Job’s Children It collapsed on them, and they are dead. —Job 1:19 God let Satan kill Job’s children. Seven sons and three daughters. But it’s all okay because God later gave Job back seven sons and three daughters. Different ones. But the same number. Sometimes Job would take his new ten children to the graves of the old ten children. The boys would stand on the graves of the boys. The girls on the graves of the girls. Job would make them stand in age order. Each had their place by a particular grave. Sometimes when Job wasn’t looking the children would switch places because they were bored because they were disobedient because they wanted to remind each other because they wanted to remind themselves that they were not the same children as the dead children. These in the graves were dead. Those on the graves were alive. When Job caught them at it, he murdered them all. Then he went out and bought new children. Praise God.
Collaborative short story from Bill Tope and Doug Hawley
Full Circle
When I was eight years old and newly installed in the house my parents bought for our family, I received the ultimate answer to my dreams–for that week: nothing less than a Wham-O Wrist Rocket, the final word in slingshots. While today this product is composed of tellurium, whatever that is, and comes equipped with laser sighting mechanisms, the Wrist Rocket of my youth was a relatively simple slingshot, but with a difference. With the old-fashioned Y-shaped devices, you would simply grip it by the handle, aim and fire. But with the Wham-O weapon, it had a special brace, made of “Aircraft Aluminum,” which fitted over your wrist, giving you better leverage and increased firing accuracy. But at eight, I was only dimly aware of all this. All I knew was that they were fun! And now I had one.
Standing in my new back yard, I was on a safari, alert for all the ferocious creatures that stalked the neighborhood. I tried a few shots, one at our new metal garbage can. It struck with terrific impact and made a clattering sound that could have wakened the dead. Too easy. Next I tried a few trees, but they were still too easy, even the skinny ones. What I craved was live prey and there it was, up in the huge sycamore in our front yard. It was late summer and the trees were still clustered with leaves, but I spied a rich target: a gray-black bird with an orange belly, about fifty feet above the ground.
Inserting a rock from our newly graveled driveway, I stretched the rubber back nearly a yard, packing tremendous force into the shot. Then I let it fly, not really aiming but working on instinct. To my surprise–and resultant horror–the stone struck the little bird, shattering his wing. The robin dropped precipitously, thrashing his wings as he fell. He struck the ground on his back. He died instantly.
Eyes wide, I tentatively approached the beautiful creature, beheld his bright orange breast and searched for any sign of life. There was none; the robin was dead. I hurried away, too cowardly even to bury the bird. Other kids regularly preyed on small animals with slingshots, BB guns and the like, but I never had. Until now. I had unwittingly joined the ranks of the “mean kids,” who were marked by their abject cruelty to defenseless animals. And I didn’t like it. The next day it got much worse.
My dad was policing the property, in preparation for mowing the lawn, when he came upon the dead bird. “Someone killed a robin,” he said gravely. He looked at me. “You don’t shoot robins, do you?” he asked. He had a right to ask; I had mercilessly badgered him to buy the wretched Wrist Rocket. I shook my head no. I was never sure if my dad believed me; we never spoke of it again. I had never been aware of any particular feeling on my dad’s part, respecting birds or other creatures. Later I would learn that they had played a part in his growing up in the country, on a farm. And I admired my dad more than any man alive. Which brought home the enormity of what I’d done.
Distraught, I retreated to my bedroom, where I stashed the slingshot in my closet, never to use it again. The next day I threw it out. At supper that night my dad told my mom about neighborhood kids killing birds.
“You shouldn’t kill a robin,” he said simply, and I felt bitterly ashamed. It was the first and only time I lied to my father. A hard, life-changing lesson to learn at just eight years of age.
At this point it would be great to tell you that I became a millionaire and devoted my life to preserving wildlife and saving species from extinction. Not quite. I did well at math in school and ultimately became a college math professor. I settled into academia nicely. With only a few classes to teach and a few additional office hours, I had a lot of free time. After I got married and bought a house, I put up several bird feeders. I also supported the Audubon Society until I heard some negative things about it. After a spate bird-watching, I had to admit it bored me to tears. I reasoned that the best thing was to raise my kids, Sam and Judy, with respect for all life. On this my wife Susan and I agreed.
The kids won’t get any weapons, real or fake, as presents. I’m happy that Sam wants to study to be an environmentalist. Judy is making her old man happy too: she is doing great in her math classes, and wants to be a mathematician like me. On a research grant I used my math skills to work on species preservations. It wasn’t easy because there were so many variables: birthrates, predators, available food, genre ratios and the like, but I’m happy to say we’ve had some success. The Ontario Mouse that was near extinction is now thriving. The Klamath Darter, a small fish, is making a comeback.
I was invited to give a lecture on the subject in Eugene, Oregon, my home town. My speech was going well, but I wondered about a bald guy in the front row who looked familiar. He seemed to hang onto every word, even when I went into boring statistics. After the talk, I cornered him at the post-speech buffet and asked him who he was. He didn’t answer immediately, and then it dawned on me: Mr. Spangler, our neighbor from my neighborhood when I was growing up; I hadn’t seen him for 25 years.
“Is that you, Don?” I asked, stunned.
He admitted that it was and then went on to tell me how proud he was at how I’d turned out. He hesitated a moment and then said he’d had some misgivings about me back in the day. I furrowed my brow and asked him what he meant. Without a word, he turned up a brown paper bag and from it pulled a 30-year-old Whamo Wrist Rocket. He told me he’d seen me shoot the robin all those years ago and watched as I tossed the weapon of death into the trash. He’d saved it, he said, for just such an occasion. “I’m proud of you,” he said solemnly and it warmed my heart that my life had come full circle.
Poetry from Tanner Guiglotto
Self-Doubt
Thoughts may turn against themselves
They wont let me be
Self doubt fills
This endless sea.
This whole scenery
May be a picture
Right in front of me.
When I can look past this
picture of
A false scene
I’ll know that
I am now free
My captor knows that I have fled
And they have set
A trap for me.
When I return
To the woods
Self Doubt lays in wait for me
They’ll rope me up and lead me down
to a grand old tree
With a grand old hanging
Just for me.
Music from Dino Kalyvas, lyrics from Eva Lianou Petropoulou
Poem by Eva Lianou Petropoulou
Song, music, orchestration and production by Dino Kalyvas
Lyrics
«I found you
Because you were hurt
I cherished you
As I felt your pain
I love you and
I cover your wounds
With silver
So, you will shine
You will shine
You will never break again
I will create a bridge for all the hurt people
I will build golden pillars
Nobody will hurt again children or women
As the diamonds
They will shine
We will Rise
And we will be reborn in a future peaceful world»
“The song “Golden bridges” is my next musical step. It is not a large musical play or cycle of songs or arias with many musical innovations, effects, vocal parts, etc., but just a song with a few jazz colors where the piano dominates. However, although just a song, I consider it very important since this is an “anthem” for people with disabilities and special needs. It is also dedicated to all para-athletes.
Reading carefully the poem of dear Mrs. Eva Lianou Petropoulou, you could see the love and warmth that our society must provide for people with disabilities and special needs, and for every other suffering fellow human being. As units of our society, if we want to claim a better world, more justly and more beautiful, if we want to be included in the “Kingdom of Heaven”, we must walk the path of Love and giving to our fellow man. We must carry on our backs the misery and pain of the other people beside us. Also, let’s try with all our strength to have no more wars!”

