BAŞ KABÎMÎZDA ON THE COVER Santa Claus Opening the Doors of Science
NAZAR LOOK Attitude and culture magazine of Dobrudja’s Crimean Tatars Tomrîğa Kîrîm Tatarlarîñ turuşmamuriyet meğmuwasî ISSN: 2069-5616 www.nazar-look.com firstname.lastname@example.org Constanta, Romania FOUNDER & EDITOR-IN-CHIEF BAŞ-NAŞIR Taner Murat EDITORS NAŞIRLER Emine Ómer Uyar Polat Jason Stocks COMPUTER GRAPHICS SAYAR SÎZGAĞÎSÎ Elif Abdul Hakaan Kalila (Hakan Calila) CREATIVE CONSULTANTS ESER KEÑEŞÇÍSÍ M. Islamov
Copyright reverts back to contributors upon publication. The full issue is available for viewing online from the Nazar - Look website. For submission guidelines and further information, please stop by www.nazar-look.com
2 taner murat scythia minor-liitle crimea Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XII) 4 jude conlee california, usa How Can I Be Such a Liar? Bo kadar yalanğî ka-típ te bolîrman? 6 phyllis j. burton england, uk Interview 11 dr. mig eskişekir, turkey The Last Goodbye - Soñ sawlîkmankal 12 christopher hivner pennsylvania, usa Getting an Early Start on My Messianic Complex Peygamberlík múrekkeplígímden temel fikirlerím Detonation The Age of Dissemination The Delegation Traveled with a Chief 16 fieldshop puducherry, india Blue on Lake Tahoe 20 phillip larrea california, usa Spitting Nails - Tîrnak túkúrúşí The Bartender Lord’s Player No Team In I Bank Owned 24 kevin marshall chopson tennessee, usa Falling Man - Tîgîrîp túşken kíşí Earth Oblivious Such Careless Tossing 27 john patrick hill california, usa Our dreams are dancing upon a wind blustery full of the prayers and sacred thoughts of our ancestors
28 tom sheehan massachusetts, usa New Poem Breathing - Ğañî manzume nefesí Coupled Hermit Island, Maine 30 ute carson texas, usa The Old Should Be Explorers 35 jack peachum virginia, usa The Younger Woman - Taa ğaş bír kîskaayaklî I Am Newtown Bellwether 37 w. jack savage california, usa Veterans at the Post Office 40 hayder islam crimea Photoshop - Nymph Flora Monument, the Nikita Botanic Garden
CONTRIBUTORS MEMBALAR Phyllis J. Burton Ute Carson Kevin Marshall Chopson Noah Emerson Chopson Jude Conlee Denise Delaney Fieldshop John Patrick Hill Christopher Hivner Hayder Islam Phillip Larrea Matthew Lingrin Dr. Mig Mahul Mukherjee W. Jack Savage Jack Peachum Tom Sheehan
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scythia minor - little crimea www.tanermurat.com
Kókten sesler - Temúçin (XII) Kesím 25 Atka mínse aka-kardaş O aralarda, Onan Múren şayîrnîñ yokarsînda íşler yerínde tuwul. Bodonğarnî kuwganday etíp ayîrgandan, Alan Kuwa Anaynîñ mallarîn sáde óz arasînda bólíşse de, úyde kalgan Belgúnútay, Búgúnútay, Bugay Katagîy, Bugatuw Salğî, dórt kardaşnîñ íşí heş ketmiy. Tañdan akşamgaşîk ogîraşalar. Kízmetşí Malik Bayawudaynîñ katîna bírkaş kîzmetşí taa tuttular. Gene ketmiy, gene ketmiy! Kókte kúneş men ay aylana-aylana kete, úy sîptîrîlîp kaldî mî, ne? Ne kadar zahmet şekseler de, bír şiyler şîga bere. Bírlerí ekí bolağagîna azaya bere, şo da. Başta, uzun-uzun, ayazlî, kaşkîrlî kîştan kórdíler. Soñra kuş selíne attîlar. Kîzmetşílerní kaşîratan mî? Endí, taa ne? Bo terslíklerníñ sebepşísí kím? Kím şalîşmay? Kaysî bírsí ogîraşmay? Ána, ğúmlesí ogîraşa da, bírsí mutlak-mutlak yeteğek kadar ogîraşmay, besebellí. Úy kapîsîn ğellerge wurdurtup kapîsîn kaysî bírsí aşîk taşlay bere, şo? Kara-kara bulutlarga úynúñ ógín kím toñkayta bere, şo? Endí, aralarînda añlaşmazlîk şîga başladî. Sebepler kora íşínden kóleke ata, başka yerden kórmemelíler. İdalaşma şagîndalar. Ána, şo şaknîñ ketúwúnde araga tînîk bír akşam da túştí. Hergúnnúñ egeşúwún ğatkîzdîrîp, yemeklerín aşap şîkkan soñ: - Karañîz ne dedím men, kardaşlarîm! Men bo pítmegen kawgalarîmîzdan bugayatîrman. Mínyeríme kadar ğettí. - dep, sózní Belgúnútay akalarî aştî, "Mín-yeríme kadar" degende işaret parmagî man moyînîñ keskendiy etíp, tam sakalnîñ astîndan geşíríp alîp. Aka awuzun aşîp konîşağakta íníler tóbeleşme úşún arka ğaysa da, akanîñ sesí turgun, ğîmşap utangan gibí kaldîlar. - Belgúnútay akamnîñ hakkî bar, be. Bonday ete bersek kár etmez. Herkez aytağagîn aytsîn, makîlîna yaray-yaramay, obírlerí susup tîñlasîn. Bír makaska kel-almasak ta, bariy bírgún buwuşmay raát ğatarmîz. Yarîn de
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túşúnúrmúz. Aydî, bírkaş kún bonî da denep karayîk! Kórmiysíz mí? Başka ğollar kapalî. - dedí Búgúnútay da. - Onday, hakk beremíz. Onday etiyík! Óbírlerínden karaganşîk, aynaga karaganday, ózímízge de karayîk! - dedíler. Uzun, tînîk, bír ara kírdí. Bírew bírşiy aytmay. - Tamam kardaşlar, hálímíz yaman. dep bóldí Belgúnútay akalarî şo aranî. - Ya, be. - dep, gene sustular. - Bonday bolsa, şo óz hálímízden aşîk-aşîk sóz etíp, şáremízge karayîk! - dedí gene Belgúnútay, bír máállerden. - Aşîk. Aşîk-aşîk konîşmalîmîz. Yoksam, boşîna hawa ğagamîz. - dedíler. - Búgún-yarîn, Bodonğarnîñ ketúwúnden senesí de bolayatîr... - oyîn mîrîldap şîktî Belgúnútay akalarî. Bondan soñra, yawaş-yawaş, bír-bírsíne dertín tógíp, dertler ortagî şîktîlar: - Bodonğar da bolgan bolsa, aramîzda. Mína, kóresíñ mí sen? Belkím o başka túrlí kórír bo íşlerní. Bo gibí zamanlarda oyîndan faydalanîr edík. Aşîk konîşayîk dedíñíz, mína, men Bodonğarnî sagîndîm. dedí Bugatuw Salğî. - Men de. Bíz de. Ne sorap karagan ekenmíz, şondan? Ondan bír ziyan kórmedík, ka-te bízge uşamay ketse? Onîñ ózínlígín katírín bíleğegímízge, bíz onî ayîrîp attîk. Aman da mátúw aka ekenmíz, be. Ínímíz tuwul edí mí? mîrîldadî Belgúnútay man Búgúnútay, utanîp. Mením túşúme kele bere, kardaşîmîz. - aştî Bugay da sîrîn, akasî alarîna. - Onî eñ bek sen sagîngan ekensín. Ínímízní eñ súygen sen ekensín. - dedíler. - Mína, úş-beş pala-pîrt úşún kardaş katírín bílmedik. Bakîrdîk, şakîrdîk, ínímízní ayîrdîk. Şúndí de hesaplarîmîz neşín şîkmaganîn bílmegen kíşí bolamîz. dedí Belgúnútay akalarî. - Ne bolsa bolsîn, beş kardaş arasînda hisse meselesín "Bízge bar, saga yok"-ka ğetkízdírmiyğek
