B-SIDE

“Isn’t that your sister?” Harry said to Ben as they left school on a warm May afternoon.

“What,” Ben said. “Where?”

“Over there,” Harry said, pointing toward a green VW Bug. Emma was sitting behind the wheel, waving at the boys. “Did you know she was coming?”

“Why is she here?” Ben said, as they wove their way through clusters of junior high students released for the day.

“Hey guys,” Emma said as they approached.

“What are you doing here?” Ben asked.

“Are you hungry?” Emma said.

“I could eat,” Harry said.

Emma laughed. “I’m sure you could. But if it’s okay with you, I need some time with my little bro.”

“That’s cool,” Harry said. “I have a lot of homework.”

Emma pushed open the passenger door. “Get in. I’m starving. Let’s go to the Empress.” She reached into the glove compartment and removed a cassette, which she handed to Ben. “That’s for you. I made it last night.”

Ben read the names of the songs. “Fire and Rain, Gimme Shelter, Bird on the Wire, Universal Soldier. Cool. Can’t wait to listen.’

“You’re going to love Bird on the Wire.”

“What are you doing here?” Ben asked.

“I wanted to see you.” Emma turned up 68^th Street toward Queens Boulevard. “There’s a B side too.”

“Aren’t you in school?” Ben asked.

“I have a break before finals.”

“Do mom and dad know you’re coming?”

“I’m not coming home. I just came to see you.”

“Cool. Should I be worried?”

“You worry too much.”

“Maybe. But it’s a five-hour drive. Each way.”

Inside the Empress, they settled into a booth, and Emma ordered a grilled cheese and a slice of blueberry pie. Ben ordered the same.

“You don’t seem happy to see me,” Emma said.

“I am happy to see you.” Ben took a sip of soda.  “I just wasn’t expecting you.”

“It’s a surprise. That’s how surprises work.”

“Is that the only reason?” Ben asked

“How’s school?”

Ben shrugged. “Fine.”

“Junior high is the worst. High school sucks too. But you will love college.”

“Do you?”

“I do. The people I’ve met, the friends I’ve made are all interesting and full of ideas and goals. I like my classes. I just don’t know what I’m doing there. But you’ll know what you want to do. You love math. That’ll make a difference.”

“Everyone says that to me. I’m good at math, and it comes easy. But what if I want to do something else?”

“Then you’ll do something else.”

The waitress topped off Emma’s coffee. Ben watched as Emma poured and stirred the cream. He liked the sound of the spoon against the porcelain. He noticed that Emma’s pink nails were jagged and uneven. She put down her spoon and brought the cup to her lips.

“I’m not quitting,” she finally said. “Quitting is a bad habit that’s hard to break. That’s not what’s going on.”

“What is going on?” Ben said.

“If something is not good for you, then you need to leave it behind and find something else. I don’t have any clue what I’m doing, or what I want to do. And I’m lucky. I don’t have to worry about the draft if I quit.”

“Sounds like you’re quitting.”

“I’ll finish the semester and then figure it out. I need to find a purpose for being there. For my life. And I haven’t found it.”

“Yet,” Ben said.

“Yet,” Emma said. “Let’s go to the pond.”

Emma drove through the neighborhood to Flushing Meadow where they found a bench.

“Remember when dad took us here so he could teach you how to ride a two-wheeler?”

“Not really,” Ben said.

“You were only three,” Emma said. “It came so easy to you.”

“That means you were nine. That’s why you remember. I do remember the time you talked me into riding our bikes to Central Park. Down Queens Boulevard. Across the 59^th St. Bridge. It was awesome.”

“That was such a fun day,” Emma said.

They sat together in the park, looking out toward the pond. A breeze sent ripples across the water. Ben took the tape out of his pocket.

“The B-side is just as good,” he said, looking up. “I can’t believe you made a mix tape without a Dylan song. Might be a first.”

“I think you’re right. I wanted to add one from his new album, Nashville Skyline, but I need to listen to it more. Have you heard it?”