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ΧΡΥΣΕΣ ΓΕΦΥΡΕΣ – ΔΕΛΤΙΟ ΤΥΠΟΥ
Αγγλικό ποίημα της Εύας Λιανού Πετροπούλου
Ερμηνεία, μουσική, ενορχήστρωση και παραγωγή : Ντίνος Καλύβας
(Στίχοι σε ελεύθερη μετάφραση στα Ελληνικά από τον συνθέτη)
«Σε βρήκα μιας και ήσουν πληγωμένος
Σε φρόντισα μιας κι αισθανόμουν τον πόνο σου
Σε αγαπώ και καλύπτω τις πληγές σου με ασήμι
Έτσι λοιπόν θα λάμψεις
Ναι θα λάμψεις και δεν θα γίνεις κομμάτια ποτέ ξανά
Θα φτιάξω μια χρυσή γέφυρα για κάθε πληγωμένο άνθρωπο
Θα την χτίσω με χρυσά μεγάλα τούβλα
Δεν πρόκειται να πληγωθεί ξανά ποτέ παιδί ή γυναίκα
Κι όπως τα διαμάντια
Όλα θα λάμψουν
Κι εμείς αναστημένοι (πνευματικά και ψυχικά)
Θα ξαναγεννηθούμε σε έναν μελλοντικό ειρηνικό κόσμο»
Οι «χρυσές γέφυρες» αποτελούν το επόμενο μουσικό βήμα μου. Δεν είναι κάποιο ολοκληρωμένο μεγάλο έργο ή κύκλος τραγουδιών ή αριών με πολλές μουσικές καινοτομίες, εφέ, φωνητικά μέρη κλπ, παρά ένα λιτό τραγούδι με λίγες Τζαζ αποχρώσεις όπου κυριαρχεί το πιάνο. Ωστόσο αν και μικρό, το θεωρώ πολύ σημαντικό μιας και το παρόν αποτελεί «ύμνο» για τα άτομα με αναπηρίες και ειδικές ανάγκες.
Είναι επίσης αφιερωμένο στους αθλητές με αναπηρίες.
Πίσω από τους λιγοστούς στίχους της αγαπητής κυρίας Εύας Λιανού Πετροπούλου, αναδύεται η αγάπη και η θαλπωρή που πρέπει να παρέχει η κοινωνία μας σε αυτά τα άτομα αλλά κι όλους τους πονεμένους συνανθρώπους μας.
Αλλά κι εμείς ως μονάδες της κοινωνίας μας, αν θέλουμε να διεκδικήσουμε έναν καλύτερο κόσμο, δικαιότερο κι ομορφότερο, αν θέλουμε να διεκδικήσουμε την «Βασιλεία των Ουρανών» , πρέπει να βαδίσουμε το δρόμο της Αγάπης και της προσφοράς προς τον συνάνθρωπο. Πρέπει να συμμεριστούμε τη δυστυχία και τον πόνο του διπλανού μας .
Επίσης, να προσπαθήσουμε με όλες μας τις δυνάμεις να μην υπάρχουν πια πόλεμοι!
Μετά Τιμής
Ντίνος Καλύβας

