In the Meantime (2022-2023) 

Part: 1 

Morning comes stealthily, silently…I ruminate

To Morning 

Morning, the particular time of the day, reminds me of the things that I have not completed on the previous day. I feel guilty for not finishing up all the deeds that I have promised myself to do in due time. I feel anxious. I also feel happy for allowing myself to do the things that are not stranger and new. Making oneself introduced to the new things may take a huge amount of patience and enthusiasm. And here, I am resting on my sofa contemplating over the things that I have to make myself acquainted with. Sadly, the contagious flow of procrastination leaves me in such a state where the human beings become engrossed in the whirlpool of doubts and self- denial. The long black traces of procrastination entangle my body and transform my soul into its food. Is this overthinking? Am I doing it at present? By the way, what am I doing?

Long poem

Part 1

Every morning

I wake up

I feel the sudden rush of blood

Around my eyes

As if some fishes want to come out

Of my eyes 

To make a room 

In the adjacent areas of my nose.

My waterlogged nose fails to

Feel the pain that is engulfing

Half of my day,

In the evening, I seek

For the rest that may erase my agony;

Alas, it intensifies my ached body

That is unsurpassable.

I hope for that one thing

Peace-

Nothing else;

What do you expect from an ailing soul?

At noon, I open the window pane

To let the rain shower on my body,

Hundred years have passed

And I am looking at the lake;

Some migratory birds roam,

The fountain speaks

Like whistling wind;

Along with them, a voice appears 

Like a grotesque shadow;

Seeing their movements, I wish

I can travel to future

To see if I am feeling the same,

Motionless, 

Staring at the blank ceiling.

Once upon a time, 

I drove an insect away 

From my place

Like some house inhabitants do the same things

To some guests.

Nobody is staying there

More than one minute,

It is only me, God and my paper,

I am exchanging emotional words

Not a series of outburst,

A rendezvous,

Maybe,

Before I tranquilize my body

And pacify my eyes

At night.

Part 2

Opening up the drawer

Of her yellow room,

She takes out the revolver

To shoot at her head

To say adieu to all the blues

Imprinted on her body and mind,

She feels 

She is possessed by an evil spirit

That disturbs her sleep,

It makes a pact with a venomous worm

That often tries to come out from her ears.

She is ready with her gun

To press the trigger,

A bird with a blue tail

Singing in her hall

Without knowing the next,

Her eyes meet her tail

A rain starts to fall.

The Morning breeze

Morning breeze is like 

Some silenced sound

Emitting out from mouth

And then going back 

To mouth

To act like a balm 

On some unnamed bruises 

Received from life.

It is unadulterated 

Like the laugh of 

The young ones

During morning 

After their gigantic sleep 

At night.

22. 12. 2022

A morning bird’s conversation with its bruised body

My body is a glass that holds my spirit. My body is not entirely broken and bruised. It is not smooth though it works like an ever enthusiastic teenager. Most of the time, I stand in front of the mirror to have dialogues with my body, to listen to what it wants to express. Secretly. Silently. Loudly. It has its voices. I cannot define its multiple voices that rise up like smoke, and get assimilated into air. I look at the reflection on the mirror. I look at my own selves, my own body. I try to own my body, but it is ungraspable. Yeah. I can touch my body; I can feel the pain, acne. I can sense the mood of my body. 

Since childhood, I have a deep sense of inferiority complex that centres on body issues. My paradoxical mind makes me realize that my body is a fragile glass. In my blood, I start feeling the gush of insecurities. Insecurities of not being able to erase the bruises. I open the almirah and look at the stacks of it only to get vanquished by my own thoughts. 

Without any shame and shyness, I can admit that sometimes, I carry on conversation with my body. It is like a page, and you are turning over the pages of the book. The book tries to capture your attention. Sometimes, it becomes successful. Sometimes, it does not. Attention is a fickle entity. It has wings so it flies away.  But, my eyes are the ones that restore my attention for a long period of time. I blink. I look at my own eyelashes. Eyelashes are not big enough to be used as the cover of a hut. Surely, big enough to cover up my sadness, pain, coyness and happiness. The dark circles around my eyes make me compare between the stimulating, ever mysterious black hole and the unused well of my ancestral home. I carry on conversation with my eyelashes. It opens its petals only to give me vision. Life happens at the intersection of pause and action. Stillness fuels movement. Movement demands stillness. Similarly, my body seeks for it. Therefore, it takes rest. It takes rest for a while. In the meantime, it ponders over something like the length of my hair, smell of eyeballs. Having conversation with my own body does not make me feel guilty. It crosses miles after miles of fear and insecurity to pursue dialogues. I wait to get reply from my belly, navel. I believe that navel is the centre of the cosmos or the miniature of the entire world. It is spiral like the human existence. It is so spiral that it cannot unbind it. Unbinding this thing needs patience and time. 

