Translated and excerpted from the novel “Voices from There.“

by Naim Al-Musafir 

(Published in Arabic in 2017 by Dar Al-Rafidain, Iraq, Basra, Ishtar) 

Translated by Faleeha Hassan 

A Whisper

Whenever I pass by the river, I catch a glimpse of that small hill on its bank, as if it were trying to tempt me to stop there and get closer so it could tell me something, or to send a message. I had always wished to stop there, hoping to find a piece of clay, for example, or a bottle washed up by the river, or some other sign, so I might know what message I assumed it wanted to convey to me. Still, I avoided doing so because of the many stories circulating about it, which insist that it is a haunted hill!

My car broke down near it one evening, so I got out to see if I could figure out what was wrong with it!

I heard the music of the place:  relaxed frogs croaking their song in the river, night insects chirping in the thickets, the howling of foxes lying in wait from the open wilderness all the way to the city, the excited barking of dogs echoing from the opposite bank where the village lies unaware, 

 Is this all the hill wanted to reveal?!

Just before leaving, I heard a rustling, as if voices were whispering to me: I turned around but saw no one! 

Fear gripped me, so I ran off quickly; the whispering followed me to the car, the street, home, and work in waking and in sleep, while eating, while talking to someone 

Those voices confused me, so I began to imagine that everything in that place was speaking to me: the hill, the river, the village, the people, and the nights and days that had passed over it. All of this caused me a great deal of psychological stress. I tried to rid myself of its burden by various means, but to no avail. It occurred to me to write down everything I could remember of those whispers, but as soon as I began writing, the voices stopped. I asked myself repeatedly: if someone were speaking to me, surely there must be a reason driving them to do so? 

And they must be seeking something through their words. So why was the place itself speaking to me? 

What drove it to do that? And what was it seeking? 

The Whisper Blog became a large file titled “Voices from There,” and at the time, I hadn’t decided what to do with it. 

In what literary genre would I publish it? 

But the computer suddenly crashed, and the file disappeared.

I tried to recover it by various means, but I couldn’t. I went to the hill and sat there for hours, but I heard nothing; those voices no longer haunted me.

I returned to the vortex of psychological pressure and questions… 

 Did those whisperers cut me off because I lost the stories I had written down? 

Or had they said everything they had to say and didn’t want to repeat what they’d said before? 

I tried to convince myself that there was good in what had happened, as I always do when I lose something precious and let my imagination wander far away… I imagined that the whispering belonged to the very essence of that place and the spirits that inhabit it, and that they had captivated me with their story for some reason. Perhaps they didn’t like the way I was writing it down, so they hid the file so I could craft those stories differently, or write them as a fictional novel, but why did it occur to me to write them as a novel?

 Did they whisper this to me, and I forgot? 

Sasa Hill

Why do you hesitate to stop by and listen to me? 

What is it that frightens you? 

To all appearances, I am nothing more than an ancient earthen mound. Are you one of those who judge things only by what others say about them?

 Had I known you belonged to that kind, I would never have spoken to you. Yet, as a punishment, I shall not tell you everything. Instead, I will tell you only a fragment of what people have disputed about me. Do you not think that the worth of a thing often lies in the very disagreements it inspires?

The people of Al-Jadi Village have long differed over the origin of my name and my historical beginnings. Since childhood, Yusuf Al-Mulla and Yahin Al-Hassawi held a conviction that bordered on certainty: that ancient peoples had once dwelt within me. They often saw countless shards of pottery scattered across the surface. Then, one day, the bank of the nearby river collapsed, revealing skulls and the bones of men of extraordinary stature.

In their imagination, I became a great city, one belonging to one of the many civilizations that had passed through this land. And indeed, how many there have been, from the Sumerians until today. Their belief was strengthened by words they had heard time and again from their history teacher, Mr. Badr: “God placed Al-Jadi Village and Sasa Hill at the heart of a region that is itself a museum of human civilization. In His wisdom at the dawn of creation, He destined this land to witness the descent of Adam, the father of humankind, and the birth of Abraham, the father of the prophets. Around them lie the ancient cities of Ur, Umma, and Lagash, together with the mounds of Al-Haba and hundreds of other tells and archaeological rises, some of which may date back as far as five thousand years.”

The people of Al-Jadi Village believe that I am a haunted mound. They have made me a burial ground for newborn infants, premature babies, and girls slain in the name of so-called honor.

The fishermen, too, avoided casting their nets into the river near me, fearing the Sa‘alwa—a fearsome creature whom many claimed appeared to anyone daring to fish in those waters. Among those who most insistently swore they had seen her were Matar Al-Houli and Dhiab the Fisherman. Whenever they took the village boys on fishing trips, they would recount her tale, warning them of her sudden appearance and steering clear of that stretch of river. Later, Dhiab’s son, Farhan, inherited the duty of retelling those stories whenever the boys gathered at night in Kokaz Al-Hassawi’s orchard.