Poetry from Priyanka Neogi

He is King
He is king, he admires .
He is adorable,
He is charming like a flower charm,
He is the sweetest evergreen.
He is a rock,
Everything is folk.
Everything is clear,
You are a color.
You are my king,
You are prince,
I love you every moment,
I notice your every movement.
Your look, your dance, your talking,
Your walking,
Everything is attractive to me.
I like your passion,
Your are my hero,
Life is a rainbow.
Short biography: Amb. Dr. Priyanka Neogi from Coochbehar. She is an administrative Controller of United Nations PAF, librarian, CEO of Lio Messi International Property & land Consultancy, international literacy worker, sports & peace promoter, dancer, singer, reciter, live telecaster, writer, editor, researcher, Literary journalist, host, beauty queen, international Co-ordinator of Vijay Mission of Community Welfare Foundation of India.
Poetry from Teresa Nocetti

PILLOW
Accomplice of vehement thoughts.
Burning in moments of passion.
A burning heat that bites at the temples.
Softness that displaces my anxiety.
It muffles a breathed cry.
It returns with texture another relief.
It excuses torrents of hostility.
It reflects visions difficult to find.
And at dawn, sunk
Bearing the weight of so much sorrow.
You rest, ready to receive other hours.
And to give peace: dreaming and dreaming.
Teresa Nocetti was born in Montevideo, capital of the Oriental Republic of Uruguay. She has been a retired teacher for seven years and is a mother and grandmother. She loves to travel, get to know different cultures, read and talk.
Since 2017, she has been a member of the group of international writers “Junto por las Letras,” counting hundreds of participants from different languages to date. In 2018, she published “La visita de Perseo”. She’s published in the anthologies: “Women on the brink of the abyss” (collection), “Vida de Piedra”, “When letters mature”, “A story for a smile” Volume Three, “Uniendo Fronteras” (Bolivia). In 2019 she was awarded a Special Mention from the Outstanding Women in Culture for her cultural trajectory and human values.
As of 2020, her works have been virtual. She continues to participate actively in the Virtual Book Fairs, in the virtual book Immortales, and in all the proposals of the “Juntos por las Letras” Group as Cultural Manager. They will publish her next book: “Sinuous Soul.”
Poetry from Nidia Amelia García

TRAITS OF LIFE
A specific story is found in them.
Wrinkles are scars
Of many disappointments and pain.
They are marks of memories.
Of a difficult moment.
Of a past deeply damaged
By the passage of time.
A scar is a mark
That holds no beauty.
Scars that have the power
of a memory are there.
But they no longer hurt.
They are a reminder of a healing process.
It is the way time finds
to repair every wound that sadness has caused.
Nidia Amelia García, from Buenos Aires, Argentina, is a writer and an active member of Juntos por las Letras (Together for Letters). She has participated in numerous virtual events in Uruguay, Paraguay, Bolivia, Spain, Colombia, Portugal, Nigeria, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, and elsewhere. She has also contributed to literary anthologies such as “Books of the Immortals” and “Anthology of the 50 Poets of the World 2022.”