“They play a few cuts on the radio. I like the one with Johnny Cash.”

 Emma leaned back, staring at the sky and said. “I’ll go back for now.”

“What?”

“I’ll ace my finals,” Emma said. “Maybe I’ll go to law school and work pro bono for draft evaders and death row inmates.”

Ben looked at her. “Would that make you happy?”

“Happiness is fleeting. Purpose isn’t,” Emma said. “Maybe I’ll go live in Paris and be a writer like Baldwin.”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

“I wish,” she said. “He’s a great writer. You should read him. I’ll get you one of his books. Did you finish, On The Road?”

“Twice. I love it.”

“I’ll bring you The Fire Next Time, when I come back.”

“How would I see you, if you go to Paris?” Ben said.

“You should come back to school with me. Yes. That’s what you should do. We’d have so much fun.”

“You do realize I have school,” Ben said. “And we’d have to tell mom and dad. And don’t you have finals to study for?”

“I know. I know. I just thought it would be fun.”

“It would be fun,” Ben said.

Emma sighed and stretched her arms above her head. “I should take you home.”

As they walked back to the car, Emma jingled her keys. Ben watched her, memorizing the way she moved, the way her shoulders didn’t sway, as if she was holding onto something heavy, and didn’t want to let go.

Elan Barnehama has published two novels: Escape Route and Finding Bluefield. His flash fiction collection is forthcoming in January 2026 from Poets Wear Prada. His writing has appeared in numerous publications, including ParisLitUp, Synchronized Chaos, 10×10 Flash Fiction, Boog City, Jewish Fiction, Drunk Monkeys, Rough Cut Press, Boston Accent, Red Fez, Syncopation Lit, HuffPost, public radio, and more. Elan served as the flash fiction editor at ForthMagazineLA, a radio news reporter, and was a mediocre short-order cook.

愚かさの夢

a dream of foolishness

プーシキン『神聖喜劇』に花栞恋と死のためその勿忘草を

Pushkin’s

flower bookmark

in The Divine Comedy

for love and death

that forget-me-not

椅子坐り足首の下なき少女それでも生きよガザの廃墟に

girl in a chair

with no lower

than ankles

still live！

In the ruins of Gaza

偽善者の甘い蜜には気をつけろ麻薬のやうに汝を洗脳す

beware

of the sweet nectar

of hypocrites

brainwashing you

like a drug

友逝きてしばらく筆の止まりけり春雨つづき灰湿るかも

a friend has passed away

and the writing has stopped

for a while

spring rain continues

ash may be damp

生まれては死にゆく夢に右往左往するこの世の人の無粋かな

to dreams

that are born and die─

the inelegant

of the world’s people

who move right and left

南天の実は人知れず落ちてゐし春に逝きし友は空と地に盈（み）つ

the heavenly bamboo seeds

had fallen

unnoticed

a friend who passed away in the spring

filled the sky and the earth

人類の滅びしあとの春の月見る人もなく澄みにけるかも

the spring moon

after the fall

of mankind

no one will be there to see it

It will be crystal clear

愛求めさまよひ続ける人愚か愚かさゆゑに愛をし信ず

those who continue

to wander in search of love

foolish

People believe in love

because of their stupidity

失望を重ね重ねて桜花咲くころまでの遠き道のり

disappointment

after disappointment

a long way

until the cherry blossoms

bloom

裏切られ来しことさへも人の常山茶花ひらく無垢の紅かな

even coming

to be betrayed is

what people always do

open sasanqua

In immaculate crimson

恨みなぞ愚かさの夢人よ知れ生死の迅さの虹のはかなさ

resentment is

a dream of foolishness

know, O man!

that the speed of life and death

is as fleeting as a rainbow

夢の世をうつつと信じさらに未来を夢みる人の業（ごう）し哀しき

believing

the world of dreams

to be reality

and the karma of those

who dream of a future even more sad

花咲かば散るのは定め勝敗も夢の遊戯や何を浮かるる

when a flower blooms

it must fall

winning or losing

is a dream game

what is there to be buoyant about?

