Purple Plums and Sumac Red

-Autumn and Autumn 

1980, 2025

Creative Non-Fiction 

Brian Michael Barbeito 

(for Tara)

ONE

Purple Plums 1980

(Home Harken Hearth and the Stones and Water Then)

I felt messages in the yellow buttercup, as if a spirit whispered, and could sense angels. I remembered the purple plums of long ago home, the ones that blossomed in autumn, and some of the tree branches stood throughs wrought iron gates, weighty like the gates themselves, and there was a textured sky nearly always then plus multi coloured leaves red yellow orange brown just down the ravine way. So many colours in the cool-air world then, and I was an innocent, a young mystic,- alone and connected to the ether, the other world, different realms where guardians from heaven sang songs and also appeared as shapes in the drapes or tiles, even plastic toys or in the fabric of area rugs and couches. Always benevolent, assuring through their very existence, if a bit sad also for the songs they seemed to sing,- songs I couldn’t quite make out the words of but could still feel the feelings meant. 

For all that through,- nothing was provable. But what would it matter, as I had nothing to prove anyhow,- knowing the veracity and validity of it all. And I didn’t have anyone to talk to anyhow. I could say that I thought other people saw and heard the spirits and signs, knew about events and the intentions of souls good or bad,- or that I didn’t think they did. But I didn’t consider it either way. I was just to myself, in my own interesting worlds and I found them interesting. 

Until I didn’t. 

One day the world that people would later make fun of or explain away through medical models or imagination’s life, would present itself in a little too real manner for me…

I was awakened in the night to a ghost floating back and forth at the foot of my bed. It was transparent and a boy about my age, six or seven. He was trying to communicate something, but I couldn’t hear. Wave back and forth just like something from a cartoon or movie he did. But I became too frightened and began to leave. He motioned for me not to and had a panicked look on his face. The message that he had come to convey or else the help he needed, maybe both, was not complete. 

I ran across the long hallway and looked back. He flew out from the room, down the stairs, and out the front door. I never saw him again. 

Sometimes I think about him and that night and how he might have entered. The top window, the third floor one that was mine, was looking out to the ravines and their trees and wild beautiful deer and coy,

 coyotes plus feral foxes and, possibly,- the spirit world. How I loved to walk down there sometimes by the water that used to rush with confidence in the summer storms or remain calmer on say, the late summer dusks. And rain-washed stones, stones which held spirits themselves,- calling out with strange faces but with countenances that I was not frightened of for my being used to it all. 

My room was stationed above the black wrought iron gates and the purple plums. Late autumn when it’s cold is not too early to have a fire. And sometimes in the stone hearth below was crackling and flying orange embers. Maybe ghost boy was attracted by the smoke ascending to the moon-lit firmament. Maybe I’ll never know. 

TWO

Sumac Red 2025

(Autumnal Azure Agape and the Long Way Home from the Pastoral Glade)

In the meadow after the trail are flowers and bees, evergreens, and a copse of birches also. This is all at the purlieu for one can’t really go any further. But the real grand phenomenon there is the sumac, and some cultures use its deep red for colouring dye. It stands around proudly and boasts its tropical style leaves and deep redness to the calm country air. 

A soul can think many thoughts along the way there and back, under the verdant canopy as the sun filters in here and there like the sky talking to the terrene earth. But out on the glade of the meadow near where a swatch is cut through it all to walk, thoughts can ease a bit, for the peacefulness of the atmosphere there…no people or machines, no panic or psychic discord. That is surely why people seek the whimsical woodlands, the mountain, the lake, and the sea plus the desert. 

The spring lets the rains to be more than anytime it seems, and some feral shoots begin to grow through mud. Summer is a celebration for the grasses and grasshoppers and a thousand varieties of insects. Birds sing. Fall lets loose colourful leaves and ghostly winds, whist the winter shows millions of sparkles and reminds of nature’s realities and how they can be beautiful but must be respected. 

It’s a fine place to stand before heading home. There isn’t a point per se, even a subtle one like a bird watcher or photographer might want to find. It’s different. It’s not valued by the world, the secular set. It’s wordless, even for a poet or writer, and can’t be painted or photographed, sculpted, or even have a dance made about it. Perhaps it is simple touching the Source or the angelic realm, even if with some new crown chakra or fingertips or a part of one’s spirit. Yes, that might be it, a sense of home and meaning felt amidst the area and atmosphere of the glade and small series of bushes, the old copse of trees by the corner sand pit that have their root systems sticking out but are still okay. By the beginnings of autumn, the liminal, changing, still nascent and inchoate fall. 

