Invictus Version

He remembers

When she

Left him

And he remembers

Wondering whether

He really wanted

To be here,

That wondering him

Must have been

A previous version

Of him

Because the 

Invictus version

Is here now.

Taylor Dibbert is a writer, journalist, and poet in Washington, DC. He’s author of the Peace Corps memoir “Fiesta of Sunset,” and the forthcoming poetry collection “Home Again.”

Dream

It’s summer. It’s a hot day, it’s almost noon right now. The road to the end of our neighborhood is quite far. Sister Dilbar is carrying 2 buckets of water from a distance. Iular is the main character of our story today. It has been about 5-6 years since the Dilbar sisters moved to our neighborhood. They live here with their spouses. But they still have no children. Almost every day, my mother prays that your skirt will be full of children, that you will have sweet children. The reason is that she is a very open-minded, free-spirited woman. She is white, has thick eyebrows, tall and beautiful figure. His spouse, Salim, is also a very kind person.

One day, I caught sight of sister Dilbar, who was barely walking from the beginning of the neighborhood. Even though it’s hot and humid in the summer. But I’m going out to play. When I recognized them from a distance, I ran to them.
– Hello sister Dilbar
– How are you, Nargiza?
– I’m fine, where do you come from?
– From the hospital.
– Was it peace?
– Yes, I have something important to say today
– I will tell you…

When I said that, I fell into the game again. When I returned home, my mother was washing dishes in the kitchen. I went in front of them and greeted them.
Mom!
–  Where have you been? My mother started to fight with me asking if you have been walking on the street all day and you are a girl, can you take care of my housework?
– Listen to me too. I was at my friend’s house. It’s been a long time since I haven’t seen him, so the vacation is over.

Then they started talking about my mother, Dilbar, and your sister. I am also impatient, and when I was waiting for his words, he said, “I have something important to say, today, sister Dilbar, come to our place.” I bit my lip for a while, thinking that I forgot about the game. And then my mother quietly laughed and said, “Oh, wow, you’re so impatient, I’ll tell you the same thing.” When your sister Boya Dilbar was going out, I called you because you didn’t come out. Then we sat and talked a lot. By the way, your lovely sister will be a girl soon. I said yes, I was surprised that they were coming from the doctor today.

– Yes, it’s getting late, I’ll go in and sleep
– Can’t you eat, girl?
– No, mother, I’m full, thank you
– Yes, you know, take your time and come in
– Ok

After some time, sister Dilbar disappeared

I went in front of them and began to question my mother.

– Oi Oi Oi Oi Dilbar, where did you disappear?

–  Yes.

Mom said they would be back soon. I silently left the room

The reason why I love sister Dilbar is that she is similar to my sister named Ayisha. It’s almost a trick to talk. My sister died in a car accident at the age of 15, when I was a 6-year-old girl. You think a 6-year-old girl understands something. I didn’t know anything even when Pyim screamed and cried. I can only remember that they took a 6-year-old girl by the hand and brought her into the room where the body was lying to say goodbye to your sister. I felt my sister lying on the ground like ice, but I couldn’t cry for some reason. At that time, the thing that got on my nerves was that the corpse is ours, the dead is ours, but all kinds of women came crying in frustration and yelling at me that it was not enough. After that, they sent me to my younger uncles. When I turned 10, I returned to my home in Tashkent. Sister Dilbar, the first woman I fell in love with when I came here, that’s why I love them so much.

A little time passed. My school has started. One day, when I was coming home from school, there were 3 or 4 beautiful cars parked near our house. Aren’t you going to make loud noises? I wondered what was going on, and later I found out that my lovely sister had come. She was named Malika when she was a girl. But they welcomed him with cash. I was surprised by this/ One question was bothering me, whether they welcomed me with such a celebration then. Now in youth.

Many months have passed since then. During that time, I went to Bukhara to prepare for studies. I had to submit to institutes in Tashkent. I returned home.

It’s early morning. There is a knock on the door. I went and opened the door. Dear sister

– Wow, Nargiz, are you back?

– hada sister

– Where are your months?