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edík. - bellettí Búgúnútay óz kóríşín. Dertleşme toktamay dewam ettí: - Yaşay eken mí? - Bír yerlerde şíríp ketken m-eken, yoksam? - Kîş bek sert geştí, de. Başî ka-yerge sîysîn? Kaşkîrlardan ka-yakka kaşsîn? - Kayda eken? - Kîştan şîkkan eken mí, bírózí? - Yok, kîştan şîkkanday kîş edí mí? - Kím bílír kaysî yerlerde buzlap, katîp kalgandîr. - Kettí kardaşîmîz, be. Gúnasî bízde kaldî. - Mína, şúndí n-íşler ekenmíz? - Agargan súyeklerín de seller alîp taşîgandîr. - Şúndí keş. Bo kardaş dúşmanlîknî ortadan şîgarîp atağak bolsak ta, eskí kardaşlîgîmîzga kaytağak bolsak ta, keş. Bodonğarîmîz yok. Endí, bek keş. - Bír de yaşasa? Bír yerlerde pîsîp kalgan bolsa? - Ne bíliyím? Ender belkímlí, de. - Kíşíníñ yîkpalîn kaydan bílírsíñ? Tañrî korşalagan bolsa? Bír yerlerge kíríp taldalangan bolsa? Bolmaz mî? - Bolîr, ğanîm. - Ayhay, bolsa. Tañrî yîkpal siyrek ektí, de. Kózge batîp ğíbermiy, de. - Şay diysíñíz fakat insannîñ yîkpalî bellí bolmaz. Tañrî berse, sokîr bolsañ da, súrúnúp tabarsîñ. Kader men oynaysîñ sen. Bugay Katagîy şîktî ortaga: - Aka-kardaş, brakîñîz bonlarnî şúndí. Ólí-tírí, kayday bolsa da onî karamak bízím borîşîmîzdîr. Tuwul mî? Ólísín tapmaganşîk ólí yeríne salîp tutmak hakkîmîz yok. Menden sorasañîz, men bo zor hálímízge şáre kór-almayman, Bodonğarsîz. Ya Bodonğarnî tabağak, yañgîşkanîmîznî aytağak, bízní bagîşlamasîn ístiyğek, hissesíñ kaytarağak, bo beladan kutulağakmîz, ya bo yaman hálímízní taa bek sakawlatağakmîz. Kórmiysíñíz mí? Tañrî sokkanî bellí, de. Ortada, da. Íşímíz heş ketmiy, de. - Árúw, árúw, bek gúzel. Amma ka? Tabarmîz mî? Hakklaşîr mî? Şo hakklaşmaga bír şáre tabîlîr mî? Ózeginge ne aytarmîz? Ána, bolarga túşúnmemíz kerek. -
dedíler, endí Bodonğar man kóríşeğek andan utanîp, sakînîp. - Razî bolsañîz, mína, men şîgîp karamaga başlayîm onî. Zaten hepímíz úyní taşlap ketalmayğakmîz, imkáansîz! Men tabarman onî, sízíñ yeríñízge de ziyade peşman bolganîmîznî aytîp bagîşlanmamîzga ğalbarîrman. Sáde ketúwúme razî bolîñîz. - Ebet, ebet, razîmîz. Sen bar, Bugay! Razîmîz. Eñ ísteklí sensíñ. Bodonğarnî eñ sagîngan sensíñ. Ne konîşağak, ne aytağagîñnî bízden yakşî bílírsíñ. Bíz seníñ kadar beğer-almamîz. Sen kutar bízní, bo hálímízden. Sen tap şo şárení, şîgar bízní bo turumdan ke bek utanamîz. Bo kara zamanlarnîñ íşínden sen şîgarîp kutar bízní! Bíz úyde kalîp úyúmúzní kararmîz. - dep kuwana-kuwana añlaşîp kaldîlar. Ğolga ázírleníp, tañda ğolga şîgağakta, úyde kalayatîrgan úş akasî-ínísí onî ozgarîp: - Sen bílgeníñní yap! Bíz karîşmaymîz. Sen sáde Bodonğarnî tírí tabîp, razî etíp, kaytarîp akel! Her yapkanîña, aytkanîña, razîmîz. Onî bíl. - dedíler. - Bodonğar ínímní tapmayğa kaytmam. Bek sagîndîm. - dedí Bugay Katagîy. - Bíz de, bíz de. Tírí tabîp, razî etíp, kaytarîp akel! Şondan kaberíñ bolsîn ke her yapkanîña, aytkanîña, razîmîz! - dedíler. - Ğolîñ aşîk bolsîn, kórílmiy kalma! - bakîrdîlar artîndan.
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Jude Conlee lives in the U.S. and writes and appreciates speculative fiction, poems, and things that aren't normal. A lot of the "not normal" comes from Conlee's interest in psychological/sociological abnormalities and fields of science that include concepts such as extra dimensions and time travel. Among other things, this person photographs things at inopportune times, plays piano while singing very loudly, and drinks an awful lot of tea.
Photo: Matthew Lingrin 4 Nazar Look
How Can I Be Such a Liar?
Bo kadar yalanğî ka-típ te bolîrman?
Know that I am obviously not dreaming of you and that when I say I will miss everything about you, I also say this of everyone and everything else that has happened so far in my life and that made me feel even remotely happy.
Kaberím bar aşîk-aşîk túşúmde sení kórmegenímden we seníñ herşíyíñní sagînîrman dep aytkanîmda, bonî şúndígeşík hayatîmda bolîp geşken herkez men herşiyíñ hakkînda aytkanîmdan we bo mení az bolsa da kuwandîrganîndan.
And know that I don’t remember ever saying anything to you that couldn’t be about anyone else, and that the word “passion” or even “love” cannot be found in my personal lexicon and I’ll have to use lesser words to describe you. And also – know that I am giving this thought to everyone and everything else, so you’re not special because nothing is special, least of all to me.
Kaberím bar heşbírwakît saga başkasîñ hakkînda bírşiy ayta-almaganîmdan da, "hewes" sózí men "sewda" bírem mením óz sózlígímde tabîlmaganîndan da, sení añlatmak úşún taa az sóz kullanmam kerek bolganîndan da. Bír de şo bar – kaberím bar herkez men herşiyíñ hakkînda bonday etíp túşúngenímní, demek youk eken ayîrîlîgîñ çúnkí heşbírşiy ayîrî tuwuldur, eñ azdan maga kóre.