You can start conversation with your newly acquired body on shape, colour that become the reason behind the act of stigmatizing, belittling and shaming. But, you are wordless at that time. You start mumbling. When you grow up, you look at it as God’s gift. You become less harsh on your body, but you carry on your conversation. Maybe, you want answers. Why thin? Why skinny bones? Why long eyelashes? Why brown pupils? Just why and why. You float in the pool of why(s) and what(s) and you cannot fathom its depth. You have shark like teeth that can destroy your own body. Thoughts are like sharks with sharp teeth. It engulfs itself if you think too much. It will do destruction on the bodies. You stop pondering over the things that feel you fragile. You let yourself float. You free yourself from the clutches of ‘what if’ and ‘could have been.’ You roll your eyes. Rain of blood comes down from your forehead. It is a mode of self- destruction. Rain of blood is the extreme outcome of anxiety. You stop stressing and give your eyes a rest. You cry. Your skin starts glowing. 

Body is just like the tree. If you water it, it will grow. It will outstretch its branches. Nerves are like the thin, very thin branches of the trees. They intertwine with each other, and create a sculpture inside your body. Even, your body is the sculpture. The end product. Who is the sculptor of your body? The symmetrical lines, the asymmetrical curves, the toes- all construct your shape. 

The 24 years old promises herself that she will overcome her fears, insecurities. Little by little. One by one. Otherwise, my body will not grow. I am the one who can allow my body to grow. I stand and look at my image. Image of what? Obviously, images of my body. 

17.03.2023

A town girl’s adventure of mind: Seeking refuge and freedom in the morning

It is the not the story of my paternal aunty who finds a deepest friendship with the trees. Her morning starts with the act of nurturing the plants. It is the story of all the aunties, uncles who find refuge in the mid of the plants. Being an oxymoronic soul by nature, I always wonder what will be my exact refuge, an unbreakable bond, a shelter with warmth and charms. If my adventurous attitude seeks for the temperament of the city, my soul demands symphony, a pure bliss and aesthetics. When people ask me about my favourite tourist spots, unfortunately, I can’t answer. My mind blocks my brain for a moment to reciprocate. I know that deep down, I am like water. Always moving, changing shapes and feelings depending on the container. Be it an earthen pot or a plastic water bottle. Am I situational? Do I rely on my instincts and the circumstances? Should I be blamed? Refuge is a feeling; refuge can be the things. Writing, gardening, cooking, travelling, paintings- anything that shuts down the cacophony of the world becomes my refuge. It is something that unearths the melody and drags it out of the noise. Germination happens when everything is at stake. Everything is in the chaos.

I live in a bright town that never fails to hype me up and calm me down when necessity arises. Her love for flowers is synomous to her love for stitching. She does embroidery on the clothes making beautiful figures, shapes of flowers and animals. She weaves her poetic worlds of animal and bird images. Birds are not born to be tamed. They are born to be free. Free from the onslaught of the paws. Paws of chains, barriers of sadness and gloominess. They fly, fall, flap their wings and stutter all along. 

Gardening is also like stitching. In both cases, one utilizes one’s hands to give life to something. To live and to feel enliven in a dead world seems to be the hardest act. Her activity makes me question regarding the bond between humans and the world. A city dweller may look for peace in the vanishing appearance of the mild clouds. A village entity may find solace in the surroundings or in the sparkling lights of the city life. Why such misplacement? Is it displacement, misplacement or mismatch? Or something else? It is profound, solemn as gravity pulls us down. In my childhood, I used to look at the sky. Some elders say when you look at the sky, you pray and you find yourself in the lap of the constellation of stars. Maybe, that was my refuge. It is my refuge or something I lack control of. It becomes your blood. You become its veins. 

Miraculously, I am penning down my feelings on a morning of my country’s Independence Day. I am 25. What does independence mean? To be free or to feel free? How ironical! How tantalizing! A human body holds spirit within it. A human body is a life. From this life, another life comes out.  It is almost like the transmission of lives, transfer of energy. The same human body becomes free when the burning flame called life or the sensation of life gets silent. It is the freeing of the body. The physical freedom. When does mind feel the sense of freedom? I was in corona fever in 2021. My whole body was in acute pain. To release the pain, I painted some pictures. My refuge was in colours. I was in exile but I drew the cityscapes, desert and a scenario. Mostly non-figurative. I channelled my emotions, released my sensation through the hues, and I felt the sense of freedom crawling all over my body. Sometimes, I wonder at my mind’s travels. I am not an escapist.

In the meantime, some dewdrops start melting into the bright light of the morning. 

The Seller

Part:2 

To rejection, failures and sadness (2022-2023)

Like the sellers, I go from door to door of different publishing houses, presses to submit my works and to make alife. Sometimes, I have to taste my own failures- my failed creations. 