Mulla Alikhan, however, held another certainty. He believed beyond doubt that I concealed treasures beyond measure within my depths. According to him, I had once been a village upon which God’s wrath descended. Because of the wickedness of its people, He overturned it, turning its heights into depths, burying its inhabitants beneath the earth along with all they possessed.

And so, the Mulla said, God had appointed guardians for my hidden riches: the Tantal, the Sa‘alwa, Abd al-Shatt, and the jinn. They would stand watch over my treasures until the Promised Redeemer appeared.

Yet the Mulla never knew that the buried treasures he imagined and believed in so fervently were being stolen by Ghaylan Al-Ati. Nor did he realize that those fearsome guardians existed only as puppets of deception. Ghaylan had borrowed their names and shapes from old folktales, weaving them into terrifying legends to keep the villagers away from me, lest they discover his theft. Ghaylan merely robbed me. But his son, Jabbar, was far worse.

He brought machines to tear away my flanks and scrape at my body. He came close to erasing me from the face of the earth altogether. Had Yusuf not returned from exile when he did, I might have vanished forever.

Yusuf

I returned from an exile that had lasted fifteen years, borne aloft by longing like a magic carpet, suspended between the blue of the sky and the blue of the ocean. I came back from the other side of the globe to two loves; yet, I could not tell which of the two still haunted my memory, nor for the loss of which one I still felt the world and everything within it to be a desolate place. Was it the Village of Al-Jidi? Or was it Yahya Al-Hasawi? 

They were, to my soul, like two inseparable twins. But the village that mother, in whose lap I now felt only coldness! I found it utterly different from the memories I had long ruminated upon during my exile, and my only lifelong friend was no longer to be found there.

Nothing remained to remind me of their presence save for the Hill of Sasa! Thus, I became addicted to visiting it every afternoon, staying until the light began to yield to the encroaching dusk.

I would sit cross-legged, feeling as solitary as a desert lark, my loneliness soothed only by the faint call of a reed warbler. Upon hearing that small brown bird, I would revert to a child once more, searching for its nest amidst the thickets of reeds.

Yet, it did not flutter about anxiously, as one might expect!

Perhaps it did not consider this nest situated here to be its true home among the reeds, and thus, deemed it unworthy of the burden of worry, much like how I, too, had felt during my own exile.

On the eve of the “Yawm al-Dukhul”, I lay upon the hill, gazing up at the celestial dome, a vast expanse in which an infinite number of tiny, shimmering points of light twinkled.

Before my eyes, the constellation of the Daughters of the Bier the Big Dipper came into view; and in my ears rang the voice of my grandfather, Mulla Alikhan, just as it had when he used to hold my hand and point toward the sky: “Yusuf, count the Daughters of the Bier starting from the bottom then measure out five handspans equal to the distance between the sixth and seventh stars; do this, and you will know exactly in which direction the North Star lies.” I have lost all sense of direction, Grandfather… And in my bewilderment, here I sit waiting for the arrival of Warda, her granddaughter Salwa, and Jumhouri Alabid, so that we may hold a séance to summon the spirit of Yahya, hoping, perhaps, to speak with him just as we did in the days of old.

I rose to count the stars of the Big Dipper, searching the sky to locate Polaris; suddenly, I heard the crack of a rifle shot coming from the direction of the river, and I collapsed right where I stood! I felt a numbness spread through my flank; my strength failed me, and my eyelids grew heavy. I reached my hand toward the spot where the numbness had taken hold, only to feel a hot, viscous fluid gushing forth. With great difficulty, I struggled to rise; instead, I tumbled down the slope, falling into a pit at the foot of the hill as the earth rained down upon me.

Sasa Hill

My friend Yusuf breathed his last and vanished. A shroud, soft as a rabbit’s fur, slipped from beneath him, and I watched it drift away under the moonlight. I do not know why I nearly died in those moments, except that he had been my only hope of remaining alive in this world. My friend Yusuf had been attached to me since childhood. Every day, he would come to me accompanied by his friends Omar, Farhan, and Jumhouri. I was their favorite playground. Yet none of them nor any of the villagers would dare approach me at night, except for the witches. Whenever they needed to perform a spell, they came here, for certain magical rites were believed to require the space between two graves. Some sorceries demanded a human skull or one of its bones, and I had no shortage of buried infants.

Ghilan had another story about me, one he repeated whenever the opportunity arose. He claimed that his grandfather had bought this land from its owner, Sassoun the Jew, more than a hundred years ago, and that he possessed a deed proving it. Every time he told the tale, he would add that, had it not been for this title deed, the Revolutionary Government would have distributed the land among the peasants at the end of the 1970s. In his peculiar way, he also insisted that his farmhands had witnessed the jinn, the Tantal, and the Sa‘lawa haunting me, and that they heard strange voices emanating from my side while they slept in his palace on the opposite bank.