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phyllis j. burton
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phyllis j. burton
Interview TM: Phyllis do you have a philosophy for how and why you write? Phyllis J. Burton: Yes, I love to write down my thoughts and those of my characters on paper to see how they react with one another: I really care about what happens to them. Every author likes to have their work read and appreciated, but you have to enjoy the process to make it really worthwhile. TM: Whom do you picture as the ideal reader of your work? Phyllis J. Burton: I write about many different things, but they are often slanted towards women and their lives, problems and families. My reader would be someone interested in life itself and especially love. TM: Who are your biggest influences? Phyllis J. Burton: I think my biggest influence has been the many good writers of the books I’ve read throughout my life. My reading list encompasses many different kinds of genre. My first influence however, was reading books written by Jane Austen. So much has been written about her and British TV always portrays her characters so beautifully. Even though her stories were written long ago, the problems people face never really seem to change.
forget their problems and dream…and I do like happy endings. TM: Is there something that you wish readers would ask you about, more often? Phyllis J. Burton: A difficult question to answer, but probably, to hear them say: ‘I really enjoyed that: when is the next one coming out? Or, where can I get your books? TM: Has your work changed much since your early efforts? Phyllis J. Burton: Yes. I used to write little stories for my children and then I moved on to bigger and better things. I attended Creative Writing Classes – a must, as far as I’m concerned – and I learned so much: for instance, how to hook your reader. The first page, or even sentence, is so important. I try to write an attention grabbing first line. TM: What is the worst part about being a writer? Phyllis J. Burton: Can you see my smile? Being interrupted when I’m in full flow, perhaps? I smile because as a woman, I do have other things that I should be doing: the shopping, the washing and the dreaded housework. My husband bless him, is constantly telling me the time! But as I sit in front of my computer, lost in thought, I’m reminded of the old phrase, ’tempus fugit’ and it does. Beyond that, it is a solitary occupation.
TM: What do you hope readers will take away from your work?
TM: Describe your writing routine.
Phyllis J. Burton: We all seem to lead sometimes mundane, often problematic lives. But on the other hand, we can watch problems unfolding on the television or read about them in the newspapers, knowing there is nothing that the average person can do to change things. My hope is that just for a while, my readers can
Phyllis J. Burton: In one word… chaotic. Although the first thing I do when I get up in the morning, is to turn on my computer. I use a computer for my writing, because my brain works much faster than my pen can write and I don’t wish to lose a thing. In between writing (and marketing) during the day, I catch up with
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http://www.phyllisburton.com other things, before racing overworked machine again.
TM: Are you happiest reading or writing? Phyllis J. Burton: This depends upon what I’m reading and why. Some books I’ve read leave me feeling uplifted, happy and yes…envious if it’s really good and well written. Yet others can leave me with feelings of being left hanging and trying to make up an ending that I would like to have experienced. Writing on the other hand means that if I want to be uplifted I can write about the good things in life and as I said before, I do like a happy ending. TM: Have you ever seen yourself as a character in a book? Phyllis J. Burton: I try not to. A writer is always being told to ‘write about what you know’ . And, who knows you, better than yourself? There’s a bit of a dichotomy here. You can’t give too much about yourself away, but your writing can betray you -writers beware. I’m not the bravest person in the world, I have a fear of flying for instance, although I’ve flown to many countries throughout the world). So, I try to be more assertive when describing my characters. I can be the bravest person in the world in my mind, while I am writing. TM: In what way do you think literature has the ability to change the way people live their lives? Phyllis J. Burton: Good literature, I believe, has a very positive influence on people’s lives. Not only does it present the written word – in any language – expertly and properly, but if a reader continually reads good books, then inevitably a better understanding of the world should shine through. Conversely, reading poor literature, could give the reader a different slant on life, making them feel helpless, less optimistic and inward-leaning. Reading should improve your life, not add to its misery.
TM: How do you react to a bad review of one of your works? Phyllis J. Burton: A searching question. I have received one less-than-complimentary review on one of my books – on Amazon. My first feeling was one of indignation. But my second feeling was quite different. People have many diverse expectations, and priorities. So writers shouldn’t expect them to agree with everything you write. Reviewers are as entitled to their opinions as you are to write about yours. TM: Can you talk about your relationship to the arts? Phyllis J. Burton: My relationship with the arts has several facets. I like to think of myself as an artistic kind of person. I’ve had many accolades about my writing, which I enjoy. I am also a trained soprano and sing regularly with a local Music Society. We are performing Handel’s Messiah at the beginning of December. I also enjoy watercolour painting and I designed and painted the cover of my book A PASSING STORM. (See my website: www.phyllisburton.com) So you see the arts are quite important to me. TM: What is the best advice you have been given as a writer? Phyllis J. Burton: The best advice given to me, has been to only write about what you know and make sure that you research any facts properly. After that…edit…edit…and edit again. If you make mistakes, you can be sure that someone will pop up and tell you about them. Yes, it’s hard work, but if your writing is to be enjoyed by your readers, you owe it to yourself and to them. TM: What advice aspiring writers? Phyllis J. Burton:
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The advice I was given
phyllis j. burton
http://www.phyllisburton.com years ago during a Creative Writing Course, still rings true to me. Write about what you know, read a lot, edit a lot, have an astounding first line hook and make sure that your writing contains ‘conflict’, for without it, you really won’t have much of a story. Then employ a copyeditor before sending it out to a publisher. Then good luck! TM: Tell us about ‘Paper Dreams’ and where can readers find your book? Phyllis J. Burton: PAPER DREAMS is a 340page book in the Romantic/Thriller genre. It was published by Matador (Troubador Publishing Ltd.) on 1st December 2011. PAPER DREAMS After the mysterious deaths of her husband, Gerald and their two young sons in 1953, Marjorie Hapsworth-Cole, the elderly owner of old crumbling mansion Epton Hall, is broken-hearted and lives as a virtual recluse, only going out occasionally to buy books, none of which she ever read. Marjorie dies in 2009 without leaving a Will Young librarian, Katie Nicholson is a romantic dreamer and is trying to get over a failed love affair. She works for a local book shop and is sent to Epton Hall to catalogue the vast number of books in the library and the attic. Whilst in the attic, she discovers a letter hidden in one of the books written in 1953: this letter unveils a scandalous secret! The only known heir, nephew Harold Hapsworth-Cole at present living in poverty in Malta, was hoping to inherit Epton Hall’s vast fortune. When he is told by the family solicitor that his aunt has died, he comes back home to England in secret to see the old mansion.
Whilst there, he overhears Katie discussing the existence of the letter on the telephone, steals it from her and leaves her unconscious in the attic, locked in without light, food or water. What this letter contains and who else is keeping information secret, embroils Katie and new boyfriend Stuart Wells, in a story of love, intense hatred, inheritance, greed and Harold’s growing mental instability. When they all meet up in far away Vancouver, there is murder in Harold’s heart… Where can you obtain a copy of PAPER DREAMS ? PAPER DREAMS is available in paper-back and ebook/kindle versions from: My Publisher: Matador (Troubador Publishing Ltd.) Leicester, England. http://www.troubador.co.uk/book_info.as p?bookid=1539 My Website: http://www/phyllisburton.com A m a z o n . c o . u k : h t t p : / / w w w. a m a zo n . c o. u k / Pa p e rD r e a m s - P h y l l i s - J Burton/dp/1848767897/ref=sr_1_1?s=bo oks&ie=UTF8&qid=1353223777&sr=1-1 A m a z o n . c o m : http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_no ss?url=search-alias%3Daps&fieldkeywords=Paper+Dreams++Phyllis+Burton The Independent Author network… http://www.independentauthornetwork.c om/phyllis-burton.html Waterstones Bookshops , W.H. Smiths (UK) and Barnes and Noble (US)
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phyllis j. burton
http://www.phyllisburton.com Reviews are available from: Allbook Reviews, (Allbooks Reviews Interview): http://allbooksreview.wordpress.com/2012 /01/17/allbooks-reviews-interview-authormrs-phyllis-j-burton/ My Website (see above) Amazon (see above)
TM: What are you currently working on? Phyllis J. Burton: My first book – A PASSING STORM – was published by Trafford Publishing in 2006. Due to problems once the company had been taken over, I withdrew the title in February 2012. Matador agreed to re-publish the story. I designed and water-colour painted the cover of A PASSING STORM.