Every day is not a good day. I open the mails. The opening lines of those mails start with ‘thank you’ and ‘regret to inform you.’ ‘Thank you’ sounds like the consolation prize, a balm to the wounds that I receive from negative mails. And the negative mails make me aware of my own insecurities and the very replaceable nature of the human beings on the earth. This is for everyone who is like me, like the sellers. They create, submit, cry, fall, submit, create… strive…breathe…

A poem to self: How to respond to the rejection mails

Shedding off tears

Is a big thing

That I can do

By killing my eyes;

If I cannot find gems in my rotten tears

I cannot find strength,

Energy dies to come out 

From the ashes of its previous selves.

Blank spaces, delete button know the pain

Of the words that I dare to erase;

From reading lines to reading exclamation signs

My soul goes for a shift

Shift from hope to faith

Like a pilgrimage 

To find truth, beauty and solace

And to turn it into sublimity. 

Rejection mails are like sand

The more I hold on its sadness

The more it slips through my hands,

It makes me forgetful 

Of what I have done and what I can do,

I can paint a heart better

Weave the pieces into a whole

Only to bring back the spark

Around my eyes

Around my brows.

A fine morning comes

After the dark clouds,

Likewise,

Praise resides 

In the apparently sorry words;

If I read failures

As bruises,

Not as death,

Not as pause,

I can see 

How the words change

And the miracle happens.

11.11.2022

Sadness for rejection

Feeling is a strange word

Like my false skin,

Wherever I go

I have to sense

My feelings

To know –

Do I exist?

Is it only my shadow?

Beware of the dubious nature 

Of existence,

One day, you feel –

You are flying,

The other days make you land

Into a place

Embroidered with 

Skeletons.

Fear not my soul,

Rather make your art

To meet rejection

To meet acceptance

To let life happen

And let it encounter with

The journey of purgation.

Passage of Rejections 

It was a morning of October when she was observing her creations. She was learning how to utter, pronounce words. Deep down, she knew the importance of practice, perseverance and having afine mind to realizewhere to stress and where to stop. 

To give a stress on a word is to highlight solely on its significance and meaning. Ironically, it fuels her craft, sincerity and passion for creation. She knows that life is a harsh place and maintaining one’s creative journey for long is not an easy task. It is God’s gift. Fortunate are the ones who keep their burning passion alive. And one has to undergo the process of rejection to meet success, to taste the aroma of life, the melody of music and the rhythmic sound of the world. 

She often remembers her days of rejections and failures. Still now, she faces failures. She imagines herself as a rock in order to digest the sharp attack of rusty storm. After storm, there will be a rainbow.

Maybe.

04.01.2023

To misery

When my soul is going through the tunnel of failures,

My eyes look for the light at the end of the tunnels.

Like success, like miracle

It appears.

Excellence comes like the whistling of wind

Or like a rainbow 

After the monochromatic drizzle.

My eyes cannot bear the burden of excessive light

When my soul can find

A rhythm in the cacophony of failures. 

Alas! Life’s tumultuous agony

That can neither be possessed 

Nor be freed

Can only be kept 

Under the sky of faith

Sky of doubt

Or in denial;

A soul, in a circus,

Is guided by the parents

And starts walking on a tightrope.

How many steps does a caterpillar take

To fly like a butterfly

To taste a bit of joy?

Alas!

Here, I, forget to count 

The minutes that I take to live a fullest life.

O misery, O failures

Don’t chain my body with high magnitude,

I like a snail

Drag my head out of my body

I may get smashed by the cobalt blue of the stormy sky. 

Then again, 

The light will shine.

18.10.2023

India

(Note: It is a short e-collection of my writings and paintings. In my piece, I have shared a glimpse of my mind, surroundings and places and have tried to depict how the geographical locals influence my mind. The cultural, spatial differences and the colours of India also create the different kind of sensibilities in my psyche. Being an inhabitant of this vast country, it becomes impossible for me to travel physically and so, I travel through my mind. Time is an interesting thing that makes me do certain things. In this case, it is the morning of an Asian country)

The 5th Rain

Dawning was a beautiful thing with a strong stem resembling the green sea. At the reversal was
hope, growing atop a bed of moss.
Every week on the 5th day rain would fall nurturing our seed. Humming a sweet soft melody,
summoning its colors.
Every 5th day, whenever the sprinkles started our roots would grow instantaneously. Wafting the
memories of summer rainfall.
Consistency, the lofty petals blooming with future, yet no direction.
Rising with a lively brown and blue dye seducing all admirers.
The loop presenting comfort.
During the 3rd cycle the rain was sparse and barely showered. Hungering, we waited. Fuming
with pride vowing to be magnificent.
In the next cycle the blessing returned. After completion however our plant remained untouched,
frozen in progress.
On routine the rain returned a 5th time. The hum reduced to whisper, the droplets sliding off
petals. Colors starting to fade. Desperation and distress creeping in.
At the 6th run. Silence introduced itself, filling in the soil. Submerging the glow within me.
Petals shrinking in remorse.
On the 7th cycle I stood by and watched the rain fall as hard as it ever did. Melancholy hovering.
Envy running through my dry roots. Wondering, when did I outgrow the rain?