As for the archaeologists, they held a different opinion. Although they rarely mentioned me, they secretly believed that I concealed traces of the Sasanian era. One of them would often say: “Complete the green River. Its course runs to the east of the city of Lagash (the mounds of al-Haba’), and of the city of Nina (Zurgul), at distances of approximately 23 km and 15 km respectively. From it branches the Sasa River. Its source lies to the south of the headwaters of the Abi Da‘b River, and it is most likely the same “Sasi” river mentioned among the waterways of Wasit especially given the presence of a small archaeological mound known as “Sasa,” where fragments of pottery and glazed ceramics are scattered across its surface, dating back to the Sasanian era, and later reoccupied during the Abbasid period.*

Stranger still than all of this is the tale of the sorceress Wardah, which she tells again and again to her granddaughter’s friends, Salwa, though I, unexpectedly, become the hero of that story, even if it belongs more to the village of Al-Jadi than to me. For we are neighbours, each sustaining the other’s life, with our shared companion, the river, flowing between us.

Yet I shall leave the village of Al-Jadi to tell it to you better than I ever could; it is eager to speak if only the river allows it to speak before he does.

…….

*From the article “Archaeological Sites in the Batiha of Wasit and the Central Marshes” by Dr. Abdul Amir al-Hamdani.

Sasi River

I do not need to speak to you, as those who have spoken or those who will speak do. I am not threatened, like them, by disappearance or metamorphosis, nor is my spirit wandering; I want it to settle. I am not subject to extinction… my course may shift, my waters may diminish, yet I remain, before and after all things.

But I do not want anyone to speak on my behalf, or to draw my image as they please.

I still flow, since ancient times, between the mound and the village. It is unthinkable that they should speak before me! I am the reservoir of secrets, and whatever Wardah and the rain of al-Holi carry of mysteries is nothing compared to what I conceal.

From me begins the chronicle of the place, and to me it ends everything within it. Yet since you have already listened to Tell Sasa and Yusuf before me, I shall deprive you of speaking about me; instead, I will speak of some of my manifestations and attachments, the most important of which is my beloved and bride, Sa‘diyya al-Sayyad.

The people of Al-Jadi village see me every day, staring at me endlessly, yet they perceive nothing of what lies within me. They imagine I am nothing but a reservoir of water and fish, though I am one of their few outlets of relief from the suffocating repression they live under.

Every house in the village overlooking me had a sharī‘a, a riverside landing considered a meeting place for gossip, exchanging news, and waiting for lovers. This happened while carrying water to the houses and while washing clothes and utensils. If someone wished to see Salwa, or to send a message of love, longing, and obsession, all he had to do was take his boat tied at the sharī‘a, pretend to be fishing, or display his swimming skills, or pass along the riverbank as if going about some work. This is what Sarhan and Jabr used to do. Jabr’s passing used to anger me greatly because he competed with me for the heart of Sa‘diyya, and whenever he was on the verge of drowning, I would save him out of love for her.

At sunset, silence would cover the village, and my shara‘i would be empty of people; then the mothers would come to me. They descend to me from the sharī‘a, immersing their legs up to the calves; they open their pockets and lift their breasts toward the sky, praying for their sons to return safely from war. And often, I would see them days or weeks later, swimming or fishing in my waters.

Children and women had to be careful not to come too close to me when I surged with the waters of al-dahla, that dark water in the season of al-khitiyab (the flood), even though it is my most beloved season.

For I would arrive roaring, bringing goodness to all living things, human, animal, and plant, and with my flow I carried tidings of fertility and growth, and the beginning of a season of abundant fishing. At that time, the villagers would prepare for what they call the flood, building small earthen dams on the shara‘i so that I would not inundate the paths, orchards, and houses.

In truth, what I do is not a flood, nor anger, it is a wedding I hold every spring for my beloved Sa‘diyya. Then I return to stillness, waiting for destiny to one day carry her to me as a bride.

I will tell you about my wedding during one of the seasons of al-khinyab in the village of Al-Jadi

……….

Note: khitab / khitiyab is originally Akkadian khitabu, meaning “abundant water.”

The Village of Al-Jadi

This river, upon whose banks I have drifted into sleep since my earliest beginnings, never ceases its chatter just like its waters. It tries to deceive you into believing that it has no reason to speak. Yet, in truth, it too has its own reasons. I challenge it to reveal to you what became of Sa‘diyya. Leave this arrogant, enigmatic river aside and listen to me.

My name has nothing to do with the star of Capricorn, as Mulla Ali Khan used to claim. Perhaps the Mulla’s story is true, but I am more inclined toward Wardah’s version, because I find it more captivating. 

She says I was once a vast land called Sasa, owned by Ati Abu Ghilan, with a river dividing me into two halves. In the western part stood a small mound. Farmers avoided cultivating me, for anyone passing through would see a strange creature, its upper half in human form, and its lower half in the form of a goat.

That fear turned me into barren land, where nothing grew except natural vegetation: tamarisk trees, willows, poplars, and shrubs such as jolan, hamd, thill, and aqool. I became a pasture for the livestock of Ati cattle, sheep, and goats, and a refuge for foxes, jackals, and rabbits. In my nests, partridges, sandgrouse, and quails would breed.

The goat herds that grazed across my lands produced more milk, and the females gave birth to twins twice a year instead of the usual once. But this did not please Ati, for he valued crops more than goats, which the villagers cared for less than sheep and Bedouins did.