I am currently about a third of the way through my third novel, entitled ‘Switching Off’.
“Sarah Wenham has to make the most emotional and difficult decision of her life. Her husband has been in a coma ever since the small aircraft he was travelling in crashed into a mountainside in Switzerland. Tests prove that there is no brain-stem function, so how can she give permission for the machine that is keeping Tom alive, to be turned off?
! s i l l y h l, P
o b w
18th November 2012
“Jennifer Redmond was ready and willing to take the biggest gamble of her life. She runs away to Scotland to find her future…only to come face to face with her past. She desperately tried to cut out the reality of her life, but it was no use: nothing had changed and she doubted if it ever would. Her marriage had been like a fragile cliff that was constantly being hit and ravaged by huge devastating waves, each one destroying a little more of the love that had been its true foundation.” An excerpt from Press Release sent out last week.
A PASSING STORM is now available on Amazon (see above) as a paperback and ebook/Kindle versions, my website (as above) and my Publisher (as above), although the actual re-publication date is not until 1st February 2013.
SWITCHING OFF :
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Dr. Mig usually calls himself the last dreamer, which reflects his point of view on life. He describes his works as expressionist. His works are generally based on intense emotions or rough situations. He writes in both Turkish and English. But at this time he got only one poem published in English, rests of his works are short stories in Turkish. He is a Crimean Tatar born in Eskişehir, Turkey 1988. His father exiled from Bulgaria in 1978 -which his ancestors migrated after being exiled from Crimea- and migrated to Turkey. He has a major in communication science.
The Last Goodbye
Neither sad nor hard; just nostalgic... Sweet aftertaste of hot spice Sweet burn of a friendly shot A quick look into the looking glass
Ne kaárlí, ne kîyîn; sádeğe karípsíregen… Aşşîlîgîñ soñînda tatlîlîk Arkadaş wurmasîñ tatlî ótmesí Ağele aynaga kóz atîp almasî.
A deep breathe just before the start Like an old picture, randomly came out Like an old memory, some friend made remind A brief smoothly glance. A smile.
Şîgîşta bír deren solîş almasî Rast kelgen eskí bír resím gibí Bír arkadaş añdîrgan eskí bír es gibí Bír şalt raát nazar. Bír kúlúmsúrew.
The moment, anger wears out. The moment, just before the kiss. A sweet hesitation, briefly. Then a strong desire
Şo andîr, kîzgînlîk tozganda. Şo andîr, obíşmeden ewel. Tatlî toktamsîraw, kîskadan. Soñra kuwetlí bír ğan ístemesí.
Desire for the nonexistent. Desire for the old. Desire for the new. Desire to make.
Barbolmaganga ğan ístemesí. Kadîmga ğan ístemesí. Ğañîga ğan ístemesí. Kurumga ğan ístemesí.
Irresistable attraction. A give in. Heat of the moment. İnfinite depth Tears of joy.
Karşîturulmaz şegím. Bír góñíl baylamasî. Máálníñ ateşí Soñsîz derenlík Kunak yaşlarî.
A calmly hug. Peace of the chest. Waking up happy. Willingness. Confidence. High hopes.
Raát bír kuşaklaşuw. Kókírek kaársízlígî. Dewletlí ayînuw. Ístek. Gúwenúw. Yúksek umutlar.
A sunny morning in september. With a smooth wind in the afternoon maybe. I said goodbye. Goodbye to you my teasure.
Ewlúlnúñ kúneşlí ertení. Úyleawgansoñ yawaş esken ğelí men, belkí de. Sawlîkmankal ayttîm. Sawlîkman kal saga, hazinem.
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pennsylvania, usa www.chrishivner.com
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pennsylvania, usa www.chrishivner.com
Christopher Hivner lives in a small town, works in a sterile office and wishes someone would pay him to sit on his couch reading books and listening to music. He has been published in Underground Voices, The Cynic Online, Kalkion and Eye on Life. A book of short horror stories, The Spaces between Your Screams, was published in 2008. He can be visited at www.chrishivner.com.
Getting an Early Start on My Messianic Complex
Peygamberlík múrekkeplígímden temel fikirlerím
If I had a compound it would be surrounded by a jungle ruled by man-eating tigers. The password for entrance would be an anagram of the name of my favorite blues singer. Every day we would eat baby back ribs, watch 50s sci-fi movies and listen to Stevie Ray Vaughn. Bottom line, my compound would be cooler than yours.
Bír mahallem bolgan bolsa insan man peslengen ğolparîs idaresínde bír taw man şewúruúwlí bolîr edí. Kíríş anaktar sózí mením eñ súygen blues şarkîğîsîñ almaşlangan atî bolîr edí. Hergún bala kabîrgasî aşap 50-lerníñ hayaliy filmleríne karap Stevie Ray Vaughn'nî sesler edík. Tek sóz men, mením mahallem seníñkísínden yakşî bolîr edí.
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pennsylvania, usa www.chrishivner.com
Detonation I broke her down to her elements, electrons and protons spitting in unison, angry at the separation but I needed to see her apart. Did she still sing lazy rhymes when I pissed her off? Could I still smell her night sweat when we woke tangled in a spider’s web of legs and arms? I’d seen her in flames, I’d seen her in tears, I’d seen her walking the walk, I’d seen her take it well, I’d seen her scary quiet, but if I broke her, let her fall to the ground in pieces, what would I see in her eyes when she looked at me and saw the blood on my hands. I took her apart, molecule by molecule, left her behind, waited. (First published in Dark Chaos, 2011)
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The Age of Dissemination Every opinion must be spoken out loud into a microphone and in front of a camera, recorded for all to hear and bask in its profundity. We must all be subjected to everyone else’s each move and thought and then comment on them so others may comment on our comments and assess our comments so they may comment on them. No one will be spared the banality of anything or anyone, keep no desire to yourself, don’t rob the world of a single breath or bowel movement. If we are to survive we must know all, see all and respond to all.
This is the Age of Dissemination, open your hearts and minds to receive the gifts, prepare for your fame and the backlash it will bring, respond to the attacks, show no humility or understanding, belligerence and vitriol rule the day followed closely by ego and stupidity. This is another Golden Age and we are all the stars we were never meant to be with an audience that can’t tell the difference.
pennsylvania, usa www.chrishivner.com
The Delegation Traveled with a Chief at my door I greet them with pleasure in my voice, uncertainty trailing behind me buying land to settle like Sooners they are all wearing hats brims aflow with feathers, beads and baubles like carnival pitchmen they speak of fireworks and rockets, satire and sonnets, rhyme ‘freedom’ with ‘get you some’ and display photos of other satisfied customer’s dreams soon I am ready to buy, ready to unburden myself but they can’t stop talking so when I join in, the cacophony blurs the moment like morning doubts I want to join, to be one of them and finally have a voice, to wear the costume of success and hide the rest like the bones under my flesh but they ask for it all, thoughts of darkness and light, treasures I buried while sleeping on my pillow of stolen down, and the fusion of my cells they traveled with a chief, one of a long lost tribe, with baleful eyes of coal and skin that loved the sun, he told me I didn’t have a choice without saying a word they welcomed me with handshakes, backslaps, bluster and forays into my convictions, adjustments, adulation, and a song in ¾ time that didn’t have a rhyme but could be bought for a dime so I walked away from my home, lights still on, soup cooking on the stove, a radio playing in another room, those that loved me wondering who had been at the door
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puducherry, india “I am not feeling scary. I am slowly liking it.”