– My mother is gone

– I’ll give you the key then

– Hop, sister, hop

– Yes, Salim, your brother is taking us to the mountain

– Ok, come and have fun another time

– yes, stay well

They went to the mountain, their daughter had grown up, she was 8 months old. The road was suddenly covered by a black cloud, the rain was pouring down on it, and Malika was crying loudly. Brother Salim did not pay attention to this. After that, Dilbar’s sister also started to feel sad. “Let’s go back,” said Salim, saying that he had arrived.

And finally they arrived after walking for 5 hours. There was no sign of the dark clouds from the heavy rain.

– Tin

– It’s okay though

– Be quiet, listen to the sound of nature, there is no such air in the city.

– Yes, I know

They entered the yard with joy. The yard was not very big, 4 rooms. But there were strange pictures painted on the walls. Dilbar looked at them a little daydreaming and his eyes fell on his wife. Salim went out carrying his daughter. And Dilbar is looking at them from the window.

– Dad, come home, a dark cloud is coming

– Right now

Brother Salim was happy. In order to play with his daughter, he began to shoot her up. It rained so much. They didn’t want to go inside even though the ground was slippery. Later, the princess did not like this and began to type. Suddenly, due to Salim’s carelessness, the baby fell to the ground. The baby’s head hit the stone. Salim was afraid that he would go after his daughter, so he was also injured. His leg was broken. Dilbar could not move, he could see this situation but could not do anything. Then a person appeared. The charmer did not know who he was. The reason was that he was caught by a thick blanket. If you can’t protect the blessing given to you by sitting next to Dilbar, it’s a pity, such a blessing will not be returned, he said, protect it.

Dilbar kept crying but could not go there. It was as if the leg was not pulling. Dilbar was crying, as if he was washing his clothes with tears dripping from his eyes. Then Salim Dilbarni came to him

– Be charming. You’ve been crying about something for a long time. Your clothes are getting wet

– My daughter, my daughter, where is the Princess?

– Why are you panicking? Do as I say quickly and change your clothes. You will catch a cold when your clothes are wet

– Was it a dream?

He went straight to the room where his daughter was walking. He remembered his dream of seeing his sweetly sleeping daughter. Cold sweat broke out from his body. They returned home.

Later, after this dream, he took his daughter to the kindergarten, where he did not believe in the sky. The reason is that those words stuck in a part of his brain as if they were engraved on a stone

“If you can’t protect the blessing that God has given you, it’s a pity for you, such a blessing will not be returned” these words kept spinning in his mind. The truth is that he has no children except his daughter Malika…….

Kingdom Collapse

On July 5 of 2033 Antarctic bases McMurdo, Davis, Casey and others reported earthquakes of 6 magnitude on the Richter scale.  South Africa and Tierra Del Fuego in South America had minor tsunamis shortly after the earthquakes.  Helicopters flew to the suspected center of the disturbance near the South Pole.  What they saw was deeply disturbing.  An area of hundreds of thousands of square kilometers had subsided anywhere from a few to a hundred meters deep.  What appeared to be naked humans were slowly digging out of the steaming slush.  As the observers goggled at the scene, something like a red guided missile flew out of the depression so fast it was just a blur.  There was no safe landing place, so the helicopters which were short of fuel flew back to their bases.  When the film they had taken was released, the world observed a second odd event.

Only seconds after the “missile” had left Antarctica, a red giant with goat horns wearing a loin cloth and nothing else took over the United Nations.  It had no problem taking over the podium during an active meeting of member nations.  He spoke in English but was translated for the member countries as is usual at the UN.

“Hi there.  You might know me as Satan, but I prefer Lucifer.  Hey, have you heard that Rolling Stones number ‘Sympathy For The Devil’?  Love it.  Lucifer is from the Hebrew and means light bearing.  I know I’ve got a bad reputation, but I serve a valuable purpose, like a garbage collector.  That may be a bad analogy, but OK.  For sure, you wouldn’t want to mingle with my guests in the afterlife”

The giant covered its chest with his hands as five gunshots were heard, then collapsed.  Everyone turned to see a security officer with a smoking gun.  The stunned crowd watched Lucifer as it lay motionless.  A minute and half later the body made strange noises which turned into laughter.  Lucifer got up and looked at his assailant.  “You got spunk kid.  I like your style.  Would you like to do a podcast together?”

After a silent and motionless sixty-four seconds, the gunman said “Ah.  Sure.”