So, Ati sought help from Wardah, who summoned the jinn spirit Shamhurish. The spirit transformed that creature, turning its upper body into a goat and its lower body into a fish. The transformed being descended into the river and became Abd al-Shatt, dwelling in its deep waters near the mound, appearing to anyone who came to fish there.

From the opposite bank, whenever one looked toward the mound, strange lights could be seen, along with drums and uncanny sounds unlike anything human.

People eventually felt reassured about the eastern side after that creature had left it. Ati then distributed parts of the land to his farmers, and those dwellings became my first nucleus. The remaining part on the opposite bank, where the mound stood, remained barren, as misfortune had shifted to it, turning it into a pasture for wild and domesticated animals alike.

Ati died of grief when all his lands were distributed among the peasants, leaving only the western portion of me, where Tell Sasa lies. Ghilan was still young when that part became his, so he named it al-Ghilania. The name “Sasa” came to refer only to the haunted mound, after having once referred to me entirely, as a vast land stretching across both banks of the river. 

He claimed that the western portion had not been distributed because he held an Ottoman title deed for it. He was more cunning than his father, Ati, despite his young age. He claimed wisdom, piety, mercy, humility, and solitude.

He reclaimed that barren land and cultivated it, settling it with discreet farmers who did not mingle much with the villagers. 

In truth, I am a village in the form of a great nest. My birds leave me the moment their feathers grow, and their wings become strong enough to carry them toward cities. I do not deny that they carry their longing within their ribs wherever they go, but they do not return.

The only bird of mine that ever came back was Yusuf… But now I am losing him again…

………

Footnotes

*   The Tantul: One of the most renowned terrifying creatures in Iraqi folklore. It is a mythical shapeshifter that typically manifests at night, appearing as a human, an animal, or a shadow. Often invoked to frighten children, it is closely associated with the marshes of southern Iraq in the popular imagination.

*   The Sa’luwah: A monstrous female entity from Iraqi folklore that inhabits wilderness areas and abandoned places. It occasionally abducts or terrifies travelers and is often described as a cannibal or a savage beast.

*   Abd al-Shatt:  A creature associated with water in certain narratives. It is a water spirit, a subordinate entity of the aquatic realm that dwells in rivers or marshes, where it frightens fishermen or children playing near the water’s edge.

*   Banat Na’sh: A well-known group of stars visible in the night sky, forming part of either the Ursa Major or Ursa Minor constellations. Their existence is linked to a legend of vengeance and eternal grief.

*   The Capricorn Star: Associated with the constellation of Capricorn, this star serves as a seasonal marker used to determine the onset of agricultural seasons.

*   The Tree of Al-Zor: A symbolic tree associated with haunted places or boundary zones; it is frequently mentioned in tales concerning Jinn (spirits) and other supernatural entities.

*   Yawm al-Dukhul: A traditional observance marking the beginning of a new season or a temporal transition. In some villages, it is used to signal the start of plowing, the onset of the rainy season, or the commencement of the agricultural cycle. It is not an official public holiday, but rather a component of an ancient, oral calendar system.

Violently Fading to Silence

Robert crouched beneath the kitchen table, listening to music that conjured every evil thing he had ever dreamed.

Maybe his upstairs neighbors were simply enjoying their weekend too much, playing music at full volume and drinking until it was Monday again. But why would they choose something so haunting, so strange, for their brief respite?

This otherworldly melody contained a few elements that Robert struggled to describe despite his extensive knowledge of music theory. It seemed to be played on the flute or some similar instrument. But once he peeked from under the table, the upset piano, whose sounds transformed the room into the landscape of dreams, suddenly joined the flute.

Although the music wasn’t too loud, he felt uncomfortable as he huddled under the table, expecting at any moment the room to go silent, and with it his heart. He pictured himself having a heart attack on the cold floor of his kitchen. He pictured months or maybe years before his body would be discovered. The smell, the horror of his decomposing remains! He shook his head to banish the unpleasant vision and focused on the sounds of the flute and the piano that filled his apartment. That was all he could hear, that and the sound of his nervous heart.

“Shit,” Robert muttered as the music grew in intensity. He placed his hands over his ears, intending to block the sound. But it slipped through his fingers, through the skin of his hands, through the bones and the muscles and the joints. As the music made its way into his brain, it became excruciatingly sad. He pressed harder until his ears pulsed with pain, but, despite the discomfort, he refused to relax his hands even a little.

The music conjured up memories of his father, a musician and a quiet man who once brought home a child’s corpse and then shot himself in the heart while Robert’s mother was calling the police. Blood was still dripping from the girl’s mouth when two dark-eyed officers entered their living room. No, it was wrong. The child couldn’t have bled. She was dead, dead. Robert squeezed his head harder. Even though the music had succeeded in luring him into this particular nightmare, he knew better. Yes, his father had shot himself, but there was no child, and his mother called the police only after she had wiped her husband’s blood off the wooden floor of their bedroom. One had to keep up appearances after all.