Blue on Lake Tahoe
His voice became melancholic. “Solitude?” “Yeah”
The road ran serpentine into the woods winding and never ending along the lap of the mountain range, between the high rise and the deep canyon, the thick forest of pines and cypress trees or sequoia, growing heights through scores of years into the ethereal spheres, awesome, an amazing landscape still beyond the man’s conquest. Could it be a geological evolution of the millenniums through the history of formation? “What a place?” The old man quizzed. He was trying to identify into the loneliness of the forest. “Yeah” She replied, driving steadfast. “How could not man?” He spoke aside. She was silent for an answer. He liked the silence. A deep silence of solitude. Immured in loneliness. He could not think for a while. The mind stood blank. The eyes were at the trees where only trees and a deep dark solitude within. “Has anyone treaded these thick forests? What could be the feeling to trek in this solitude?” The old mind spoke aside. For once, he liked to walk inside, through the trees around. Far from the madness of a life survived. She might have got a sense of the feeling. “Why think so scary?”
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“Is that still your ego?” “My ego is not alive today. Dead and frozen long back.” “I don’t think. Why feel so?” He didn’t reply further. He liked the silence. The car sped past. Trees and the long road winding up the hills. And then down and then up. If the car slides down to the canyon or up to the hills amidst trees, it takes to the end. The end of a life to the start of another life in some other being. The life in the body once would have to break down to the molecules. He looked at her. Immature, he perceived. The young are so. The spirit of mirthful youth. The spirit of the young ego. Is she drifting away from the lap and kidding around to keep far for the aging wishes? For a time he felt a demonic splash of loneliness battering the imagination out. He saw the end of the lake down below. The deep canyon. The water reflected blue. Kept below the profundity unreachable. Walking down he sat on the pebbled shore. Extended the legs into the water. Cold water. Cold blue. Felt to the bone. Melted snow. She was walking around, picking up and throwing the pebbles into the water. The ripples waded over
puducherry, india the surface. And merged into the water.
The lake lay vast, deep and clear. The pebbles were seen below the blue water. The sand pebbles rolling for centuries gathering no moss. He picked up one or two and pocketed. To remember. Otherwise this day would immerse in the blue of the mind and down to the dark unconscious. Is it that you should keep your keep your heart on the pebbles alone?
She had retreated for her music. The others also joined. Other families. Sitting around gossiping, and cooking amidst.
“It is very deep in the middle.” She opened her knowledge. “How deep?” “So deep” she shrugged her shoulders negatively. “Have you seen the depth?” His voice was ironical. “It is just deep blue!” She replied through the corner of the eye. “I feel blued in the deep dark.” Back in the cabin, on the road going up, amidst the tall pine trees, he preferred to sit outside in the wooden patio. The sky was open above the tree tops. “The bears would come and be beware. Better come inside.” “No bears can touch me. Bears like only honey. They go after beehives.” “Snakes?” He looked up. What would the snake do to an old man? The trees grow and stand alone. Though the trees are so near, they are far away and on
The moon had come up in the east skyline. Full moon. Moon light fell on the earth below through the tree tops. The lengthening shadows of the tall trees falling on the bare earth in between the trees. The mountain cliff far shone in the moonlight. He looked sharp at length. Is there any bear lurching behind the shades or in the small open on the rocky cliff? He imagined of the bear on the mountain slopes hunting for honey combs. There on the rocky slope beside the cliff he saw the bear standing all alone in the solitude beneath the full moon. The black bear. Solitary. He felt it a pleasant time. Watching the bear. Alone. Inside the hum and music went on with others. What was on the mind? He saw her dancing in the floor room. Music played. Exalted feelings of the teen mind. The children bursting out in laughter. What was on her mind? He felt the exalted ego. The solitude gave bliss and the feeling. Why do I like it? Not to have been questioned or answered. Donna. Have you gained anything all through the
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puducherry, india life gone through, experienced? Perhaps not. Tell so myself only. These were experiences of which nothing has been learned out. Just passed through. Futile he thought. Nothing further to be expected. A small drop like a virga, evaporating before the gains come true. His ego was now nothing known to him as before. It came from deep within. From the depths like of the lake. For some time he felt the depth his own. The blue deep. But it might be dark down under. Blackening the blue. The dark blackens. The colors are only for the light. Nothing can be under stood in the dark. She came out to the patio. “What do you
She felt it a hilarious remark. Is she to be more educated? The life would. She would be thankful to the life, perhaps when the time comes. Let her not repent at any time? Why do you laugh? I am like the old bark of the pine tree. Worn out by lichens. Up there the new grow in all blood and warmth. One day it will also ripen and the bark break dry, wither and die. But still giving the water and the nutrients through the phloem to the tree. The old is from the new, the new becomes old and the old becomes new, the generations only change and concepts differ. “You are growing crazy.” man? A passing remark.
A crazy old
May be. But I have found something of the life. The experiences taught me. You never had experiences of the life. An easy life but with no gains.
“What gain? “ “Anything. But not now.”
“No gain for you but for everyone you can
“What are you going to do?”
“I am examining my whole life. “
“I care my life only! I can’t be as what you say. I don’t understand you at all.”
“How much time would you take?” “Till the life’s end. I desire to sit in these woods for a life of penance and meditation. I am going far from being a trickster of the petty chronicles of life.” “Would you be enlightened?” sarcastic or at least he felt so.
The bear. In search of beehives! She will bear her fruits and live for herself. Why should I bother? But you ought to have!
It is only a concept. Nobody can be enlightened. The gnana gives intuition. In the sixth sense. It is beyond human only to be imagined.
Ought to have what? Not to be replied. He left the question with her. For a moment he felt a streak of
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puducherry, india helplessness in the mind.
He looked back for a final look; the bear was not to be seen.
The understanding is immature. Am I or she?
It might have crept into the cave for hibernation.
Something is hurt with in the depths of the mind. What a fool am I? The question should never have been asked. It will reflect in her mind after years or decades. Principles. Principles assimilated. And have faith.
Back in the bed he dreamt of the black bear. In the morning, speeding past the pine trees and the blue Lake Tahoe down below, he felt he had learned nothing of life, and everything was a story past.
The blood is now flowing to abnormal flights of fancy.
Within the bag he felt the pebbles from the shores of the Lake Tahoe. Soft and hard, could not be broken, like the blue depths of Lake Tahoe, as the mind tamed through the past.
Night has blanketed the earth. The pine trees propped up the sky hiding all. The moon is setting.
A past betrayed, present immobile, future withdrawn.
Did I sit here so long?
He repented for a while. He desired to be with the bear in the cave hibernating.
She looked through the sliding door. “You are not sleeping?”
He thought of a desire to be fulfilled. “Would you sing a song for me?” “Now? What time is it, do you know?” “One last song?” “I cannot. Go and sleep. We have to move in the morning.” She went back. He stood up and slowly walked inside. From behind, far on the mountain slope, he suddenly heard the bear howling, carried down by the autumn winds.
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Photo: Denise Delaney
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Phillip Larrea enjoys working with poetic forms-and then breaking the rules just a little. He has created an original short form he calls 'tricubes'. These poems consist of 3 stanzas, 3 lines per stanza and 3 syllables per line. Cubed, in the mathematical sense.
Spitting nails. Crying, “Foul!” Street protests.
Tîrnak túkúrúşí Bakîrîp "Delí!" Sokak isiyanlarî.
What they stole, they sell back. And we buy.
Kîrslagan şiylerín, satîp kaytaralar. Bíz de satîp alamîz.
Tell the truth. You did too. Didn’t you?
Torasîn ayt. Sen de yaptîñ, Tuwul mî?