深き根や冬の土壌に蜜を吸ひ春来たるれば白き花成る

deep roots

suck nectar from the soil

in winter

when spring comes

they will be white cherry blossoms

Listen to Qyincko’s WerewolvesvsJustice Grimes by The Desoxyn Midnight Gunners (Sloth and Styx@$).mp3 by STYX VISCOUS on #SoundCloud

Marlowe, Marlow, and Marlowe

Preface

Being touched like a flame lit twice afire,

I ran to the illusions of three characters I knew well,

Marlowe, Marlow, and Marlowe.

Though they knew little of my faults, their intuition carried me to them.

Then, the wisdom of the future, heralded by naked angels, touched me.

We embraced each other, reflections mixing our roles,

never our ambitions for adventures.

Amid an absence of sanity and security,

we considered the uncertainty of time,

existence was now a plan

a playing field of absurdity.

Seduction

for pleasure, not honor.

Immediately, I searched for the remedies

that would unite the past with what was once the past

but is now

at the center of what can be imagined.

My feelings went astray as sensations courted all things moving forward,

forward in a circle.

How do I

define loyalty?

By

disgrace

and embarrassment?

The whereabouts of desires glistened

as I waded toward the underbelly of reality.

In the distance,

where logic cannot overcome fear

God, the Almighty,

yawned

as Hera flirted with him.

But his eyes were fixed

on

beautiful but dangerous

Aphrodite,

bathing nude opposite herself.

I became the difference between myself

and who the evil spirits thought I was.

With the world in turmoil, my mind sharpened,

effectively becoming a destructive weapon.

One – Christopher

Sailors, soldiers

and veterans without optimism

on warships

headed to those mountainous beliefs

a thought away from a fall.

Both

commitment and rage

gave a sense of camaraderie

to the blood-doused euphoria

of

redemption.

A word without meaning

to those without meaning.

After a war party

I undressed an ageless goddess in my bedroom

and smelled the aromas of comfortable past entrances.

The eager men and the women before me

now, just melancholy ghosts

reflecting their regrets from colored liquor bottles.

Impatient from our liberation from conformity,

uncomfortable with delusion,

but in harmony with the obvious,

I licked the sweat from her breasts

and legs and turning her gently around.

There are many impulses

but the foremost crime of humanity

is to waste hours

longing for a continuation of life.

I said

simply to Marlowe,

“I am passionate about my ambitions.”

His grin became Faust’s smile, “If she’s a goddess, shouldn’t you spread her legs wider?”

Exceptions more than expectations are forgiven

when unwanted expressions are spoken.

Devoid of boundaries,

I never considered any alternatives

to succumbing

once again.

As per usual

at the trial, I was found guilty

of loving

of living

and of loving and living with a lion’s roar

convicted by a jury with venom in their eyes.

In the nightclub next to the crematorium,

friends’ wives with the scars they bear from trysts

recalled times when we were thought to be

mythical models

with a hated impetuousness for life.

As the power drained,

the lights dimmed, and we gave an icy toast to the exultation

of man’s counterfeit concern for his fellow man.

Foxes and flies entered from the back door.

I heard drunken eagles swoop down on doves dressed in corsets,

their plumage more golden than cinnamon-red

and their nakedness

open to the pampered

but

never to the dreary day laborers

who thought themselves tortured martyrs.

I listened as those in lines of their own making

cried when the whips

struck their backs.

How repetitious,

their

self-serving stories

about the holiest of nights

in the most dank and dreary places

where death played with the horrors of existence

was little more

than a morsel of

marshmallow self-forgiveness.

Never be fooled

by the

pungent mistrust of thoughts

thinking about thoughts

and being

misled

by thoughts

unthought.

I left Marlow in the last booth of a

celebrated pub

with Diana, the Huntress

where I knew he would strangely

disappear.