Oh fall, or the promissory note for such, a paper writ in the sudden gust of wind like a ghost or The Holy Spirit itself, in new textured sky for a gathering of clouds, and the thousands of leaves still on the trees, kelly green and hunter green also, at the perimeter, when they sparkle in breezes and seem to appear golden. ‘We are golden now, against reason and logic, look at us watch us document us tell the others they should know…the ones that would care anyhow, as someone should see this!’ And even in the lines of small stones trying to tell a story, magic can be discerned, as looking down can also be a way of searching within through and via the outer. 

—-

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. 

Hearts 

Your heart tonight

Touch my heart

Like the first time…

My heart 

Close to your heart

They whisper

They talk like they know each other for years

Your heart tonight

Make love to my soul

A love full of passion

With care

Respect

Your heart tonight

Show to me

The magic moment

Exist

Your heart

Touch my heart

Like a child

Your heart

Has his own

Prophetical knowledge

You are a diamond

But i had to climb

The highest volcano

So i can find you…

Mal Compris

A daughter was born one day to the King of a prosperous kingdom. She was christened Malade. She was a very even-tempered and pleasant girl, and a joy for her father to behold, until one day she was afflicted with a tremor about her features. A severe juddering affected her hands and face and was found by all to be quite disquieting. In fact, she could not hold a teacup without quivering so badly that the contents were spilled. The princess was the only child of the King and Queen. Malade, of course, had a plethora of tutors and so did not have to be around others her own age; that would have caused the King severe embarrassment, as well as being humiliating for the young girl herself. One must keep up appearances, as the King well knew.

When she was six years old, Malade was given lessons in the equestrian disciplines. A young groom, older than Malade by about one year, was there, and the two young people struck up a cordial though not close relationship. This youth was called Judicieux, and he was very good at his job, and soon he was tasked with servicing all the horses that the damsel used. Judicieux was sensitive to the plight of Malade, as he was himself lame. Though she was starved for attention from children, they both recognized their proper places.

Years passed. As Malade grew into young adulthood, she was beset by the responsibilities of her position: functions of ceremony at her father’s table and in the King’s stead. But her malady never lessened; the juddering continued.

“Oh, Judicieux,” she said one day in the stables, preparing to mount her steed. “What shall I do?” I am to meet the prince from the northern kingdom. His father and the King desire that the prince and I wed and effect the joining together of our kingdoms. “What if the prince hates me?”

“He can’t help but love you, Milady,” said the groom with feeling.

“But my quivering,” she said sorrowfully. “With all the beautiful women in our two kingdoms, why would he give me even a second glance?”

“If he has but eyes to see, Milady,” he said from his heart. He then limped back into the stable.

Malade thought of Judicieux: “For a cripple, he has many beneficent qualities. He shall make some peasant girl a fine mate.” And she thought nothing more of Judicieux or her dilemma, for she was astride a horse.

“Milady,” said Inepta, watching as her mistress struggled with her palsied hands, “perhaps if you concentrate, if you tell yourself to be calm, you will not judder, and things will be alright.”

“Thank you, Inepta,” said Malade, “but in seventeen years that strategy has been to no avail.

“Yes, Milady,” murmured Inepta, looking sadly at the princess.

That night, the kingdom was astir. The king would formally announce the engagement of Malade to the prince of the neighboring kingdom. Prince Stephen was rich, handsome, powerful, and heir to his kingdom. Much was made of the festivities. It was wintertime as well, and Christmas was likewise celebrated. This was everyone’s favorite time of year. Sumptuous comestibles proliferated, and sparkling wine flowed like rivers. Everyone partook heartily of the rich food and libations, and at the summit of the evening, attention was focused on the prince and princess.

“Daughter,” intoned the King robustly, “you have before you a prince worthy of your honor.”

She looked shyly into the eyes of Prince Stephen. He returned her gaze, but his face fell.

“Great King,” said he, “I cannot marry the Princess Malade.”

“But,” the King objected. “It is all arranged.”

“That may be, but I have our mutual kingdoms to consider. What will become of us if I marry the Princess and our children are born who are as deranged as she is? How would our realms function? How would our diplomats sort it out if it were thought that the royal family was addle-minded? We would surely become a laughing stock throughout the continent.” The prince’s words pierced like a dagger the heart of the princess.

The king took a great breath and released it wearily. He knew what the prince said was conventional wisdom. He released the prince from his betrothal.