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Lord’s Player* The Bartender
Often times, I am stuck sitting For hours and hours on end In between meetings On which the day’s success depends.
“Gin and tonic please,” He says to me. Though I know it well By his dollars that flutter Like fallen leaves to my gutter, That trough we ‘tenders call ‘the well’.
Some odd spot, no amenities. Maybe a coffee In a parking lot Descending to serenity.
This glass before me like his brain. Ice cubes the cells that remain With gaps good Gordon fills. Tonic that whispers and bubbles; Jokes making light of his troublesWhile I keep and eye on his bills.
This ridiculous pilgrimage Not between temples dark. More like an amusement park where Madcap harlequins pillage plots. She asks, “How did it go today?” “Oh, fine… bad… okay.” The best part, I can’t really say, Was spent in the Lord’s field- at play. *from the title “At Play in the Fields of the Lord”- Peter Mathiessen
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No Team In I I was on a team once. We had uniforms. We had equipment. We sure as heck kept score. We didn’t like each other much. The best player whined a lot. The consistent ones fumed. And damn those who saved their best for last. We won most of the time. May I say, none too graciously. We behaved despicably in defeat. We had what is known as ‘team chemistry’.
Bank Owned Seize my home? Sell me short? Foreclosure. Two bedrooms, one bathroom. And a dog. Property is bank-owned. Always was.
I wasn’t happy then but, I love my trophy now. I savor my immutable victory and gloat. There is no team in I.
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kevin marshall chopson
Photo: Noah Emerson Chopson
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kevin marshall chopson
Kevin Marshall Chopson received his MFA from Murray State University in Kentucky and is a recent Pushcart Prize nominee. His work is published or forthcoming in the Aurorean, The Baltimore Review, Birmingham Arts Journal, The Broad River Review, Chiron Review, Concho River Review, Incandescent, I-70 Review, Nashville Arts Magazine, New Madrid, Poem, Poetry Salzburg Review, REAL: Regarding Arts and Letters, The South Carolina Review, and The Southern Poetry Anthology, among others. He teaches writing at Davidson Academy and serves as an adjunct professor at Volunteer State Community College, both just north of Nashville, Tennessee.
Tîgîrîp túşken kíşí
Set down amidst the clouds, he walked for days.
Yerleşíp bulut arasînda o kúnlerğe ğúrdí.
Like the arctic, white against blue was all he saw.
Uzak sîrt gibí, mawînîñ karşîsînda ak tek kórgení şo edí.
Tiring of the sun, he stepped through a break in the mist.
Kúneşten bugup, tumannîñ bír arasîna Adîm atîp ğol aldî.
This is the moment at which I saw him –
Onî şowakît kórgen edím –
feet first, back drawn straight,
başta ayagî, arkasî tík,
plummeting toward earth.
ğerge tîgîrîp ketkenínde.
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kevin marshall chopson
for J. C. True Your favorite tie lies flat against my chest, walking into days decades beyond its design.
Flat as plates the tulips had folded back their petals, yellow-red like the sun, with stamens like flouted chimneys of pipette volcanoes.
With each breath, each rising thread, it’s 1951 again –
Eruption after eruption of gold dust attached itself to the wings and legs of bees, and the wind.
a budding scientist rows out onto Reelfoot as large yellow blossoms of the flowering bonnets fill the air with nostalgia.
Swaying stems balanced these two exploding worlds above the simple outdoor vase. I drank my coffee there on the deck as you sat across from my sips and note-taking, drawing at the small round table that held the simple outdoor vase.
The tie, worn on office days and Sundays . . . The same nimble fingers drew a perfect knot – fingers sewn from hands that knew the depth of soil.
Silent orbiters we were, mere satellites, recording the story of the tulips.
Such Careless Tossing for Kaiser Wilhelm The leaf, shattered on the seat. Shards of red. Remnants from the crushing blow of books . . . like pieces of stained glass covering the floor of that church in Germany – bombed out by pilots, genuflecting, closing their eyes, sealing the fate of lead and glass and hope, as their hearts sank.
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john patrick hill
Our dreams are dancing upon a wind blustery full of the prayers and sacred thoughts of our ancestors. In my middle youth, there came upon our horizon a solid field of mirror, and a black widow’s belly, face up in the air. It wound its half-moon unto a desert valley with pistachios and a ting-ting bell, where a mountain chain broke death mounts down, down, down to the lake bed at her foot. It was built in an almost completely innocent way and stood high, ready to talk the Astral back into our knowing. It was freedom, it was love, it was a breath far away from the ready-made war for goods and wealth. It was the miracle of history for the children. Solar One was the first large scale alternative power project the United States ever created. It consisted of a high tower atop which a salt cell was heated by a field of mirrors from below, which then heated water to run a generator to produce electricity. It stood in Daggett, California. But, that is all gear talk.
government. It was the end of war. The gaze of Peace. It was the world’s greatest piece of public art ever made. And it was part of our community. Solar One stood as the possible for every community on Earth; safe, clean energy. In any mode at any other installation: wind, solar, geothermal…Solar One held the beginning of a story ready and prayed for by the ancients. It could have stood in anyone’s life, making spirited faces turn to quick smiles. By now, so many styles of structure and machinery art would have been creating the love and nourishments towns and villages need. By now, we’d all be tuning the radios in our electric vehicles. And by now, we’d be working the Earth over at environmental renewal, forests and stuff like that. And by now, Iran and Iraq and the Arab Republic would be more worried about horse races and Israel could be enjoying their peace in parties. And by now, animals near extinction would be learning to live again on open lands just for them. And by now, the ageless prayer for Peace would be active and vibrant in our lives. America, the Indigenous, and the ancients could be recreating Paradise. It was just such a miracle.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Solar_Project John Patrick Hill, Metis Earth Medicine Artist
What the tower and mirrors did to the psyche was make the impossible live. It was beautiful. It was the Louvre… Stonehenge… the Empire State Building. It was the equality of women. It was honesty in
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New Poem Breathing Curry a new poem with a wire brush toss vanity aside when you dare to hit it two or more swipes with the same scrub brush your mother kept the kitchen clean with, drag with a fine tooth comb the kind she sought out nits with when school was overrun the way ant hordes might come yet, fire ants from Brazil’s interior the Amazon bone-dry old wells besieged silence the final architect
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Ğañî manzume nefesí Gañî bír manzume tarap al bír tel purşusî man allegímlíkní bír ğagaga atîp kal ğesaret etíp ekí kere ya fazla purşulaganda anañ aşkanasînda saklagan aynî temízleme purşusî man şo man temízle, sîkî tíşlí bír tarak man o bit taratan taragînday mektep taşîgan zamanlarînda tîpkî kîmîrskalar baskanday amma, Breziliye íşínden ateş kîmîrskalarînday kup-kurî Amazon eskí kuyular, kuşatîlgan sessízlík, soñ mimar.
Coupled The long rope of evening tightened its soft noose. Slack fell away from the barn and sat down in goldenrod field like a Guernsey waiting for hands, tired of heavy suspension. By the window your eyes caught neither star nor firefly, nothing shaken to superlatives, just a small scar of light stolen from the art of darkness itself, just the thinned edge of dream working out of a dim retreat. We always separated this way, as if night was a wedge or wall, final hard divider of the day, a bolt thrown home by pale hand sounding ultimate punctuation; you, dashing into tomorrow before it takes a first breath; me, at our history’s lectern, a professor of yesterdays, calipers in hand, measuring littered wayside and foot paths
Hermit Island, Maine I walked in night’s syrup down a Hermit Island Road, caught between snoring and 3 A.M. loving, waiting for the fish to wake. I felt the heat of stars and sand’s abrasives, the mad interplay of elements thrusting at moccasins and eyes. Ahead, the moon pushed light’s broad blade down through the perfection of trees, a leaf scattered delight, a late moth struggled toward the infinities. I drank my beer, remembering a starfish caught hours before on a burst of rocks, its five fingers searching, as my senses did, for momentary salvation. I realized I had no enemies, I had no hate. I moved out, into, and was alone, with the grace of stars and the abrasives of sand.
bringing us to schismatic twilight. We stood apart, form and matter of arguments, apt deliberations, one part silk and one part burlap. Oh, how we loved the differences, and all shadows’ falling threats.