Lucifer seemed pleased and continued “I got a little off track.  You may want to know what happened in Antarctica.  The roof of Hell collapsed and put out our heating system.  I suspect that the inmates are not happy with hell freezing over, but at least it’s a change.  As you may know, it’s a good thing for all the guys whose girlfriends said they wouldn’t have sex with them until hell froze over.”

Lucifer laughed loud and long.  The audience was stunned into silence by the unexpected frivolity of Satan.

“I could go on and on, but maybe you want to ask questions.”

“You from Bulgaria, what’s on your mind?”

“Do you mean hell is a real place where bad people go when they die?”

“That’s right.  Oops.”

Lucifer’s loin cloth fell off.

The audience gasped, laughed, cheered, and made many rude and crude remarks.

Lucifer pulled up his loin cloth and said “Oh, grow up.  If you think that was weird, be glad you didn’t see the flip side.  Anyway, haven’t you ever seen two dicks together before?  How about the president and vice president?”

While the audience was cheering and booing, the Bulgarian delegate grabbed his chance before anyone could pose another question and asked “Follow up.  Why locate Hell in Antarctica?”

“OK, that was a dumb idea.  Fire and ice don’t mix very well.  It was the idea of my colleague.  It thinks it’s some superstar, but it’s not the boss of me.  I shouldn’t have accepted Kolak’s idea of where to locate hell.  As we had to expand due to our population explosion, we kept weakening the structure.  Boom!  Roof falls down, puts out our heating, everything freezes.”

An unidentified person yelled “Kolak?”

“Yeah, that’s its name.  For some reason it’s known on earth by a multitude of different names.”

“You, shorty from Albania.”

“What are the demographics of Hell?”

“Just like earth’s criminals, mostly male.  All of your major religions have contributed a lot of souls.  Masters of war of course, and any soldier or civilian that enjoyed killing and destruction.  Pretty high percentage of politicians.  No surprise.  Common criminals, not so much.”

Lucifer pulled out something from somewhere on its back that looked like a cell phone and looked at it.  “I see we have 2,678,534,968 souls currently and that the number goes up about twelve hundred a minute.  Because of space limitations, we cycle inmates between actively tortured and time outs as small cubes.”

A woman from Canada yelled out “This might not be a question for you, but do you know if there is intelligent life on other planets?”

“Other planets, yes.”

“You from Sweden.”

“How do you handle all of the inmates?”

“You must be a bureaucrat back home.  I have thousands of trustees to make life unpleasant for the inmates.  They are chosen from the worst people – mass murderers.  They hate everyone and are hated in return.  They whip, burn, slice and dice their fellow prisoners who are in constant revolt inflicting damage on the trustees.  Win – win.”

“What’s your question Canada guy?”

“Do you ever do that Faust thing about collecting souls?”

“I have dabbled, but only for amusement.  Thing is, it’s easy to cheat a cheater, so that part is fun.  There’s this business guy recently who was an easy mark.  I delivered for him, but he will regret it.  Some well-known actors.  The involuntarily celibate.”

“The guy with the bad moustache from Sri Lanka.”

“Lucifer, what are you plans for Hell now?”

“I’m not in a hurry to decide.  If the earth people want some zombies to wander their streets, I could lend a few billion, but that seems unlikely.  More likely I’ve got my eye on some real estate on Pluto where we could relocate.  The guys in Antarctica can have snowball fights while they freeze until I decide.”

“I see you have more questions, but I’ve got a hot date with a demon from Mars, so I’m getting out of here.  Don’t pet or feed those guys in Hell while I’m gone.”

                                        