The Mic
Flashbacks of how the lights glared at me as my muscles fought for air brush past me. Waves of
eyes and cheers disorienting me. Wait, how did I get here? I ponder for a moment before I’m
brought back. “Neidy.” My body awakens. My limbs tingle with anticipation.
“Do you need the mic?”
I nod my head vertically as I step forward, my fingers slowly embracing the cold mechanical
device.
I suddenly remembered how I got here.
3 weeks prior Rosalia, a classmate approached me with a proposal.
“Neidy let’s perform at the school multicultural festival this year!”
We are 6th graders. I have never done a performance before. I have no talent.
“No.”
“Aww, please why not? This is our last year at this school.” She insisted.
“I don’t have anything to show.”
That is only part of my excuse. Truth is I’m not fully confident in my English speaking skills
since I had just moved to Seattle a couple years ago.Who would want to see a performance from
a Spanish accent heavy immigrant kid anyway?
She smiles sinisterly.
“If I find you, say a poem, to read in front of everyone, would you do it?”
I stare at her.
I give her a small smile and nod my head.
Rosalia picked a short poem, thank God.
I spent weeks practicing and memorizing that poem in a language I was still mastering.
My first time on a platform like this, what if they don’t like me? Well it’s too late to back out
now. My presence was seen however my voice was unheard.
My voice and my body shake as I begin.
“Hi, my name is Neidy Avila Ramirez, I am a 6th grader and I will be reading a poem called
Central America in my heart, by Oscar Gonzales.
On this voyage into the deep communion of solitude
I’ve casually come to know.
the old and withered costumes of the sea.
I’ve walked carefully through the colors of copper.
when the dusk has already conjured the last prayer of the day.
Through seasonal doorways
I’ve called upon the twilight ghosts
arched in the corners of the narrow cobblestone streets.
I’ve let my lips evade the necessary verses
to find the ending phrase for the afternoon.
I’ve disarmed the elusive equity of the night
to conceive an intimate verse from its fortified mysteries.
I’ve cast aside the grieving songs of my twilight
as the sky envelops the enamored vestments of the night.
I’ve done and undone so many things in search of you.”
My heart is running from my chest. The air has left me again. I stare into the crowd upon my
final words.They deflect my doubts as rolling mountains of admiration and cheer follow, causing
me to cover my ears for protection.
I slowly place the mic back on its original stand then struggle making my way down the steps.
“You did great!” Rosalia cheers.
“Thanks!” I respond breathlessly.
“Would you do it again?”
That’s a good question. My knees were locked the entire performance, and i think I stopped
breathing a couple times, yet there was something so exhilarating and empowering to voice what
I had spent weeks practicing. Who knew they’d react like that.
Would I be crazy to chase that feeling again? I suppress the thought.
I inhaled deeply.
“Maybe.”

Where I am from

I am from juicy soft mangos and oil drenched plantains masking the air.
Where remnants of past civilizations and African slaves linger.
Where each ocean crash tells a secret.
I’m from cold, wet rain and mountains, where the sky roars of anger.
Where “opportunity” and reality clash.
I am from burden, responsibility and accountability.
With the lights burning my skin and the cameras forever rolling.
I am from bundles of hardworking souls.
“Fight for change or it’ll never happen”.
Witnessing the molding of future generations.
I am from twisted coily black thick hair.
The kind to entrap its invaders. Defensive.
I am from a place of knowledge, offering comfort and vast history.
A hideout from the world.

Technology and Humanity: Opportunities, Challenges, and the Future

Technology is humanity’s greatest invention, but using it wisely is its greatest test.

Technology has become an essential part of modern life. Computers, artificial intelligence, the Internet, robots, and mobile devices help us communicate, learn, work, and access information quickly. They improve productivity and quality of life in fields such as education, healthcare, agriculture, and business.

However, technology also has disadvantages. Excessive use of digital devices can reduce face-to-face communication, weaken social relationships, decrease attention and memory, and increase dependence on phones and games, especially among children and teenagers.

Another challenge is the misuse of technology. Cybercrime, data theft, misinformation, and manipulation have become serious global concerns. At the same time, advances in artificial intelligence and automation may replace some jobs, making new skills and lifelong learning increasingly important.

Technology is a tool, not a goal. If we use it for education, creativity, problem-solving, and the benefit of society, it can become one of humanity’s greatest helpers. Responsible digital literacy and balanced use are essential.

In the future, technology will continue to develop and become even more integrated into our lives. The most important thing is that people do not lose their humanity, values, and ethics. A healthy balance between people and technology is the key to a better future.