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The Old Should Be Explorers The night clouds had drifted away and the morning broke silver-gray. Little had disturbed Eva and Mike’s breakfast routine since their retirement from Rosewood High School three years ago. The atmosphere in the kitchen was warm and friendly and the pair sat next to each other like two content cats with their tails entwined. The water kettle whistled until Mike turned it off and poured Eva her first cup of coffee, so strong the spoon threatened to stand up. “I need my jump-start,” she said, her face bent into the vapor of the mug. The coffee aroma was almost too much to bear as it overwhelmed the smell of fresh bagels and an alluring fragrance arising from the marmalade homemade from overripe strawberries. Eva twisted the halves of a bagel apart, handed Mike the bottom half and then began to nibble on a piece of crust from the top half. They chewed calmly while listening in companionable silence to the ten-minute news round-up on the hour. “Joe Schreiber celebrated his 75th birthday by swimming the English Channel.” The information boomed from the radio as if the announcer had performed the feat himself. Mike ran a dreamy hand across his ample stomach, popping out of his shirt, and with a deep and earnest voice, slightly lifted, said what he always said when hearing of amazing adventures, “Old men should be explorers.” “You’ve said that before, “Eva reminded him. “No, T.S. Eliot did.” Mike pushed his chair away from the table and made his way to his study where he spent the next hours thumbing through travel guides, bent over maps and tracing his right index finger along roads and across mountains. He frowned at the volume of information until he found their next destination. A historic spot. Mike had not taught history in vain.
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Eva, a fragile-boned woman who had shrunk and furrowed with age, ambled into her bountiful garden where flowers with round, sunny faces and fat heads and the odor of damp grass gave her daily sustenance. Her garden made her feel alive. Here time did not stand still. Eva used to teach photography, “time-catching” she called it. Even now she sometimes tried to capture the miracles of nature with her camera, an orange black-speckled butterfly flitting like a sunbeam from one blossom to the next or a yellow brown-spotted bug climbing the dizzying heights of a grass blade. As the day declined, Mike and Eva retreated again to their cozy kitchen and talked over the days’ events. That evening Mike shot his long-time companion a quizzical look and let her in on his latest plan. “We’re flying to the Bahamas. Little Exuma, a small island. I found a deal at the Cove Inn. If we stay two weeks they’ll throw in one extra night.” Mike was always finding deals. Mike could read Eva’s reaction by the shape of her eyebrows. If she was pleased she’d draw them up into perfect arches. If she bunched them together caterpillar-style, he was out of luck. Today he got the desired response. Eva not only beautifully arched her eyebrows; she also curled her auburn, silvery-tipped hair around two fingers and said, “Sounds great. When do we go?” *** Mike and Eva were not alone in their travel zeal. Several of their friends, mostly colleagues from Rosewood High, followed the spirit of moving out and away, stepping to the tunes of a new freedom. They took to the highway in their campers with as many possessions as a vehicle could carry, each equipped with self-cleaning ovens, indoor toilets and all kinds of gadgets, connections to the familiar, the habitual, the old routine. To get away from it all while hauling it along. Of course a few friends ventured on a one-time excursion to Europe, hitting all the major capitals in a week. But they rarely dared to dip into a foreign culture, leery of crossing untried borders. It took enough effort to reach over the fence to meet a new neighbor.
www.utecarson.com Mike and Eva and their friends had never lived rudderless lives but now was their chance to row away to foreign shores. They had done well in their jobs, generally succeeded at being good parents, and were valuable community members. As teachers they had witnessed their students’ harrowing journeys from adolescence to maturity. They knew each other, had played in each others’ back yards. But since retirement they shared a feeling of “now what.” Suddenly there was the urge to look to the open road where they could not know what would happen around the next corner. They felt a pull to leave the nest and a longing for the whole wide world. Yet, only the calmer waters of home gave them the security of a safe haven. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t! The years of teaching had created strong bonds and the old friends often partied together. At those occasions they enjoyed the verbal bantering, the cheerful camaraderie and the high spirits that flowed from the bottle. When Mike and Eva told their friends about their latest travel plans, Susie and Jim decided to throw them a party. The smell of charcoal-broiled meat drew Mike and Eva to the open barbecue pit. Jim, who had taught English and was a skinny rod, popped a beer. “Have one. “ He tossed Mike a can. His wife Susie, a foxy former biology teacher in fuchsia-red curls, rushed forward and kissed Eva on the cheek, then the air near her other one. “Lucky you. The Bahamas. That’s where I want to go.” Rita and Russ, gym teachers, were already drinking beer like water, dangling two empty cans with their fingers in the openings. They were nicknamed “the slow pokes.” After retirement they had lapsed into relaxation so thoroughly that they seemed like cattle grazing on one single spot in a wide-open pasture. They needed a lot of prodding just to travel to the next town. Max, a kind, bearded man, was there with his pleasingly plump wife, Mary, who wore billowy, flamboyant clothes to hide her girth. Both had long shelved math and science in favor of the wine rack. Drinking was Max’s chosen pastime, so liquor had little effect on him. Even when he had too much, he
remained as gentle and easygoing as he had been in the classroom. But as Eva always noted, “He sure does leave a strong scent behind.” They were not all as fortunate as Max. “Drink is the downfall of many a nice girl,” the saying goes. Alcohol lowers reason’s guard, and what many conceal when sober, bursts forth after a few drinks. If someone was prone to sentimentality, now tears gushed forth at the sound of a sad song. Someone with a sullen disposition became downtrodden. And quarrels erupted over things that in everyday life would have been ignored. Alcohol didn’t create passions that didn’t exist before but it highlighted weaknesses. Mike got puffy-faced and laughed unrestrainedly at any old joke, his whole body shaking. Lisa, another English teacher, a woman made pretty by smiling, revisited every disappointment and countless losses encountered in her life, after a few glasses of Chardonnay. Her partner Sid, nimble as a monkey on the tennis court, got heavy-boned under the influence and started sniffling when the fun ran dry. Eva didn’t remain stone-cold sober either. She liked the tipsy feeling, a certain lightness but with both feet still on the ground. She was teased by her friends for tippling champagne, as “the lady with expensive tastes.” Mike and Eva’s send-off party was no different from the parties that had gone before. Alcohol kindled and inflamed the emotions. It was several hours into the feasting when Sid sidled up to Eva, poured himself another drink, slurring his woordy words. Then he tottered across the lawn and stumbled over a wicker chair. He caught himself and called back to Eva with a whine, “Give me a hand here. I need some help.” Both Mike and Eva scurried to his aid. They caught Sid under his arms and slung them over their shoulders for balance. Then they pulled him like a piece of driftwood, his feet dragging through the dewy grass, safely inside and onto the living room couch. There he passed out, quietly like falling asleep. As the night darkened Jim and Susie were fairly far gone. A painfully shy man, Jim swayed, watery-eyed. He kept upright with difficulty and