“Why would you do that? Why?” His voice was nothing more than a faint echo of those memories.

He lowered his body so his forehead was almost touching the floor and pressed his palms hard against his skull, hoping to prevent it from receiving these agonizing messages and seeing these strange things. It didn’t work. He still saw the faces of his father and the little girl, corrupted by death and resentment, faces from the depths of his private hell.

Beside the kitchen table, near Robert’s outstretched legs, a little girl was thrashing around, her mouth opening and closing in rhythm with the music. When she opened her blue eyes, he screamed, or he thought he screamed; neither he nor anyone else in the apartment complex heard his voice. And then something cracked, and blood spilled from his mouth onto the floor.

And when he finally crushed his skull, there was a moment of pain and then silence that carried him into the blackest eternity of his most evil dreams.

Maria Barnes teaches English and writes dark fiction. Her work has appeared in The Pinworm Factory: A Tribute to Eraserhead edited by Scott Dwyer, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, and Samjoko Magazine, among other places.

mariab2442@gmail.com

In today’s rapidly changing world one of the most pressing topics is the great importance of books in developing children’s thinking. We can say that by reading books, children are finding solutions to the world’s most complex problems,  thereby contributing to the development and future of our countries. 

Today, the only thing that leads children to perfection and success is the book.  In my opinion,  every child has read a book at least once in their life. For example,  a piece of work,  a novel, a drama, or simple literature  from a book.  By this, I mean that books primary invite children to reading and literacy. Furthermore, through reading books  children  are enhancing their  mental intellect  and critical thinking in serious areas.  That is to say, easy solutions to the economic, social,  and spiritual-culture  problems of our countries are being found with the help of books. Another aspect is that the gems of Uzbek literature teach children the roots of our  history; the reason is that  it shows how humanitarian,  brave, and most importantly, patient the Uzbek people are.

Based on this, I want to say that to build the future,  one must look back at history; as a result,  history will pave your way to success,  drawing from it is own hardships.  This opinion of mine is, on the contrary like a battle on an reflected stage. Because in the war, thousands of our grandfather fought putting their lives in the line, and if necessary,  sacrificing them. Do you think they did not have fathers, mothers, spouses, or children waiting for them anxiously at home? Of course they did! But they possessed pride, honor, and a sense of responsibility. I can say with confidence that these books will help children take steps toward a great future. Furthermore,  children learn how difficult life can be  and how to respond to it appropriately.  In my  view,  reading books can be useful not only for children but also for adults.  For instance,  Yu Hua’ s famous work ” To Live” helps to further increase the patience and resilience of our women today. In my perspective,  this book reflects the hardships of an entire family,  and even the suffering of a woman who lost all her children and her ability to endure these difficulties. I believe that this story can serve as an example for our women. 

In final conclusion, a book is not just an object that leads people to perfection, but rather a guide that shows them the way.  It is known that for many children, a book is a source of knowledge and one of the most enjoyable activities 

My name is  Ismatova Dilnura.  I was born on October 11, 2010, in Shahrisabz district of Qashqadaryo region, Uzbekistan. Moreover, in order to expand my worldwide and mental capacity, I have been learning various languages and reading books.  In addition, thanks to my knowledge of foreign languages, I have been participating as a volunteer in my events, festivals, and large pavilions. And also, currently, I am continuously developing myself and further increasing my knowledge in order to realize my many dreams. 

Maternal leanings and acquaintances in a way instills a sense of importance and value on a person. Paternity gives one an identity regardless of anything, your father’s name covers you. Foundations have over the centuries of civilization proven to be an addition to success and societal value to a person. Their name instills a sense of pride and sometimes even shame and disgrace on the lineage and their identity as a person. When a person is valued and loved, it is always evident in their demeanor and outlook. A mother’s love is always unconditional hence the Nigerian pidgin parlance “monkey no fine, but him mama like em”. Mother’s tend to love their children regardless of whatever, the very connection of umbilical cord outweighs any other yardstick the society might place on individuals with regards to success and failure. Sometimes, female children suffer a deprivation if that feminine presence is not present in their life and this causes them to exhibit strange behaviors which are most times seen as anomalies. Research has shown that a daughter’s intelligence is the direct replica of the mother, she contributes almost all percentage in terms of brain power as well as emotional intelligence so that her status in the society places a shade on not just the daughter, but also on the whole family. 

The experience that comes with interacting with people have taught me a lot of things concerning daughters and the aura they exhibit in their environment . Teens and early adults are the perfect examples, at that stage, one’s hormones are raging, some direct it into something productive while some outrightly exhibit stubbornness and hard headedness. Intelligent mothers are a fortification of some sort, an umbrella to protect and cover. It is often said that if your mother loves you, then by extension the world loves you and anything that is otherwise to that love could provoke a negative image on the son or daughter. The complexities of human nature is somewhat unexplainable, but as mammals , the nature of our specie have caused us to be protective and guard our offspring. Sometimes, mother’s might loose every sense of sanity and their emotions might become overwhelming because of an offspring, this is applicable to animals as well. 