In conclusion, technology opens the door to great opportunities. By maximizing its benefits and minimizing its risks, we can build a safer, more meaningful, and more comfortable life. Technology should serve people—not the other way around.

Shodmonova Madina Bekzod qizi

Madina Shodmonova is a young Uzbek writer, researcher, language enthusiast, and the founder of ELITA Academy. She was born and raised in Potron Village, Qarshi District, Qashqadaryo Region, Uzbekistan. She comes from a family of four children. She has one elder sister and two younger brothers. Her father, Bekzod Ravshanov, and her mother, Sarvinoz Lutfiyeva, have always
encouraged her to value education, honesty, and hard work.

From an early age, Madina showed a strong interest in books, languages, and writing. She enjoyed participating in educational activities and constantly looked for opportunities to improve herself. Her determination and discipline helped her achieve excellent academic results throughout her school years. After successfully completing her secondary education, Madina continued her studies at the Tashkent State University of World Languages, where she studies English Language and Literature. During her educational journey, she earned four international certificates and received a Gold Medal in recognition of her academic excellence and dedication.

Madina is deeply interested in literature, linguistics, education,
intercultural communication, leadership, and youth development. She believes that learning foreign languages opens doors to global opportunities and strengthens international understanding. As the
founder of ELITA Academy, she has created educational projects that support students in language learning, article writing, CV preparation, international certificates, and academic development.

Through these initiatives, she aims to inspire young people to believe in themselves and achieve success through education. Madina has written articles on education, culture, personal development, motivation, and social issues. Her writings encourage young readers to become lifelong learners, responsible citizens, and active contributors to society. She hopes to publish more research and articles in international journals and collaborate with scholars and educational organizations around the world. Her future goal is to become an internationally recognized educator, researcher, and author while continuing to promote quality education and equal
opportunities for young people.

Madina Shodmonova

Founder of ELITA Academy
Qashqadaryo Region, Uzbekistan

My Best Friend

Dr. Arnold Schopp, DVM, glanced at the caller ID; he didn’t recognize the number. The time was 5am. Picking up his landline, he said, “Hello?”

“Oh! Hi! My name’s Livy. You don’t know me, but I got your number from the men’s washroom at The Stagger Inn, the tavern in the Central West End?”

Arnold blinked. He’d never heard of the place. Was this a crank call? he wondered.

“Can I help you?” he asked cautiously.

“Well, I’m a porter at the tavern during the mornings, before they open. I’m working my way through nursing school, Arnie; Class of ’96! Yay! Is it alright if I call you Arnie?”

Arnold shrugged, but his caller couldn’t see it, so he said, “Okay.”

“I’m having some trouble with my hand,” Livy went on. “And I thought maybe you could help.”

Arnold shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, where I found your name and number, underneath it said, “For a Good Hand Job, call Arnie, at…” and she read off his phone number. “Are you a doctor or something, Arnie?”

“Well, no,” he said. “I am a veterinarian, however.” He was almost sure he wasn’t being pranked. “What happened to your hand?” he asked.

“I stuck it in the wringer on the mop bucket when I was mopping the floor and then wrung it out. It hurts,” she added.

Arnold went on to tell his new friend how to treat the injury, with ice and later with heat and so on.

“Thanks so much, Arnie,” said Livy with a little squeal.

“How are you doing in nursing school?” he asked.

“I’m just ending my first year,” she replied. “I’m doin’ real good. Thanks for asking.”

It occurred to Arnold that Livy hadn’t many places to turn when she encountered the vicissitudes of life, so he told her, “It’s the very least I can do, Livy. I’ve got to go for now, but you’ve got my number. Don’t be a stranger.”

“Okay,” she said with a gulp.

They disconnected.

_____

Arnold lifted the receiver of the landline in his all-night animal clinic and said, “Hello?”

“Arnie?” asked a young, shrill female voice. “It’s Livy.”

“Hi, Livy,” said Arnold, smiling. “What’s going on?”

“Ooh, I smashed my head,” she lamented, her voice revealing a tremor of angst. “I was taking the laundry out of my washing machine and the lid closed on my little peanut head!”

“Are you alright?” asked Arnold with concern.

“No!” she said loudly. “It hurts. I think I might have a concussion.”

Arnold frowned into the phone. He knew it was unlikely that the light-weight lid of a washing machine would do much damage. He told Livy so.

“You don’t care if I die!” she shrieked. “I have a drop of blood on my forehead and I think I might’ve fractured my skull, Arnie.”

Arnold rolled his eyes. “Unlikely,” he suggested.

“I’m thinking of going to urgent care or to the hospital or to Minnesota…” began Livy.

“Minnesota?”

“The Mayo Clinic,” Livy explained. “That have an excellent trauma unit for head injuries, Arnie.” Livy, Arnold remembered, was a student nurse, now in her second year.

“How much blood did you lose?” asked Arnold.

