story from a great past.  Therefore, it is the land that gave birth to the great world leader, who has the potential to shine in Samarkand.  You say that the scholars have not found perfection in it.  Hazrat Beshir in the book, Langar father in Kamashi, Abu Mo’in Nasafi in Qavchin, Sultan Mir Haidar in Kasbi, Qusam Sheikh father in Kason, Zanjirsarai in Mubarak, Nasafis, Pazdawis’ footsteps have stood in this blessed soil.

 The glorious history of this land is proof of its great future.  This is the proof of the fact that the remote areas, which were far from the vision yesterday, have become a huge creative field today.  The mountains of Dehkanabad, which have been suffering from the pain of the road for centuries, look like a traveler with a diamond belt around his waist and riding towards the future.  Large-scale factories and enterprises are being built and are leading the world in terms of efficiency and production capacity.Similar positive changes are visible in all other districts, towns and villages of the oasis.  The feeling of anxiety about the next day leaves the mind.  Feelings of gratitude take its place.  Basharti, this is a ladder thrown into the future, in these schools, which are already vocational schools, I and my peers, the generation that will come after us, will work for the sake of the country, for the prosperity of the country…

 Summary:

 Dear friends, let’s be proud to be children of such a country!  Compatriot, let’s honor this creative nation.  It is worth seeing every bit of this country.  Let’s not forget that we are responsible for its development and prosperity.  Let’s always remember that we are involved in the fate of this country.  Indeed, our perfection is reflected in the beauty of our country.  My motherland, which unites the young and honors the old, is as dear as bread itself…

 So dear, so blessed,

 Water, soil, sun, moon.

 Heaven is actually in my country,

 It’s so beautiful…

 I am proud to be from Kashkadarya!

Togaeva Nigora Kudratovna, a journalist of the Kashkadarya regional television and radio company, a promoter of creative and cultural affairs of the 58th general secondary school in Kasbi district.

PATIENCE IS THE KEY TO HAPPINESS

The window is open. It’s cloudy outside, but nice weather. Inside, a girl was sitting silently, staring at the window. Silence covered the room for a while. Naila brought a bowl of food and a glass of water into the room and was even more saddened by her daughter’s condition. The fact that her mother was constantly acting on her behalf, and she was only a spectator, made Komila feel sick. The reason for this was that Komila was in a serious car accident when she was young. At that time, as if it was not enough that Komila lost her legs, she also witnessed the death of her father in front of her eyes. Since then, Komila has been helpless in her mother’s arms. Years have passed. He was studying in the school of his peers, and was playing and laughing in the arms of his parents. Every day, Komila cried to herself, “Why am I living?” His mother was raising him with difficulties. There was no one but Komila’s daughter. Naila lived by selling somsa in the market every day. Months passed, then years. It’s still the same.

       One day he was buying somsa in the market as usual. A man who had been watching her from a distance came up to Naila curiously. Naila was dressed in plain clothes. When Naila asked, “come on, do you need somsa”, the man answered Naila, “yes” and bought it.

     The man started coming to get somsa every day. They became like sisters with Naila. One day that man asked Naila a question:

    – Sister, we have known you for a long time, but I don’t know much about you. But you have become like my sister. Please tell me about yourself.

        After some imagination, Naila began to tell everything that happened to her. After listening to everything that happened in silence, that person said to himself:

       “Why did I know this woman from before and did not ask her about herself, what kind of days have passed since the beginning, why wasn’t I interested earlier” – he asked himself.

        That person quietly held Naila’s hand:

   – Sister, walk with me, I will take you somewhere – he said. Naila continued to walk with that person, surprised. They came to a big place. Naila asked that person: “Where did we come from?”, and the person said that this is your house from today. Naila, who could not stop herself from excitement, refused. He tried hard to give this big house to Naila. But Naila resisted a lot and finally gave in. Naila felt very uncomfortable. The man looked at Naila and said: “From today you are my sister, and Komila is my sister.” Hearing these words, Naila burst into tears. He remembered the days he spent. Even after the death of his master, everyone turned away from him. When he needed help, everyone left him alone. After a while, the man did everything he could to heal Komila’s legs, and Komila started walking. Naila’s joy was so boundless that she could not fit herself into this bright world. He was supposedly an angel sent by Allah Naila in exchange for this patience.

   The happiness that came after patience was a miracle of God.

I am Akramova Shiringul Furqatjon, I was born on October 28, 2004 in Sirdarya district of Sirdarya region. Women’s All India Technical Skill Development Council Organization and I am a member of the National Human Rights and Humanitarian Federation.

my nose says 'frost' to the rest of me




a three-crow caw alarm




the old age moon's lousy company




the broken intermolecular bonds in the water the plum twig sips




cutting the mouse tail off the white turnip




he took his blood-blisters into the next world




flybys to the outer planets: dumpster dives for the Son of Man




the extinction of languages right up to this shoo-be-doo-da-day




Saturday morning: negotiating the release of a tree frog




when they caught him, he was knighting sunflowers with a switch




Oh, the Dardanelles of sleeplessness




the soft tread of a Shawnee hunting party: city sirens




making a wish on the star atop her parochial school paper




deep in tinseled thoughts of long ago




I was sitting next to one of those zero sum guys who wouldn't hurt a fly