Let’s discuss how an unintelligent mother, not in the sense of formal education, but in the sense of maternal deprivation, an absence of a feminine figure can affect the life of an offspring: 

Offsprings are often connected to their mother, it is deeply believed that the umbilical cord connects the offspring and it’s mother in ways that nature never would, if the mother doesn’t eat, the offspring doesn’t eat as well, so it’s dependence rests on its mother. When the offspring is finally disconnected from it’s mother (birth), it’s connection with the mother become the very fabric of existence so that it is always drawn to its carrier. The absence of that carrier in their life after the disconnection could spark a sort of rebellion.

Conclusion 

Intelligent mothers complement their offspring in almost in an impeccable way, a professor who sees beyond just the offspring but also its potential tend to improve its life span and thereby reduce its mortality rate. It is in the hands of the carrier to improve its offspring. 

A Bright, Shiny New Love

Elaine was Tim’s new girlfriend, unofficially, but one would never know it, from the remote way in which they interacted. At first just best buds, they had taken to hanging out together after school, with no romantic overtures. Elaine, however, a new student this year, was determined to correct that trajectory. She began by telling all her friends that the two of them were an item, and that she “had dibs” on Tim. Tim, however, apparently hadn’t gotten the memo, and remained strangely unaffected. The only time he would even touch the girl was when he tickled her. Elaine was perplexed; at sixteen — the same age as Tim — she had had boyfriends before, and none of them behaved as Tim did. He’d never even tried to kiss her! Was there something wrong with her? she wondered. She lifted her arm and sniffed. She was a few pounds overweight, but others told her she was cute, and she’d never had any difficulties before. Could the problem, then, be with him? She wondered: had he ever actually kissed a girl before? Elaine had dated guys at her old high school, in Reller, before her family moved to this school district, earlier this year. She was used to dealing with a faster crowd, but she really liked this guy. She blew out a breath and shook her head in perplexity. She knew that there were boys who’d never kissed a girl before. That was the case with every boy, she rationalized, until they just did it. She would have to teach him to kiss, she decided with a sigh. But, it could be fun.

. . . . .

That evening Elaine and Tim went to see a movie and Elaine placed her arm over Tim’s on the armrest, tried to snuggle a little. Their flesh was hot where they touched

“Oh, sorry,” spluttered Tim, moving his arm. Elaine rolled her eyes.

After the movie, they drifted to Tim’s car. Elaine stood against the driver’s side door and waited. She had a purpose in mind. 

“I’d better get you home,” said Tim, trying to reach around the girl. She didn’t move, but eased in close to him and tilted back her pretty head, mouth slightly open. She waited exoectantly. What did this boy need, a road map?

“Why does she keep getting so close?” wondered Tim, still without a clue. In the back of his mind was the notion that she wanted to be kissed, but the idea terrified him. The only females he’d ever kissed were family members and that hadn’t been any fun. But he was interested in making out with Elaine; he just didn’t know how to go about it. Confronted again by the persistent Elaine’s proximity, Tim did what he usually did to relieve the sexual tension: he tickled her. Squealing, she moved aside, but as he unlocked the door, she moved in quickly, wrapped her hands around his neck and planted a kiss on his lips. He seemed shocked, but almost immediately began kissing her back. He was a fast learner, thought Elaine with satisfaction. That was easy, Tim told himself excitedly. These Reller girls, he thought giddily, are hot!

It was a similar experience, weeks later, the first time they had sex. Closeted in Tim’s car, they necked and Tim rapidly circled the bases, but his car was just too darn small to allow love-making. And agan, he was steeped in ignorance; what if he did the wrong thing? By this time, she had trained him in practical use of the tongue. He took to it like a natural. This project was progressing well, thought Elaine. Soon, all Tim wanted to do was make out, and his appetites, like Elaine’s, were proceeding apace. They were groping one another with increasingly sensitive, probing fingers. If only they could glean some privacy.

Once again, it was she who had to act. After considerable frustration and scheming, Elaine enlisted the aid of her older sister, Marsha, who agreed to allow the pair the use of her bedroom in the apartment she shared with two other girls.

“I’ve got a surprise,” Elaine told Tim temptingly one night.

“Another one?” he blurted. Things were progressing so fast that his mind was awhirl. What next, did she want to drop some acid? he wondered bleakly.

“I found us a place,” she said cryptically.

“You mean….” Then he stopped. 

“Marsha’s place,” she elaborated. “She and her roommates will be out of the apartment for two hours, on Saturday afternoon.” 

Tim only stared at her. 

Again, Elaine rolled her eyes. “Don’t you wanna get laid?” she asked bluntly.

The light of anticipation glittered in Tim’s eyes.

Saturday afternoon found the erstwhile lovers sitting on Marsha’s twin bed in the bedroom of her apartment. A new artist, Elton John, was playing on the radio. Elaine smiled seductively, but Tim just sat there like a sack of flour. She leaned in and kissed him passionately. Tim’s pulse and breathing accelerated at once.

“Let’s get undressed,” suggested Elaine in a sultry voice.