So the Princess returned to her solitary existence, seeing no one other than her lady in waiting, Inepta, and her groom, the lowly Judicieux. She continued to relish time spent among her magnificent stable of horses. Starved for companionship, Princess Malade began conversing ever more intimately with Judicieux on any number of subjects; to her great surprise, she found that he was informed, intelligent, and wise far beyond his station in life. He rivaled the courtiers, in fact, in his canniness. She began to harbor an idea. Despite the fact that Judicieux was neither rich nor handsome, nor the heir to a great throne, she was completely smitten with him.

One day Malade approached the King and inquired, “Father, shall I never marry?” The King, surprised that the Princess would want to marry after the debacle with Prince Steven, responded to his daughter.

“Why, Malade, you will never be wed to a sovereign, as you have seen, but you may of course marry—if only for companionship. And I suppose that if you have a male child, he will inherit the throne, whether he is a juddering idiot or not.”

“I have chosen my husband,” she announced excitedly. The king, with little enthusiasm, asked who it would be. “I shall wed the most intelligent, thoughtful, and wisest man in all the kingdom,” she told him. “I shall marry for love,”

“Have you only just met him?” he inquired.

“I have known him half my life,” she replied. “And the King, seeing as Malade was very old now—almost twenty—knew this to be a long time indeed.”

“If you have made your decision, word shall go out, and a wedding will be arranged,” he said, but still with scant enthusiasm. “Er… who have you chosen?” he asked.

“Judicieux, chief groom of the stables,” she told him. The King swallowed any remarks he might have had.

And so a wedding was held. All the dignitaries attended, including Prince Stephen, who had since married and was beset by a harpy of a wife.  He was barely able to draw a breath, but she would criticize him for it. But she had a fertile womb, and all of her children were likewise disposed to be curmudgeons. Stephen’s kingdom was almost constantly at war due to his poor diplomatic skills. The prince looked upon Malade now with admiration, for certainly she was the most beautiful bride ever to grace this or any other castle. He had simply never noticed before.

After the wedding, Judicieux, as the husband of the King’s only daughter, sparked an interest in the king. Like his daughter, he was pleasantly surprised by the native intelligence, thoughtfulness, and wisdom of his son-in-law–and a cripple at that!  And as a part of the royal family, the former groom was drawn into the diplomatic order and soon became the outstanding minister in his Majesty’s service. And as his abilities became well known, so too did Malade’s grace, manners, and loving instinct. They had many children, but one of them–like the princess and later the queen–had tremors, but the child was treated with patience, understanding, and compassion. And showered with love. After a long reign by her parents, that child, christened Empathique, served as the greatest sovereign that the kingdom ever saw.

One by One Becomes One

‎

‎If I had not held your hand

‎Human life would have remained incomplete

‎The world would have remained in the shadows

‎The light of the moon would not have come to the earth

‎The grasshopper’s wings would not have written

‎My first love letter.

‎

‎If I had been alone

‎Poetry would not have been born in my heart

‎Spring would not have come to this heart

‎The cuckoo would not have called in the depths of my heart

‎The river of life would have lost all its waves

‎No one else would have awakened in my heart.

‎

‎If I didn’t keep my eyes on you,

‎Who would make flowers bloom in the desert?

‎The seven colors would remain unknown,

‎The flock of birds would lose their language,

‎The Himalayas would float in mute tears,

‎My poetry notebook would remain empty.

‎

‎If I had not met you,

‎The path of love would have been unknown.

‎Who would have gathered happiness under the canopy ?

‎Who would have achieved the melody on the harp of the mind?

‎The sea would have flown in all directions.

‎A pile of sighs would have accumulated in the vast void.

‎

‎I understand by holding your hand

‎One by one becomes one

‎Looking into your eyes I understand

‎Two by two becomes two.

What we can learn from Trump and thinkers, leaders from Africa

Africa’s troubles are lessons to be learned from. They are meant to be experiences that will inform our future. Afrika’s future, Azania’s future, this continent’s future.

What will you be remembered for, what will your legacy be is the question I want to pose to the youth, each and every individual, male and female, poet and politician on the African continent?

I am beginning to understand the components of the promulgation of the Group Areas Act and the early role of the missionaries in South Africa, I am also beginning to understand the role of the mission schools in early education in South Africa, the role that it played in shaping the psyche and intellectual faculties of our leaders. Leaders who came out of Robben Island and the University of Fort Hare.