Two – Charles

The wedding ceremony was incidental.

Attendees formed a stairwell of disbelief.

An armistice of sorts

for those who thought

freedom

was a consequence of lethargic behavior.

My ashen date, a scholarly Norsewoman, Sigrid

believed

Orpheus should travel to Hades once more

but

this time with the Minotaur

to save Eurydice.

I was asked to come along

but I suggested Marlow,

a storyteller

who believed in reaching

for something incredible

and missing

was better than playing it safe.

Of actions unfathomable,

he considered it ludicrous

to invent tragedy

when it was blatantly a

portrayal of reality.

But he was sometimes found to tell lies to preserve

the perception of individuals as noble;

shielding the listeners from any disturbing truths.

Lying in bed

with a nymph,

high on the Oracle of Delphi’s appraisal that

wealth prolonged adolescence

I realized

if you dream,

if you wish

then make promises, the end becomes the beginning

and the promises become

an unquenchable serpent around your neck.

Faith is always in the distance, and though you are amazed

you are dwelling in lore,

prayers, like gratitude

get trampled.

The privileged passed, whined, and reflected on the enigma of monetary sorrows

as being the reason

Grendel’s mother went mad,

not the murder of her son.

With tears of surrealism,

I became what I was before I became what I could never be.

Passing the Asphodel Meadows,

Orpheus recited Hamlet’s soliloquy

to Hecate.

She stripped, and both dissolved into a myth of their own making.

The Minotaur

decided to kill Perseus before

he beheaded Medusa

and

Marlow approached Teiresias,

the blind prophet

and asked how to

return order

to a chaotic world.

He petted the vicious three-headed dog Cerberus

and smiled,

“Why?”

I realized despair had no wings.

Against the grain, against the turmoil, against the odds,

seeking the self-portrait behind the mirror,

I leap

through diamond-shaped crystals

that

irradiated irises

so, whatever there was to see

I would see

without penance or absolution.

A woman forever in a prism, bathing in infinite beauty,

dripped from shadows of memories I had forgotten.

Hearing church bells,

I ran to the line between life and death,

where Eurydice lovingly opened her arms

to hide me.

I glided into her

resting upon all the effeminate

virtues.

Horror and absurdity

abound

beyond the satyrs’ chorus

in the souls of the

ravenous.

I revealed myself

to Eurydice

as being

who I am

because there was no one to follow.

I exited,

without a kiss

landing uncomfortably

in the dark

where Marlow

began the story.

Three – Philip

Language is raped every day, and the rapist goes unpunished.

There are prisoners inside puzzles, trying to locate characters lost in scenes.

I see their disappearing trails through the maze.

Restless accusers scorn me for exploring

among the split tongues of war

and the fortune found in the asylums of women.

Craving that smell of feminine power that wafts from between their legs,

cubist women curl their hands around my neck.

Laughing at sanity,

I remain searching

where time and fate ride

that line of horizon and sea.

If I needed someone

she would be found here

where curiosity

tempts virginity.

Prophets say that tyrants triumph as meanings disappear from words.

Though the wind has no enemies,

it never rests.

The wind

and the seekers

of the wind

live in a world without

ultramarine and vermillion.

They question whether a life is worthwhile

without color

or ignorance.

I, though, have no quarrel with those who question

their crucifixion

without

hope or fear.

Relentless in my pursuit to find where I stand

I call Marlowe,

who always

 plays hunches in emotional landscapes.

Crafting experiences and perceptions

he tells me,

“Darkness only remembers pleasure’s smile.”

I follow him

down the paths of confusion and madness

until we set sail

for places without boundaries

where

convention is extinguished from conviction.

We watch as language is blundered, ravished, and tossed aside

to rot and die.

Marlowe,

who sees beyond the big sleep,

preaches that

you can never take back what you have heard.

Still, some find comfort in nevermore

disguised

as evermore.

But we adventurers, always on the fringe

of knowing

of finding

of believing

are strangers even to the ones we love.