EPHEMERAL

Man only has but two nights: the night he was born, and the night he died.
When he was born,
Joy and mirth pervaded the room,
And cacophony of laughter erupted like fireworks in the night.
Like a tiny vine, he clung to his mother, drawing sustenance from her precious sap,
Like a fledgling bird clinging to its mother’s wings.
With his squeals and gurgles, he shared his babble
Like a child blooming in its mother’s love.
Half a dozen of age; everyday objects of the home became a kingdom of marvels, a realm of
infinite delights, as his imagination turned pots into castles and spoons into swords.
In the hot kitchen, his mind scented the air with the sweet fragrance of his hunger but he cared
not for the heat or the sweat; only for the succulent flavors to come.
Every morning, a new day beckons, a playground of delight, in the eyes of a child
Running across the beach, gathering up the grains of sand– like precious pearls–
As the moon casts its light upon the sea.
The day he died,
Deluge of sorrow choked the room, & the air was dense with wails.
So many, like clouds of houseflies.
The mighty man,
heavy with weight of accomplishments,
Threatened to hump the bier that transported him into his abode of delight.
When he was lowered into the Earth
(beneath the world of men),
A new home hewn in the belly of the earth,
His bones rotted like detritus.
What is death? A beautiful ending or loss?
There is but one conclusion:
That he was born to die, to live as he pleases and return to the dust that made him.

Chukwuemeka Victoria Chiamaka is a psychology graduate from the University of Chukwuemeka Odumegwu Ojukwu, Anambra State, Nigeria. She is passionate about writing and this has made her lay her tent in the world of modern literature.
Email: chukwuemekavictoria23@gmail.com

JOONAM – Finding identity as an immigrant woman

We all eventually turn into our mothers.

It’s what nature taught us. The older we grow up, the more we see our mothers in us, and us in them.

And the three generations of Iranian women in this film, are no different.

It had to take an innovator, a pioneer like Sierra Urich, a filmmaker, to unravel the mystery of those three women, and bring their different worlds together. It had to take a brave woman like her to bring women’s stories to the table and unwrap the cellophane, the layers and layers of dust that women use to cover up their lives and put it out into the world.

The link was the mother, Mitra, who was the heart of both languages, the bridge between two distinctly foreign worlds. Sierra represented the new world, while the grandmother represented the old world. Mitra brought these two worlds together, through a shared love between the three women of storytelling.

I felt Sierra’s isolation in her language barrier bubble, how her grandma, Behjat was happily enjoying the culture she held close to her heart, how comfortable Mitra was freely moving from one culture to the other, her peace and easiness evident through her daughter’s camera. Sierra on the other hand was the one most bothered, or uncomfortable in her skin. I related to her feelings of difficulty adjusting to her mother and grandmother’s heritage or their adaptation to their lives. Mitra and Behjat seemed in harmony, while Sierra seemed lost and grappling with her sense of self. How easy it used to be for the older generations, while we are usually stuck with how we view ourselves, how the world perceives us, and what we want from the world.

Sierra’s use of imagery and poetic interceptions threw me in the middle of the culture, the mesmerizing stories that her grandmother told as the backdrop to an already active mise-en-scène, there was constant movement and a powerful sense of space and presence in Sierra’s film, and that allowed the viewer to enter her world at the pace and time that she fully decided.

JOONAM felt like a journey through womanhood, as each woman discovered her path individually from the other, but brought together they navigated it together as one. In different cultures, times, and ideologies, all three women had their own battles to conquer, wounds to cover, and intergenerational trauma to come to terms with. Sierra perfectly gave her subjects the air to breathe and exist in an environment without judgment or disdain. It was the perfect safe space for these women to share stories and bond over their family history as they each tread a different spot on the spectrum of life. Sierra didn’t overuse intimate feminine moments as breaking points for her narrative, each point was present in the right spot, like her mother having her hair done at the hairdresser’s and getting bombarded with serious interrogative questions, or her grandmother beautifully recounting the time she had her first period. None of it felt forced or created a false sense of feminine mystique but rather a milestone in an intricately structured narrative, not built on women’s bones, but from their tales around the -hypothetical fire- as they rebuild each other up, bones and all.