We must understand the past, in order to revise the history books, in order to write about the Black majority we must come to terms with the psychotic and brutal regime of apartheid, the heinous crimes and atrocities committed during that time. Colonialism is indigenous genocide, ignorance is intellectual genocide.

The ANC leaders have shown us that leaders are human. Donald Trump has also shown that he is only human. Leaders are also capable of making mistakes, of appearing arrogant and corrupt and flouting the law but it is leaders that must remember that it is the citizens that have the vote, and that it is the vote that puts them into power.

I have a Pan Africanist outlook now, Pan Africanist point of view, a Pan Africanist perspective. It was the father of the PAC and movement, Mangaliso Robert Sobukwe, who said that there is only one race, the human race. What can be learned in a contemporary South Africa from the political organisations that went underground during apartheid? Where are those leaders now? What is important for the boy child and girl child to remember, and here I am speaking about our future historians, is that we as the African continent, and as South Africa (see not a divided South Africa, but a united country), can no longer rely on the West.

Trump humiliated Cyril, and in effect he was also saying that he wasn’t going to acknowledge what took place to the Black majority of this country during apartheid, and neither was he going to acknowledge the Cradock Four, Vlakplaas, assassinations, and the imprisonment, detainment and torture of political activists and freedom fighters. I wondered to myself if Trump even knew of the existence of George Botha, Steve Biko and Mangaliso Robert Sobukwe as he sat across from Ramaphosa.

Trump had the attitude of a White Supremacist but I still admire him. I admire his work ethic. But I reiterate this, that the leaders that come to power when there are always tensions and geopolitical transitions taking place in a global scenario that have been left over from a previous administration are not perfect. Trump wasn’t in that moment operating like the leader of the free world, he was instead behaving like a school bully on the playground.

I look at Trump’s history. I look at his childhood. I look at his brother Fred Trump Junior. I look at the brother that Trump said in his own words in a speech that had a better personality than he did. Time and time again you will find that in the lives of remarkable men who change the course of history by sheer will, tenacity, determination and vision there has been some occurrence or incident of pain and suffering that has radically transformed their thinking and outlook on life. (I also abhor smoking and the drinking of alcohol just like the American President.)

It is time now for South Africa to stand on its own two feet and no longer can we rely on the West, or look to Europe. As I have said before, this is the time of the African Renaissance, for African leadership to revise the history books. The African continent needs South Africa, and organisations like NWASA (the National Writers Association of South Africa), we need to remember intellectuals and thinkers past and present like Lebogang Lancelot Nawa, Credo Mutwa, Patrice Lumumba, Frantz Fanon, Ibrahim Traore

It is time for our future revolutionaries to pick up the pen and not the gun. Education for the nation starts with the imagination, the most important nation on earth.

History

The strange submission of beaded stars

Falls on my back

I surmise a classical music strangely beautiful

It’s ringing is poised yet melancholy

The cuckoos nest is safe today

A sweet ecstasy of sun burnt smile

The flagrant dreams keep rolling

Tonight as it is known the songs will pray

For the fall of roman empire

Historic preservation is needed

The aura of narcotic mystery

The same time is preserved

It’s calling is a song perched halt.

Sharing for Paivapo Publishing. They’re looking for assistance to translate books from African authors writing in their native languages into English. https://ko-fi.com/africantranslationproject

From contributor Peter Dellolio: I’ve been very fortunate to have a short story collection and a book of new poems to be released this year.  The short story collection is with Cyberwit.net and the poetry book is with Lost Telegram Press.

The short story collection, That’s Where You Go & Other Short Stories is due out in a few weeks, and the poetry collection, Cul de Sac Diaries is due out later this year.

Eva Lianou Petropoulou shares the news about an upcoming poetry contest seeking all styles of poetry. Pieces are due November 30, 2025 and must never have won any other awards and must be accompanied by an Italian or French translation.

Contributor Jaylan Salah is between writing jobs and seeking a remote position from her home in Alexandria, Egypt. She’s got a background in literary and film criticism. Please let us know if you have a position for her or know of someone who’s hiring for gig or traditional employment.

Also, Synchronized Chaos’ first November issue will stop accepting submissions on October 26th. We’ll include anything sent to us on or before that date in November’s first issue.

Now, for this month’s issue: Union and Dissolution.

We explore ways we embrace and come together and ways we pull apart, divide or individuate ourselves.

Dr. Jernail S. Anand reflects on the closeness of family and how each of us seeks and needs loved ones. Maftuna Rustamova also speaks to the joy and importance of family in our lives. Priyanka Neogi contributes a tender and short love poem to a special man as Sevinch Kuvvatova pays tribute to loving mothers everywhere.