We understand the violence of our own feelings

and see beyond

the visible appearance of the world.

Epilogue

Days later – not yet now,

but far from then.

I sit in a comfortable leather chair at the workplace

of

Marlowe, Marlow, and Marlowe.

While my mind is unraveling a myth,

an unrelenting myth

a beautiful woman

with straight, long red hair,

cold-piercing green eyes and black business attire

states smartly,

“The playwright, the narrator, and the detective

will see you now.”

Forgotten spring

The queen loved the spring from childhood. The rustling of the leaves, the vibration of the roses, was astonishing to her. The spring seemed to bring new life, new hopes, and dreams.

But then years passed … The life of the princess has changed. She married, took on daily worries, responsibilities, moved away from childhood. Now she did not notice the spring coming. There was no time to observe the raindrops from the window. Every day, the day of worries would pass the tremors, and it seemed to missing something in her heart.

One day when she was walking along the road, she felt that the soft spring was beating her breeze. She stopped for a moment. The trees were overwhelmed by gusts, moving the birds and the air. Her heart remembered those pure sensations a few years ago.

In no hurry, the princess went to the most loved garden in her childhood. She sat there and first took time for herself. The leaves were rich and the smell of flowers filled the air. The princess felt as if she had lost herself and found herself again.

That day she realized: Life is not just a bunch of worries. Sometimes you have to stop and feel spring. Because every season is the priceless gift of life, every moment.

Bekmirzayeva Aziza Rustam daughter was born on May 10, 2005 in Khatirchi district of Navoi region. It is the 2nd year student of the Samarkand Institute of Agroinovations and Research, which is interested in science and creativity. Continues to study the way to get to education and personal development and to be a leading specialist in their field. To date, they have more than 10 certificates and are working in various fields.

A Song to True Love

Beacon in the storm, light that pierces the darkness,

taste of saltpeter on the lips,

icy wind whispering secrets to the waves.

Unbreakable refuge, scent of salty wood and rain.

Deep roots,

scent of damp earth and ancient moss,

rough bark under the fingers,

rough and firm touch.

Indestructible bond, deep and damp silence.

Crystal river,

cold water brushing the skin,

constant murmur, reflection of the leaden sky,

scent of clay and seaweed.

Constant flow, aquatic freshness.

Midday sun,

scorching heat on the skin,

blinding golden light,

buzzing of bees in the air,

aroma of honey and pollen.

Heat that penetrates the soul,

intense glow.

Embrace of wings, soft skin against skin,

deep joint heartbeat,

scent of jasmine and wet earth,

absolute security.

Perfect Union/

Silent song,

vibration in the chest,

deep resonance, serene silence,

peace that floods the being.

Serenade of the soul/

Silk canvas,

soft texture under the fingers,

smell of fresh paint, vibrant colors,

delicate brushstrokes.

Joint creation…

Secret garden,

fragrance of roses and damp earth,

velvety petals, soft touch,

mysterious silence.

Shared intimacy, vegetal freshness.

Eternal fire,

intense heat on the face,

crackling of flames, smell of burnt wood,

hypnotic light, burning warmth.

Flame that never goes out/

Safe refuge,

soft and warm blankets,

smell of home, cozy silence,

feeling of deep peace. Peace and tranquility,

aroma of cinnamon.

Endless journey/

Fresh air in the lungs,

changing landscapes, murmur of the wind,

excitement of adventure, boundless freedom.

Shared adventure, sensation of movement.

Intense brilliance…

Dream come true;

Softness of the sheets, comforting darkness,

a feeling of peace, sweet dreams,

immense joy. Complete fulfillment,

the scent of lavender.