***
tigers in the zoo:
no one sees how 
the meat is prepared for them

chest hurts
once again the heart can 
withstand everything

fork and knife pierce my body 
i fall asleep

***
I died for you
Removing freckles from face completed successfully

***
we were left with a petal and 
empty cider bottles as a souvenir
autumn has never been 
so forgotten before

***
the ant 
under my 
feet 

taught me 
to be small

***
no one will ask the foliage 
about green silence

***
the worm in my body 
cherishes the emptiness

***
love is broken like a river
glass grass river

***
my heart is looking 
for a cemetery at your steps

***
the cage asked the bird 
and received no answer

***
who dies at night while bones 
burn in the sky?

we are trying to forget 
our little betrayal

– After February 24, 2022, I will never speak Russian again, I will never be silent again. - Helga said, but the next morning this mood passed.
The next morning old Helga went to church for free milk. She took her place in line, as did hundreds of other people.
Hundreds of people did not want to stand in line, but the post-Soviet habit of poverty encouraged them to stand in line.
Pensions were paid to bank cards. banks and ATMs did not work. Stores were open. Stores that were not closed were open. Only a few shops were open. Stores that started working as a result of a raider seizure of a neighboring business do not count.
The pensioners in the queue began to argue: someone took a place in the queue dishonestly.
The pensioners in line began to argue very rudely and broke off the entrance gate of the church.
Not everyone got milk that day, although everyone was in line.
Crowds of hungry dogs began to run past the crowd of upset pensioners. The dogs, abandoned by their owners to the mercy of fate, wanted to eat.
Over time, hungry dogs began to attack the parishioners. Over time, hungry dogs began to turn on all the inhabitants of the city, including atheists like me. People are the same animals. The ring-shaped world history is a strong confirmation.
My favorite Ukrainian director (Kira Muratova) once said:
"I can understand cannibalism because a hungry person behaves like an animal. But I don't understand how you can kill for anything. Even if it's your homeland."
Hungry dogs: they live much worse than pensioners. Dogs do not have pensions, churches, public organizations. And over time, pensioners began to receive two pensions: Ukrainian and Russian. But it does not matter. By the way, I have never been to church as an adult. This in some way makes me related to street dogs. When I was a child, my parents often had puppies: but the puppies constantly ran out into the street and died.
The dogs continued to walk the streets. People continued to walk the streets. Kira Muratova once said:
"Humanity does not develop. First there was Nero, and then there was Stalin." It's good that Kira Muratova died before 2022. Over time, death begins to seem like a relative that everyone has always known about, but no one has seen. It turns out that death cannot be seen - there is no death. Especially during the war: during the war, everyone turns into walking corpses. From dust to dust, because as Jim Jarmusch (or someone else) said: "The dead do not want to leave." The dead cannot leave because their limbs are torn off. The dead cannot die, especially when air bombs forbid the very existence of life.
I want to dye my hair blonde. For some reason, this fact seems especially vital and important at the time of the shelling.
Over time, people who walked the streets began to get tired. People started dying. But no: people have died before.
Over time, people stopped giving out free milk in churches and rotten vegetables at bus stops. Over time, people got used to what was happening. People have been accustomed to what is happening for thousands of years. For thousands of years, the same events have been happening.
Once a neighbor's cat caught a mouse and ate it, but not completely. Therefore, the guts and tail (the remains of a mouse) I found just on the sidewalk. But the neighbor's cat is well fed: why did he poop on a mouse? Why didn't the cat eat the mouse's tail? Can not understand anything.
Even along the streets, besides people, cats and dogs, birds roamed. But birds have wings: just like military planes. Birds constantly remain in the shadow of human attention. Sometimes birds peck at groats at the point of distribution of humanitarian aid. They say that the point of issue of humanitarian aid is also full of pensioners in line. Then some pensioners sell this humanitarian aid on the market. Sometimes many birds flocked to the market: the birds tried to get their own food.
Birds in those days began to fly to the streets of the city, probably in anticipation of spring. But spring never came.
People in those days stopped believing that it was possible to fly and began to silently walk through the markets. Some people still continued to go to work. Some animals in those days still had owners who hadn't left.
As a child, I had different toys: plush animals, plastic constructors, toy soldiers. At the time, I didn't understand why toys weren't allowed to tear limbs off.
Meanwhile, people and animals quietly ran away wherever their eyes looked. As a rule, people left for Europe. The rest of the people and animals remained where they were. Being a refugee is either uncomfortable or expensive, depending on your financial situation.
Thus began the first month of military occupation.

Hibiscus


A little hibiscus
Penchant it's chore
Gullible a short stature
Behold her majesty
Under the trees of 
Sycamore and olive branches 
A casual symphony of 
Criss crossed margins
A little hibiscus
Redden with dusty shadows
Autumn wraps her in molten golden
Now my hibiscus is ripened
All edible in bountiful decency
October's mosaic hearts
Keeping my broached napkin
Under your solemn boughs
It revels in redness