Fadi Sido shares of love and beauty concealed and revealed. Ibrahim Honjo crafts a romantic scene of love, youth, and brass bands. Mahbub Alam celebrates the renewing energy of youth. Kandy Fontaine and Alex S. Johnson’s Gogol-esque short story addresses the tenuous relationship many of us have with our bodies in a world where youth and beauty can be commodified.

Nicholas Gunter reflects on the anniversary of losing his father as Norman J. Olson contributes written and drawn sketches of country and farm life as a memorial to his deceased cousin Bill. Kassandra Aguilera grieves her deceased mother through dream conversations.

Ollie Sikes ponders requited and unrequited love. Mirta Liliana Ramirez speaks to the pain of love betrayed. Dilobar Maxmarejabova’s story highlights the harm done to children when parents don’t step up to the plate. Tea Russo sings a ballad of a loveless entertainer. Umida Hamroyeva sends up a poem of grief for a lost loved one as Taro Hokkyo expresses the visceral pain of losing his beloved, his spiritual home. Allison Grayhurst renders up a multi-section epic poem on emotional healing after the betrayal of a friend. Bill Tope’s story highlights prejudices people with disabilities face in the dating world.

The precarious political situation in the United States feeds into J.J. Campbell’s poems of personal disillusionment and slow grief. Ng Yu Hng reviews Nikolina Hua’s poetry, discussing how it evokes personal and societal sorrows. Kandy Fontaine speaks of a traumatizing and destabilizing encounter with a supposed professional in a piece that encourages readers to ponder how we use social power in our own lives. Mykyta Ryzhykh’s fresh poems speak with a tone of cynical self-loathing. In Kandy Fontaine’s second story, seduction and intimacy become weapons in a dystopian world where hybrid life forms feed off of others’ grief.

Srijani Dutta’s poetic speakers use memory and imagination to fill in the gaps created by miscommunication and mistrust in reality. Chloe Schoenfeld’s piece depicts music as a force to help two forgetful people hold onto their memories.

Dino Kalyvas sets a poem about universal human respect and dignity from Eva Lianou Petropoulou to music. Abigail George poetically asserts her unity with all of the world’s diverse creative people. Jacques Fleury defines himself in his poem on his own terms, part of the human race and sharing in universal human ancestry. Eva Petropoulou Lianou interviews poet Nasser Alshaikhamed about the high aspirations he has for his poetry and for humanity. She also interviews Russian poet Olga Levadnaya about craft and the journey to peace through repentance. Dr. Ratan Bhattacharjee poetizes about good overcoming evil in the form of the Goddess Durga slaying a demon. Graciela Noemi Villaverde elaborates on the transformative power of poetry as Dr. Brent Yergensen dramatizes one of Jesus’ parables in verse.

Niloy Rafiq harnesses a courtroom metaphor to highlight how he speaks the truth through his art. Shahnoza Ochildiyeva composes an essay on the purpose and value of the written word. Damon Hubbs depicts an encounter with the ambience and aesthetic of William Butler Yeats as he drinks in Dublin. Z.I. Mahmud probes layers of meaning in Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice, how his understanding of Shylock and racial and religious prejudice might have gone deeper than we realize.

Journalist Jakhongir Nomozov interviews Azerbaijani poet, translator, and linguist Firuza Mammadli, who has deep knowledge of and appreciation for her nation’s literary history and also strong words of caution for students, especially women, who seek to pursue a creative life. Sobirova Samiya highlights the inextricable connections between language and culture. Choriyeva Oynur outlines the literary contributions and legacy of 15th-century Uzbek poet Mavlono Lutfi. Yuldosheva Yulduz Ravshanovna, a teacher, highlights how she sees the light of Uzbek historical poetess Zulfiya carried on in one of her pupils. Muxtasarxon Abdurashidova expresses her gratitude for an inspirational teacher.

To’raqulova Pokiza discusses ways to enhance student speaking and communicative competence in English as a second language. Abdirashidova Ozoda discusses how to encourage preschoolers to develop communication skills related to socializing. Hasanboyev Sardorbek urges educational leaders to make computer literacy and communication via computer an educational priority. Texas Fontanella connects a variety of words and images and references together in a series of text messages. Mark Young plays with words and images, exploring and stretching meaning.

Damion Hamilton speaks to common human, traditionally masculine fears and aspirations. Taylor Dibbert’s poem speaks to the ordinary and universal annoyance of food poisoning as Chimezie Ihekuna recollects sentiments of resilience during the Covid-19 pandemic. Lan Qyqualla’s poetry melds themes of love, loss, longing, and transformation.