“One or two drops.”

“Do you have a knot or your head or anything?” he asked next. “Do you feel sleepy or dizzy or…”

“No,” said Livy, “but I almost for sure fractured my skull. “The parietal bone, or the zygomatic arch or the…”

“Livy, put some ice on it,” counseled Arnold. “Do you have any insurance yet?” he asked.

“No. And I need a CAT scan and an MRI and a cognitive assessment…”

“Well, if you feel that you must get medical treatment, hospitals can’t turn away anyone who’s deathly ill. Go to St. Elizabeth’s, here in town, and see what they say. Okay?”

“Okay, Arnie,” replied Livy. “Thanks.”

“You bet, Livy. Let me know what they tell you.”

“You’re interested?” she asked with surprise.

“I am,” said Arnold.

“Goody,” she said.

“Okay, bye.”

“Bye.”

They disconnected. 

_____

Arnold glanced at his watch and lifted the receiver.

“Arnie,” said Livy, her voice staticky over the line. “I had an accident.”

“What kind of an accident?” asked Arnold.

“I was painting my flower boxes and I got a splinter.”

Arnold envisioned Livy, bringing her middle finger to her lips and sucking on it.

“How big?” he inquired.

” ‘Bout a quarter of an inch. It hurts!” she wailed, holding the finger up in Arnold’s mind’s eye  for his inspection. He shook his head, thought about the spaying and neutering operations he had pending at the clinic. “Do you think I need a tetanus shot?” she asked.

“When did you have your last one?” Arnold asked her.

“Six months ago, remember, when I dropped the can of peas on my foot and thought I might’ve broken the third metatarsal or the calcaneus? At the ER they didn’t want to do a full-body scan because I didn’t have any insurance and I wouldn’t leave until they did something. So they gave me a shot.”

Arnold sighed. His young friend was a bit of an alarmist. “I think you only need a tetanus shot every ten years or so…”

“Oh!” said Livy. “That’s right, I remember it from class.”

“I’d just wash the wound with hydrogen peroxide, dress it with merthiolate or iodine and wrap it up. You’ll be fine, Livy,” said Arnold.

“Thanks, Arnie,” said Livy gratefully. “You’re the best!”

The dial tone popped back on.

_____

Arnold, on duty as usual at his animal clinic, picked up the telephone on the second ring. He knew it would be Livy, his irrepressible friend from the college. She called every day at the same time: 5am.

“Hi, Livy, how’s tricks?” he asked, pleased to talk with a friendly voice.

“Hiya, Arnie,” she fairly burst through the line. “I’ve got a problem.”

“What is it?” he asked, barely avoiding appending “this time” to the query.

“I’ve been picking weeds out of my garden,” Livy explained. “And my fingers are cramped. I think I might have myasthenia gravis or something. Maybe Parkinson’s.”

Arnold rolled his eyes. “Not a chance,” he said.

“Well, I’ve sure got weeds,” she asserted. “What do you think I…”

“Livy,” said Arnold with what patience he could pull together, “you need to start making some decisions on your own. You’re an adult, and you’re old enough,” he said, perhaps more harshly that he’d intended.

“Arnie, did I catch you at a bad time?” Livy asked him.

“Well, kind of. I don’t mind…I like talking to you every day, but sometimes you need to just stand on your own two feet and decide. Do you know what I mean?” he asked, hoping he hadn’t hurt his sensitive young friend’s feelings. She was so easily hurt…

_____

“I met a guy, Arnie,” said Livy one day.

“Where did you meet him?” asked Arnold.

“At a party thrown by one of my friends from school,” she said.

“Is he a nursing student too?” he asked.

“No, he’s a medical student, Arnie. We partied and I got a little bit drunk and later we kissed and made out.”

“Be careful,” cautioned Arnold. “You’ve got your whole life in front of you, Livy.”

He could almost see her nod. “Gotcha. We didn’t do anything I might regret,” she said. “Robert–that’s his name, Robert–asked me out on a regular date tonight.”

“That sounds fine,” said Arnold approvingly. “Is he known among your friends; I mean, does he have a good reputation?”

“Yes,” she said. “All my friends say he has a lot of girlfriends, and none of them turned up dead or anything. He graduates next year,” she said.

“Well, have a good time, Livy.”

“Thanks, Arnie. I’ll talk to you later.”

_____

Arnold didn’t hear from Livy as usual the next morning and he wondered how she was. She usually called every day from work, when she was cleaning the tavern to pay her way through school; she had done so since they met over the telephone more than a year before. Finally, he checked his phone directory and found the last number she’d used. He dialed it up.

It rang and rang but the call went unanswered. Arnold called again several times, until, on the fourth try, after the phone rang endlessly at the other end, she picked up.

“Hello?” said Livy in a whisper.

Arnold frowned into his receiver; Livy sounded so down.

“Livy?” he said.

