Note: This story contains themes that may offend members of the LGBT community. We at Synchronized Chaos stand with LGBT and with all people in their quest to be treated as equal human beings. At the same time, we don’t believe Amos Momo Ngunbu intended to harm anyone with his writing as we think it came from sincerely held religious or other beliefs on his part and concern for the welfare of teenagers. That said, there are different ways to interpret religious teachings on same sex relationships (as well as church-state separation). We invite readers, if they wish and feel comfortable, to engage Amos with reasoned and compassionate discussion in the comments.

Rose, growing up as a child, who lived with her parents in the 70s, was a daughter to Mr. and Mrs. Miro.

Her ambition was to become a medical doctor within the next decade. Decent she was, and schooled at the Don Bosco Technical High School, located in Sinkor, Monrovia, Liberia. Her beauty was like a symbol, crafted with words, that almost everyone could read, through which to get their way out.
Rose was admired, by almost everyone, in and out of her school.

Regardless of her beauty, she was positive about her future and never wanted it to be disrupted, with anything else. She was satisfied with her living standard, regardless of her parents' condition. 
During the next academic year, there came a newly enrolled student in the person of Lesia, who entered the school with the mindset of initiating young girls into lesbianism and prostitution. 

She entered the school with a very high dress code. Her beauty flattered everyone, both instructors and students. She initiated a lot of girls.
On a bright Friday morning, during the day of sporting activities, Lesia went on the campus, with a very high dress code that turned the eyes of everyone. 
Contested for miss and came out with a shining color. She got her talent from the dark world, for which, she never lost in any competition. 

Suddenly, her talent drew her attention to Rose. She ignorantly saw her to be a good person in nature. She got closer to her with the mindset of achieving the positive best from her.
In no time, she was initiated into the dark world. Rose, who was a great and serious student, became to misbehave and mislead people on campus.

Everyone was shocked with her behavior. Her name was the song sung in the ears of everyone.
Nakedness became her fruit for success. She no longer listened to people, both on and off campus. She initiated most of her friends too. There was a boy named Thomas, who she tried to initiate, but failed, due to his time spent in the presence of God. She tried and tried, but failed.

Thomas kept getting closer to her, just so he could regain her soul in the presence of God. He did all he could and later captured her soul to the presence of God. She recovered from the ancient world and got to her normal stage. Thomas and Rose later married and left for the Netherlands.

“SCREAMING MIME” 

I should speak out when they abuse 
This pasty-faced artist who decided to choose 
Being trapped in silence with make-up queer 
I may not speak, but I can hear 

The taunts, the insults, and the hate 
Towards street performers who refuse the bait 
Of ridiculed anger through vulgar gestures 
Believing performance is a continuing semester 

Of learning to grow within painted smile 
Ignore the assholes, concentrate on the child. 
Who laughs with joy or open-mouthed wonder 
Yet tosses no coins as my stomach thunders 

Breaking the silence, begging for bread 
My intestinal rumblings plead to be fed
A steady diet of human compassion 
Through the clinking of coins in an appreciative reaction 

To my ancient art and enduring hunger 
Selling myself like a common whoremonger 
Hoping to satisfy an insatiable crowd 
In tight fitting Spandex, a seductive shroud 

Ignoring lewd sneers at my exposed anatomy 
That I've twisted and stretched in hopes it would flatter me 
As my muscles contort and my body sings 
A silent song that once entertained kings

Miss Unity is a writer and drag queen from upstate New York. Her essay collection ‘Who Killed Mabel Frost?’ will be published by SF/LD Books in 2023. 
Mark Blickley grew up within walking distance of New York’s Bronx Zoo. He is a proud member of the Dramatists Guild and PEN American Center. His latest book is the flash fiction collection, Hunger Pains (Buttonhook Press).

Fading memories

I could remember
When you left
At noon, it was outside, at the portico
My eyes soaked, rivulets streaming 
I held your hand, the same hand
You used to rub my head and I lock
My hands in yours-soft
But at that moment, as I held you
Perhaps with the weight of pain on me
It felt rough as a sandpaper, why?
Now I see you were tired,
Tired of the ride with me
Each time I reach inside my head
In search of a moment’s memory of you
I see you disappearing/fading away 
From my heart like smoke.
But still I wait outside on this same 
Spot/waiting for you as a prodigal son
It’s been two years now 
& at every knock and sight of
Shadow at night, I scurry down
Thinking it’s you.
Still waiting
Come to me, say you've stayed away
For long
Let’s make memories again
There’s still a lot unmarked
On our bucket list.