Abdel Latif Mubarak’s poems evoke dreams, wonderment, fears, longings, and the desire to live for a greater cause. Eva Petropoulou Lianou calls for compassion, peace and an end to war. Parvinder Nagi urges humanity to make the individual and collective choice to act ethically and responsibly, as does Bhagirath Chowdhary in his poetry. Graciela Irene Rossetti urges humanity to keep soul-searching and discover the true meaning of peace. Tagrid Bou Merhi speaks to the dawning of society and consciousness and the full humanity of women. Eva Petropoulou Lianou reviews Ahmed Miqdad’s poetry and shares his wishes for peace and self-determination for the people of Gaza.

Anthony Chidi Uzoechi’s prose poem evokes the weight of historical grief and suffering in the lives of many people of color. Maja Milojkovic reflects on the nihilistic destruction of war. Bill Tope laments and fears recent dark turns in American politics. Til Kumari Sharma speaks up for young people, women and girls, and the students fighting in the 2025 Nepali uprising. Duane Vorhees also speaks of revolution, along with sensuality, coupling, and new life.

Andre Osorio uncovers a language of resistance and survival in Hua Ai’s new poetry collection Exiles Across Time. Daniela Chourio-Soto draws on artistic language and metaphor to speak to despair as part of the human experience.

Alan Catlin mulls over the precarity and drama of human existence. Yongbo Ma crafts moments of inflection, when matters will soon change, as part of his commentary that movement is life and stasis becomes despair. Nicholas Vigiletti evokes the ennui and frustration of low wage, dead end jobs.

Jessica Hu’s strange poetry speaks to a brutal and cold world. Mesfakus Salahin implores nature’s wild elements not to ruin his joyful union with his beloved.

Aurelia Preskill reflects on the beauty of an apple and how easily Adam and Eve could have been tempted and forever changed. Sayani Mukherjee reflects on autumnal magic and metamorphoses. Rafi Overton gives us a butterfly’s reflection on his past metamorphosis and how what he truly needed was self-love regardless of physical status.

Ari Nystrom-Rice reflects on how people and nature, in the form of the ocean, are inseparable. Stephen Jarrell Williams’ poetic speaker shares many facets of his memories of the sea. Jerome Berglund and Christina Chin’s tan-renga convey different “moods” of nature: resilience, fear, aggression, and coexistence. Yongbo Ma evokes loneliness through images of burned-out spiders out of silk for their webs.

Abigail George reviews Rehanul Hoque’s novel The Immigrant Catfish, a parable about greed and environmental mismanagement and destruction. Bill Tope and Doug Hawley’s story narrates the redemption of a man who comes to protect birds he once carelessly killed. Jennie Park’s artwork shows a tender care for the natural world amid the threats it faces.

Brian Barbeito delves deeply into the nature and mysteries of one particular spot in the country. Other writers do the same for ordinary and individual people. Noah Berlatsky points out the subtle tragedy underlying Job’s Biblical story: the way the ending inadvertently suggests that people are interchangeable and thus disposable.

Teresa Nocetti uses a pillow to evoke the complex feelings of a person heading to sleep. Nidia Amelia Garcia does something similar with poetry concerning the history of wrinkles on human faces. Tanner Guiglotto presents a visceral battle with self-doubt. Ellie Hill explores different aspects of a teacup image to comment on how she possesses both delicacy and strength.

Muhammadjonova Ogiloy reviews Otkir Hoshimov’s story collection Ozbeklar, which highlights the dignity and beauty of common hardworking country Uzbeks. Pardaboyeva Charos spotlights the craft of Uzbek embroidery. Fali Ndreka highlights the creativity and skill showcased at Art Basel Miami.

Mushtariybonu Abdurakhimova relates her experiences at a cultural and academic youth development program. Her fellow students highlight other areas of study and knowledge. Aliya Abdurasulova outlines nuances of programming in the C++ language. Shahlo Rustamova’s essay reminds us of the importance of maintaining thyroid health. Ike Boat celebrates the career and skill of martial arts actress Cynthia Rotrock.

Dildora Khujyazova suggests a balanced and optimistic view of economic and cultural globalization, pointing out how individual creators can take advantage of the chance to bring their creativity to wider markets.

Synchronized Chaos International Magazine is intended as a venue for creators of all types around the world to display their works. We hope you enjoy this mingling of ideas!