Mutely, they began disrobing. Elaine wondered furtively if the diet she’d labored under had borne any fruit. She fretted self-consciously. Tim, on the other hand, unaccountably, worried that he wouldn’t get an erection. Which, naturally, he did.

“Um,” purred Elaine, looking asppreciatively at Tim’s naked physique. Noting her comment, he swaggered a bit.

Finally, they collapsed into one another’s arms on the bed. Tim felt like he had a raging fever.

“Come here, baby,” coaxed Elaine, drawing Tim atop her. Moving as if in a dream, Tim slipped inside his lover and came immediately.

“Oops, sorry, Elaine,” he muttered contritely.

“That’s okay,” murmured Elaine lovingly. “We’ve got lots of time.” And they did.

. . . . .

Dinner at Elaine’s house came about as a matter of course; her parents wanted to check out the young scamp that their perfect daughter was spending so much time with.  They had met him, but only briefly, a couple of times when Tim picked her up for a date. The teens had been seeing each other for almost four weeks and their relationship, they thought, had already covered a lot of ground. It had been just three weeks since they first kissed, one week since they’d had sex. Tim sometimes felt like he was just along for the ride. Elaine was talking about buying a lid of pot.

Tim met the father. “When Elaine told me that you never let her pay for anything on your dates,” said the older man, “my opinion of you increased by fifty percent.” Tim smiled happily. “Then again,” continued her father philosophically, “what’s one half of nothing?” He chuckled evilly. Tim’s face fell.

Elaine had two sisters still living at home, both pretty, like her. Tim was fascinated by Sue, just fourteen, but scantily clad in panties and halter top. If his own sister dressed that way, even at home, his parents would clobber her, he thought. Blonde Lois was just a year younger than Elaine, and very sexy indeed. Dinner was a nightmare: Mrs. Foster served everything that Tim hated, but he managed to stuff some of it down his throat, somehow. Interestingly, the family drank wine with their dinner, and that included the children, all underaged. Tim dutifully sipped a glass of red, instantly felt his face balloon with heat. This was his first experience with wine. But, it would not be his last, he decided hedonistically.

“Here, have another glass of wine, Tim,” offered Mona, Elaine’s heavy-set mother, again and again. Tim frowned at her thoughtfully. He wondered if this woman epitomized his girlfriend in thirty years. He shrugged the thought away, drank more wine. George Foster — Elaine’s father — alone didn’t drink wine; he imbibed beer — can aftere can after can of lager.

After the first three glasses of wine, Tim’s appetite began to pick up and he even found himself selecting a second helping of the loathsome butternut squash which had nearly caused him to vomit earlier. Finally, the interminable meal was over and Tim, with six glasses of wine under his belt, fretted that he wasn’t fit to drive. He hiccupped.

“You’ve had a touch too much to drink,” tittered Mona in a drunken voice. “You can stay over; I’ll call your mom, okay, dear?”

Tim nodded. He was having trouble seeing.

A bed was made up for the visitor on the sofa in the living room. Tim collapsed onto the blankets and was almost instantly asleep. According to the clock on the mantle, it was three a.m. when Tim was awakened by a wet feeling on his face. Shaking his head, he withdrew an inch.

“Wha…” he said.

There ensued a high-pitched giggling. Tim opened his eyes and observed several murky shapes drifting through the shadows and doing unspeakable things to his privates. Tim swiftly reached down and removed a small feminine hand, with long, tapered fingers, from his crotch.

“What’re you doing?” he asked in alarm.

“Don’t you have a clue?” asked fourteen-year-old Sue, now completely naked. She giggled again. Another female form — Lois this time — was crawling under the sheets with him.

“What the hell!” declared a familiar but angry voice. Elaine shooed the other girls away, and none-too-gently. “Skanks!” she hissed venomously. The two girls scurried back to their rooms, more laughter trailing in their wake. Tim sat there, stricken, in shock.

“Poor baby,” cooed Elaine, embracing her boyfriend in a much-needed hug, and copping a cheap feel at the same time.

. . . . .

As the school year progressed, Tim and Elaines relationship blossomed; she began murmuring matter-of-factly about marriage. 

Yikes! thought Tim. But, the more he thought about, the better it sounded. He was always more comfortable with the familiar. Besides, his famly just loved Elaine — as did Tim. And he enjoyed having a girlfriend, and being a part of something. But, one day, as Tim waited in his car for Elaine after class, she stood him up. He began to have conniptions. She’d never done this before, and his imagination ran wild; what tragedy might have befallen his one true love? Padding steathily back through the school corridors in search of his girlfriend, Tim abruptly stopped and slunk back around behind the corner. It was Elaine, and she was talking to the school lothario, a jock, the one all the girls called “Mandingo.” They seemed very chummy, Tim thought with annoyance. The girls all talked about Mandingo as a hulking, seething sexual animal. Everyone wanted him, he’d heard. Did Elaine?” he wondered. Mandingo would know how to kiss a girl, he’d know how to get what he wanted. Tim’s cheeks burned, and he hurried back to his car and drove away. For the first time, he began to have doubts about Elaine and the future of their relationship. Tim had talked to a boy who knew the Foster family from when the kids attended their old school, and he’d said that all the Foster girls were “progressive.” Tim had passed this off as envy, but now he reconsidered. His experience at dinner — and afterward — certainly stood out in his mind. Tim filed this all away in the back of his mind.