the rules of any society
 
scribbling poems
in the rain
 
like this poor soul
that doesn't play
by the rules of
any society
 
flicked cigarette butts,
empty bags of fast
food trash, and a cruel
car of teenagers and
the asshole dare of
tossing piss
 
he has seen it all
 
nothing dares to ever
come close to surprising
him anymore
 
school shooting
 
celebrity death
 
war in a foreign land
 
he knows what it
really is
 
thursday
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
not made of sugar
 
old bones
screaming
in the rain
 
caught out
in the elements
without a jacket
or umbrella
 
you remember
your father
telling you
you're not
made of
sugar
 
you won't
fucking melt
 
as you got older,
you realized he
was full of shit
 
thankfully, that
fucker is in the
ground
 
it won't be long
now, you will
be as well
 
at least parts
of you
 
i figure most
of the body
will be burned
to destroy
the evidence
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
like failure is not the only option
 
laughing at my perv switch
as i watch a black woman
walk back into the offices
to go clean them
 
should i strike up a
conversation and see
what happens or should
i see if she just wants
cash instead
 
somewhere my mother
is reading this and knows
she has failed
 
like failure is not the only
option available to us all
 
she just caught me staring
at her
 
that wasn't the finger
i was hoping for
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
my answer to john fogerty
 
yes, i have seen
the fucking rain
 
it hasn't stopped
around here for
nearly five days
 
before too long,
i'm expecting cats
and dogs to start
falling from the
sky
 
and between the
drops i'm expected
to shop among
the masses
 
like hell
 
the less i am
around people
the better i feel
 
and i know,
i sound like
the bitter old
fuck that secretly
wants it both ways
 
so be it
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
for days on end
 
dark brown skin
and enough curves
to keep your imagination
buzzing for days on end
 
there's a certain way
the hips shake that you
know that a challenge
is ahead of you
 
but a certain body part
is more than willing to
not only accept that
challenge
 
but conquer that
mountain and plant
a damn flag on it

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is currently serving time in suburbia, taking care of his disabled mother. He has been widely published over the years, most recently at The Beatnik Cowboy, Horror Sleaze Trash, Misfit Magazine, Mad Swirl and Terror House Magazine. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)

The Salton Sea  
 

It’s said the Salton Sea is a drainage pond for the vast Imperial Valley-

Breadbasket of the nation 

And just when I think I’ve seen it all…

an old man in a tomato red tuxedo water skis passed a flock of pelicans.

I go for a walk 

The water is receding from the beach like a shy girl in a disco tech. The lake will be dead in another 50 years      

White sand beaches are littered with the bodies of dead green fish. They remind me of dollar bills scattered in the snow 

Sea gulls pick at the bleached bones of a cat
 

The hotels are empty and the palm trees have died eons ago.
 

I thought I saw the skeleton of a dinosaur in the trash heap behind the Howard Johnson’s. 

Someone’s opened a fire hydrant and it’s pissing precious water down the road. 

The ancient body of a Winnebago sits in the lot across from a deli its tires are flat and someone’s spray painted “Earth First!” in blue paint across the back of the motor home. I think it was used in a movie once.
 

Not far is a tavern 

Two bills get you a glass of cheap bourbon 

Not far is a peer
 

A pile of bacon grease lies on the walk to the water the fat’s coated with blowflies 

Watch your step. 

My dogs investigate the dumpsters behind the Chinese restaurant.
 

Somewhere out here there’s supposed to be a wildlife refuge.

Captain Caveman just rode by on a Schwinn bicycle--



The sun falls behind the atomic mts.

Good luck, good-bye


from the Salton Sea

Playground

Back then, we use to see a woman at the window,
Who made sounds with her mouth to arouse our laughter;
Our milk teeth cracking their surfaces like tiles on metals.
Then we would jump closer again and again, a-thirsting another sound.
We back-walked, and laughed at the window woman.

You would say to me “Run, run!, she is sounding again”
You and I laughed, legged footprints on the sand;
Like old copies of a testament that unfreezes memories; 
Of fragile days, of clay-soaked Kanjami, of toy catapults, of the dark!



At dinner time, Flashes of the window woman mirrors in our cornflakes plates.
Longing stumbles through the threshold of our hearts like a flapping toucan.
We swam in a pool of imagination that everything began to wear her sound,
But we relocated. 

Today, we miss the playground, 
The window woman who breaded us with sounds that still echoes.
We held each other, ran to the playground, 
Up the valley, we looked up to the window.
But sadly, nothing sounded.

Fatihah Quadri is a poet, creative writer, and a literary critic. She is a member of HCAF (Hilltop creative arts foundation),  Nibstears poetry cave, B.G.T( Black girl’s tales) and a member of Al faheedah press, University of ibadan. Fatihah is a Nigerian.