After a moment, she said, “Hi, Arnie. How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Arnold said. “How are you? Are you alright?”

“Yes.”

“Livy,” he said, “what have you been doing? Why haven’t you called me?”

“I was only doing what you told me I should do,” replied Livy. “You know, take responsibility for my actions, make decisions, and…” Her voice drifted off.

“Livy, does this have anything to do with Robert?” Arnold asked.

“I went out with Robert,” she said dully. “I trusted him, like you said.”

“Livy,” said Arnold, gripping the receiver fiercely, “what happened.”

“Robert took me out, like he said he would,” she replied. Before he could inquire further, Livy whispered, “Robert raped me, Arnie.”

Arnold’s blood ran cold. He listened intently, but Livy said no more, until finally, she murmured, “He hurt me, Arnie.”

“Livy,” said Arnold, “I am so sorry.”

“I know, Arnie. Because you’re my friend. I know you don’t always have time for me and I need to stand on my own two feet and…”

Arnold listened and thought he could hear Livy softly weeping.

“…it was my own fault anyway,” she continued. “I should’ve known better than to go back to the home of someone I only just met. I…I’d never made love before, and I didn’t know what to do when he told me to take off my clothes…”

“Livy, it is not your fault,” said Arnold firmly.

“If I’d just done what he said, then he wouldn’t have hurt me,” she said.

“A woman makes decisions her whole life, Livy, and she doesn’t always make the right ones. But, whether you said yes or not, it was rape. He made the decision for you, Livy. Rape is not about a man’s needs or even what he says he wants. It’s about domination and control and inflicting humiliation on his weaker victim. Do you understand me, dear?”

“Yes, Arnie,” replied Livy. She sounded to Arnold as though she were regaining some of her composure. Which gave him heart.

“So,” she said, “it wasn’t my fault…?”

“That’s right, Livy. Where are you now? Are you at home?”

“I’m in a little diner in the Central West End, near the tavern I clean,” said Livy.

“Why didn’t you call earlier?” he asked.

“I was…ashamed,” she admitted.

“Livy, have you received medical attention? Have you seen a professional?”

“No, Arnie.”

“Give me the address,” he told her. She did. “I’ll be there in 15 minutes, Livy, and we’ll get you the help that you need.”

“You mean you’re coming for me now?”she asked in a small voice.

“Right now,” he said.

“Then we’ll finally get to meet face to face, Arnie. Goody.”

Minutes later, Arnold pulled his animal hospital vehicle into the parking lot of the small diner described by Livy over the phone. He glanced at his watch: it was a quarter past 6am. He’d never met his friend, but knew she was 20 years old. The place was half-filled, but he discerned Libby almost by instinct.

A smallish, thin woman with light brown hair, she occupied a booth near the end of the cafe. She looked up at him as he took a seat opposite her. They sat and looked at one another for an impossibly long moment, before Livy said, in a voice that Arnold recognized instantly, “You came.”

A waitress materialized as if by magic and Arnold asked Livy if she wanted anything. There was a half-drunk cup of coffee before her, with fully a half dozen opened Splenda packages lying in disarray in her saucer. She shook her head no.

Arnold insisted she have something to eat, so she ordered French toast. He ordered a coffee. They spoke in low, confidential voices until their order arrived. Livy’s appetite appeared to be piqued by the aromatic French toast and she dug in, smothering the dish with butter and warmed maple syrup.

As she ate, Arnold told her what would happen next.

“I’ll take you to the emergency room,” he said, “and they’ll check you out. They have a rape crisis unit on duty there, 24/7.”

“What will they do?” Livy asked. He told her.

“They are associated with law enforcement, Livy,” he said. At her stricken look, he assured her that she was not in trouble, but rather Robert. “Forcible rape is a felony, Livy,” he told her gently but firmly. “No one can make you cooperate with them, but think of all the other young women and girls that Robert might inflict himself on in the years to come.”

That sealed it. She agreed to talk to the rape counselor and the cops.

“I feel like I failed you, Livy,” said Arnold contritely, reaching across the table and touching his friend for the very first time. It was warm where they touched.

“You’ve done so much for me, Arnie,” said Livy in a stronger voice. “And you’re still doing it. No one has ever been my friend before. Not like you.”

Arnold felt his heart break. “I love you, Livy. You are my very good friend.”

“You’ve done so much, Arnie,” said Livy again. “Could I ask you to do me one more thing?”

“Of course.”

“Come around to my side and give me a hug, alright?”

Without another word, Arnold rose from his seat, came around and sat next to Livy and gave her a tremendous hug.

For the first time that morning, Livy smiled.

“Goody,” she said.

Picking salty scattered stardust

She walks through rain-washed streets, picking salty scattered stardust.

Her pockets brim with moons made of silk,

gathered at the thresholds of her survival instincts.

Her dreams, stitched with scars, glow in dim starlight.