In trig class the next day, Debbie Hinson, who was easily the homeliest girl in the junior class, had the temerity to ask Tim to the prom. She even offered to pay for his tux and buy the tickets for the after-prom. She seemed rather  desperate, thought Tim. He turned her down as gently as possible, but he couldn’t help but smirk a little, a fact not lost on Debbie. What a preposterous girl, he thought.

What’s the matter with Tim? wondered Elaine at about this same time. He seems so distracted, so uptight. Maybe, she thought, he was checking out other girls. He was an attractive boy; other girls would want to date him, kiss him, use him up. That’s just the way people were, she told herself. He’d really shaped up under her tutelage but, she thought jealously, here he was, running out on her. He’d probably break up with her on the eve of the prom and disappoint her, humiliate her; what a rotten shit he was. Elaine had had unfortunate experiences before with boys. She would forestall the embarrassment of a break up, by breaking up with him first. That would show him he couldn’t screw with her. And after all she’d done for him!

Tim and Elaine sat in his car at the drive-in movie on Saturday night, unaware that this would be their final date. They were both brooding. “I want to talk to you, Tim,” she began during the ad for the concession stand.

“Shoot,” he said, nibbling on a hot pickle-on-a-stick. He had ultimately convinced himself that his doubts about his girlfriend were all unfounded, mere products of his own imagination. So what if they hadn’t made love in nearly a month? Things would take care of themselves.

“I think we should see other people,” she said tentatively.
“Other people?” he repeated. “You mean, date other people, kiss other people, make love with other people?” he asked, eyes wide.

“I’m only thinking of you,” she went on disingenously. “You’ve never dated other girls, kissed them, made love to them. What if there’s someone out there who is your soul mate?”

“But, you’re my soul mate, Elaine,” he answered. “I love you,” he declared. “Don’t you love me anymore?” he asked in a plaintive voice. For a moment, Elaine almost lost her resolve, but then she regrouped.

“I like you, Tim — a lot,” she said, confirming his worst fears. “Let’s stay friends, alright? Maybe we’ll get back together later, after we’ve had other experiences, you know? I mean, we’re only sixteen, and there’s a whole big world out there…” Tim knew this was the death knell. For the past school year, it had always been “I love you,” and not once “I like you.” Suddenly he felt cold. Then he grew enraged and hurt.

“I loved you,” he told her, “but you are a total bitch.” She erupted with a torrent of protests, but Tim tuned her out, tossed his uneaten pickle-on-a- stick out his window, and set the speaker back in its perch. Starting the car, he pulled slowly through the lot and exited the fenced-in theater property. When he pulled into Elaine’s driveway, neither of them said a word. The sound of her door opening seemed preternaturally loud, and she slammed it loudly and then walked swiftly across her lawn and let herself into the house. At the tender age of sixteen, Tim had suffered his first abandonment, his first real humiliation, his first broken heart. 

Elaine attended the prom with Mandingo, the final insult. They were, Tim learned, voted “Most Attractive Couple.” Tim conjured in his brain the things that the other boy would be doing to Tim’s girl after the prom. His cheeks burned. As for Tim, he found that all presentable girls had by this time been spoken for and he had no date for the prom. Then he remembered. Approaching Debbie Hinson, he asked her if her offer was still open. And he would rent his own tux, he added magnanimously, trying to sweeten the deal. Debbie curled the lip on her homely face and told him to make love to himself. And, skipping the prom and staying home alone that night, he eventually did just that.

Hotel Ice Machine

The hallway

goes quiet

between

the sound

of falling ice.

Library Return Slot

Books disappear

through a metal mouth

without saying

whether

they were loved.

Parking Garage

Every floor

looks enough

like the last

to make me wonder

if the car

is moving

or I am.

Waiting

The microwave

counts down

more slowly

than the clock

on the wall.

Lost and Found

A single glove,

reading glasses,

one house key.

The beginning

of three different stories.

Travis Park is a poet from Indiana whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in Modern Haiku, Presence, Ribbons, Wales Haiku Journal, Leaf Journal, Haikuniverse, and elsewhere.

APPARITIONS 

 Jernail S. Anand 

Man’s limitations are his 

Greatest strength 

And they make our lives 

Beautiful and worthy 

Knowing more than we should 

And doing more than humanly possible 

Is entering the weird zone

Of the supernatural 

AI which enhances our powers 

And disregards all controls 

Is a dangerous equipment 

For mankind 

I don’t want to know more than 

Is needed 

Nor hear more than I should, 

I love my limits 

I don’t want to leave 

The human realms and enter 

The super powered zones

Of Artificial Wisdom

Outgrowing out selves 

Is acquiring demonic powers 

Can we drop our humanity

And become apparitions?