Constant whisper,

a gentle breeze on the skin…

GRACIELA NOEMI VILLAVERDE is a writer and poet from Concepción del Uruguay (Entre Rios) Argentina, based in Buenos Aires She graduated in letters and is the author of seven books of poetry, awarded several times worldwide. She works as the World Manager of Educational and Social Projects of the Hispanic World Union of Writers and is the UHE World Honorary President of the same institution Activa de la Sade, Argentine Society of Writers. She is the Commissioner of Honor in the executive cabinet IN THE EDUCATIONAL AND SOCIAL RELATIONS DIVISION, of the UNACCC SOUTH AMERICA ARGENTINA CHAPTER.

Ignorance’s Bliss

Have I not seen the beauty of dawn

I’d be contented of midnight lawn

Yet the pains of desire is sown

Hopeless pains of once numbed pawn

Have I not seen the field of star

I’d be blinded by neons lights afar

Yet not even diamonds come on par

The hope of peace in midst of war

Would it have been better to be ignorant

Following the instincts of an ant

From the sea of norm be deviant

Would satisfaction be a blessed grant?

Why must my eyes be opened wide

To the vastness of truth can’t hide

Confusion of uncertainty to confide

White, black, red or blue, gown of bride

Knowledge is power and poison of peace

When certainty knows not of wisdom’s ease

How much rain can be contained by fleece

Doubts and fears even sage’s soul tease.

War is Inevitable

In the middle of big powerful guns playing game

Neutrality is seen as a safe and wiser gamble

A treaty forced with one is historically lame

But dropping the ball will give us fatal shame

Four big guns on hands-off checkered board

Pawns to push, where no one wins, but the lord

Four chips are not placed, to protect their gourd

Secretly waiting for spoils to divide and hoard

Truces do not shield one from adventurism

Just a buffer for growing, survival mechanism

Until one is called by players for ‘altruism’.

A normal game for big players of empiralism

A call to see whether one of the four is weakening

They need to know who gets the most in harvesting

Though they are strong and science is advancing

Power growth development and resource producing

Both at same time is too much for maintaining

Supply and demand defeats technology source

Deficit in alternative energy and resource

Science has not yet advanced sufficiency

To the stage of not needing natural resources,

Be it in agricultural or mineral produce

Time, of course, comes when one cannot hide

Where small allies will need to choose a side.

Not from two but actually four stong fiery tide

But now’s time to juggle, paint over national pride

Neighbor in friendly alliances for mutual benefits

Symbiotic relationship for opportunity and profits

But all must be careful not get so much credits

Big Four shall check if we reached the limits

Hounds shall come for potential threats to diffuse

Tribal wars, distrust, gossips , rebels to confuse

Chiefs to change if interference foolishly refuse

Convenience of profit to harvest where they choose

Nation have agricultural, sea or mineral treasure

People have technical, medical, skills to measure

Be productive and generous, no alien pressure

Peaceful farms in long protected tenure

Free trade and cordiality as an allied gesture.

Yet I see non political people speaking

Unity in diversity everyone is learning. Resistant to racism and discrimination

Probe the manipulations and misinformation

People blending colors of the rainbows

Harmonious arc of peace everyone knows

I wonder how my friends see the world?

Lilian Dipasupil Kunimasa was born January 14, 1965, in Manila Philippines. She has worked as a retired Language Instructor, interpreter, caregiver, secretary, product promotion employee, and private therapeutic masseur. Her works have been published as poems and short story anthologies in several language translations for e-magazines, monthly magazines, and books; poems for cause anthologies in a Zimbabwean newspaper; a feature article in a Philippine newspaper; and had her works posted on different poetry web and blog sites. She has been writing poems since childhood but started on Facebook only in 2014. For her, Poetry is life and life is poetry.

Lilian Kunimasa considers herself a student/teacher with the duty to learn, inspire, guide, and motivate others to contribute to changing what is seen as normal into a better world than when she steps into it. She has always considered life as an endless journey, searching for new goals, and challenges and how she can in small ways make a difference in every path she takes. She sees humanity as one family where each one must support the other and considers poets as a voice for Truth in pursuit of Equality and proper Stewardship of nature despite the hindrances of distorted information and traditions.