Her tired shoes have kissed many dark alleys in life.

Yet, she is a petal drifting and emanating 

soft, unbroken, quiet light

She shakes like a hallow in electric glow.

Her gaze is thunder as she breathes fire everyday.

Her poetry are unsent words to the distant beloved 

who keeps staring at her half-formed desires 

IF I COULD BE THERE…. 

The world has changed…………………..

Present decays on a keyboard

Enigmatic glossy smiles in quick pursuit

dazzled of your dangerous charm

My eyes see differently now,

hopes that could be true

Your glance makes my desires…

erupt through a toxic screen

This wind of letters casts a pall over my dreams

I give way in front of your inexistent touch

Bleeding remnants of a soul!

Immersed myself in a literary written religion

the religion of be loved

If I could be you

I would see the world

You would see hell!

A torrent of promises

exquisite appearance of truth

Who cares about then?

I stand my ground

that ground is unsteady

Today your touch smells unusual

Tomorrow I will be infected

Is this a downfall to happiness?

I’ve been hovering through choked feelings

Oh this enormity of the unknown!!

I’m staying in a molten bed of anchors

till the day of wisdom comes

Rain of moonbeams in your heart

Why does this poem have to be romantic?

We wrestle with fake devices

But create true emotions

Well,……….

If I could be you

I would sing a song…

For me!

STUFF IT

He hits the deer at

forty miles an hour

on a country road.

He slams on his brakes,

but too late.

He can see the animal

in a ditch at the side of the road.

Sure he feels sad.

And guilty also.

But the incident touches 

something in him,

makes him think of 

his late Uncle Arthur,

the taxidermist.

He can imagine himself

dragging the corpse behind him

up the path to Uncle Arthur’s door.

“What have we here?”

Arthur would say in his Swedish accent.

“Maybe you can do the head for me.”

Nothing like some creature he killed

staring at him from the parlor wall.

But there’ll be no salvaging this roadkill,

Moonlight twinkles in the beasts’ big eyes

as they stare up at him.

And the deer whispers, with its last breath,

“You asshole.”

For nostalgia and regret,

this will have to do.

THE HOMELESS WRITER

I admire shelters. A roof’s worth ten thousand lines 

of free verse at least. Actually, I envy them. 

Their walls, their warmth, the way a lock and a key connect.

When they’re done, there’s color on curtains, 

on quilts, on cheeks, as well as on the rooms. 

I write a poem. There are no word stains.

And the housed always look the part – 

the brushed hair, the steady gait, the calmness in the stare. 

The unhoused blend in. The worst that can happen to me 

is to be picked out in a crowd.

And the housed sell their time. The homeless are lucky 

if they can give theirs away.

Best of all, the housed hang their photos on walls. 

When the homeless hang, a silence has to be sent for.

LIVING ON THE STREETS

Dawn is at its most primeval – 

time moves on from despair into defiance – 

a figure on the street corner –

eyes cast down but spine still upright. 

If it weren’t for the rising sun, 

this shadowed soul would have no rival.

The lull is misleading.  Not while hunger scurries 

through the alleys below. Eyes and ears miss nothing. 

They’re always in the struggle.

Hands twitch like trigger fingers. 

Breath rises and falls against the cold air. 

The body is about to endure. 

It has strength enough for the weaknesses beneath.

RENEWAL

Shower and shave.

The chin is smooth.

The skin is clean.

None of it is brand new

but what can you expect?

Some grime rubs off,

a certain firmness

keeps its cool around the bone.

But no sponge, no blade,

is worth a damn

against the years.

Not even a hug

and the words,

“You’re still the man

I married”

or three chords strummed

on an old guitar

and a verse of

“Tangled Up In Blue.”

But I still pop into

the bathroom each morning,

make a pretense of preparing myself

for the day, the world.

I figure I can fool both of them

into thinking it’s someone else,

younger, fitter,

more dashing and handsome

than three movie stars

and a boy band.

But I’m older than I was

the last time I did this.

And sure,

as the cliché would have it,

deep down, I’m wiser.

But wisdom’s just another word 

for knowing the joke’s on you.

Why not? I need a good laugh.

IDENTITY

Usually I’m nothing much.

But sometimes…

hey, I admit it, I’m great.

But mostly I’m a pinch of salt

somewhere in the Atlantic.

Or a drop of rain

in a downpour.

Or a molecule.

But then there’s moments when

I’m not just the molecule,

I’m the entire thing.

Most of the time,

when I’m around,

you don’t know I’m there.

To be honest,

I hardly know I’m there either.

I can be so insignificant,

I’m next to non-existent.

But I have it in me

to be existence.

Or, at least,

where it goes from here.

What I am,

I have no idea.

Unless I’m an idea.

Then I know.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Midnight Mind, Willow Review and the Pennsylvania Literary Journal. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the MacGuffin, Touchstone and Willow Review.