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www.utecarson.com perspired profusely, his shirt wet as if he had taken a dip in the pool. He drooled but quickly licked the corners of his mouth. All the while Susie giggled alot. Eva sauntered over to Jim, feeling a pleasant aloofness. Suddenly, quite awkwardly, Jim grabbed Eva’s left arm and his fingers crawled to her wrist slug-like. His fingers lingered there as if repentant. Then suddenly he released her arm and pinched her butt. Eva winced, “Don’t do that, Jim.” But her rebuff was meek. Maybe tonight the champagne was having a paralyzing effect. Maybe she should not have worn that flimsy blouse Mike had warned her about, “Your nipples poke through the fabric. At least wear a bra.” Eva stood, riveted to the spot. Jim belched and before she could step away brown liquid spewed from his mouth onto her yellow blouse. Jim’s legs dissolved beneath him and he sank to the ground like a sack of laundry. Eva shook herself, her face a disgusted grimace. Susie ran up and knelt down, spreading her arms over her husband like a protective coat. Mike had had enough. He stormed toward Jim and was about to grab him by the scruff of his wet shirt when big Max intervened, “Life is too short for squabbles. Time to head for home.” Thus ended another party with hamburgers left over for the night bugs and flies, empty wine bottles, crushed beer cans and bruised feelings. Delights and demons coiled up together. Why did they drink? They were teachers, law-abiding citizens who would have nothing to do with the consumption of anything illegal. But alcohol was allowed and even its excesses tolerated. Why? They all had witnessed fatalities, students killed on the road, an innocent bystander run over by a drunk driver. They had listened to heartrending stories of abuse, many alcohol related. Still, they continued to drink. “To take the edge of,” Mike once said. “We all need a little escape from reality from time to time.” Mike
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neighborhood as Jim and Susie and had not far to go. Their hosts stayed where they had fallen. Sid was zonked out on the couch and Max offered the remaining group a ride. Mike tried in vain to deter him, “I know you can hold your liquor, but remember?” Max had been stopped several times before by the lenient town cop, not for drunken driving but for signing bawdy songs which echoed from his open car windows through the sleeping streets. “Take it easy, man. Send us a postcard from the Bahamas.” Max tapped his horn twice and drove off, pitching a fit by making the gravel fly. Eva had taken off her soiled top and was washing it in the sink when Mike ambled up from behind and wrapped his around her waist. He buried his face in her neckline and she felt his heated skin and damp hair. She let herself sink backwards against his trusted chest. “Glad we’re leaving tomorrow,” she giggled. With age Eva had become self-conscious. She avoided looking at her naked body which had given her sheer delight in her youthful years. With a mixture of awe and fear she watched her body change, her skin beginning to hang on her bones like rags on a scarecrow. She recalled her toned, willowy figure with nostalgia. Mike had never owned a willowy body and so saw fewer problems in aging. “As long as I can get it up, I’ll be fine,” he assured them both. And without waiting for Eva to dry her hands, he pulled her toward the bedroom, saying, “Old men should be explorers.” Eva remembered when alcohol did not slow down their desire. Now she held Mike’s penis in her waiting palms, wiggling and sound. But when she tried to stroke it into action, it tired and shriveled. Soon it was as small as a goldfish. No jolts of passion traveled through Eva’s body that night. The party had dulled her senses. “We’ll do it before we leave in the morning.” Mike’s voice sounded forcibly upbeat.
www.utecarson.com Lovers of many years, they curled their bodies around each other like two tired cats and the tension went out with the lights. Soon they snored in a hard, dreamless sleep. It happened to all their aging friends, even the young-old. And not just under the influence of alcohol. The spell of decline had been cast and impotence was no longer a well-guarded secret. It was known that Jim and Susie ordered Viagra over the Internet. Max and Mary had long resigned themselves to separate bedrooms. Sid and Lisa were weekend lovers. And Rita and Russ were too lethargic for the joy of sex. Age was sex-friendly to only a few. And alcohol could soften the spine of even the hottest penis. *** The sky did a color-changing trick from velvety purple to glossy pink. Each day Mike and Eva woke up woke up to the heartbeat of the ocean. “Let’s see where the morning takes us,” was their vacation motto. Little Exuma was idyllic. They rented bicycles and rode them to the rugged tip of the island where waves moaned with hopeless abandonment against exposed rocks. Hand-in hand they strolled along an uncluttered, dazzling white beach, and collected shells for their grandchildren. Seagulls flew loops around them and then sailed down, kissing the sea foam with the tips of their wings. On sun-baked afternoons Eva and Mike roared over the swells of the water in a powerboat. They ignored their healthy dietary resolutions and indulged in sumptuous meals in those restaurants with a welcoming atmosphere which cozied up to the sea. And they indulged in long naps, after leisurely lovemaking. Fog rolled onto the island and clouds scuttled across the sun. Lulled by a warm, dancing breeze, Mike and Eva carried two chairs onto the porch of their cabin. A sand dune placed them out of earshot of their neighbors and the roar of the waves muffled everything but the sound of their own voices. They spread provisions from the village store onto a small stone table, a long crusty loaf of bread baked in a clay oven, juicy papayas, a variety of cheeses, and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. After Mike uncorked the wine, they toasted the end of another marvelous day and settled in to watching a veiled sunset. The
crimson disc became glazed over by a golden mist. Slowly the evening air wrapped itself around their bodies, squeezing them into a cozy cocoon. Eva got up and went inside to spread towels over their bed sheet and set their favorite massage oil on the night stand, a balsam of rosemary, the love charm herb. “Making preparations for a special bedtime treat,” she called to Mike. “I’m for that.” Then Eva joined him again and asked for more wine. “Old women should be explorers,” she said with a fetching smile. “Said who?” “Says me.” She unfolded a piece of tinfoil revealing two bluish-white pills. The pill faces were inscribed with butterfly logos. “What’s that?” Mike’s voice came from deep within his throat, a funeral tone. “Ecstasy.” “Are you crazy?” Mike yelled. “Remember Whitney Houston?” “She was arrested because she’s a celebrity. I’m not celebrity.” “And I don’t have the money to bail you out.” “Just an idea. Don’t get all riled up.” Mike rubbed his eyes and coughed twice. “Where did you get these?” “My physical therapist. Try them, you’ll like them, she said.” “You trust her?” “I did my own research. But Liza uses X with rape victims.” “Rape victims!” “Or the old and decrepit.” “The old and decrepit. Have mercy!” “You don’t have to take one.” “We have fun…always have fun…without shit like this.” “I want to explore…shit like this. You can just
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www.utecarson.com stand guard. I’ll go ahead.” “The hell you will. Not without me.” That night woke them to another world. A feathery, mild-mannered rain muffled the air and its wetness deepened the tone of all things. The moonlight, just a splinter like a night candle, submerged the inside of the cabin in bronze-colored mystery. The light bulbs on the night stands shone like little, unnatural suns. Mike and Eva placed the pills on their tongues and daintily swallowed as if chewing might spoil the effect. They sprawled naked on the bed for maybe twenty minutes before adrenaline shot into their fingertips and toes and a fire raced through their veins. The light stroked across their skin lightly like scraps of lace. Their breath, sweetened with wine, mingled and their hands moved gently over each other as the pounding of their hearts filled their ears. They felt weightless, on upwards winds. Eva trembled as Mike’s hot-red fingers began to knead her dewy body. Mike’s face was flushed as if with fever, and sweat pored from him and mixed with the oil he began to put on them both. They slithered in and over each other with the smooth grace of snakes. Several times Mike reached for the water glass. But Eva chilled and snuggled into Mike’s warmth, unable to wrest her hands from him. Endlessly their tongues crawled along familiar places, dipping into crevices, hollows and indentations, marking territory in the bend of a knee, the tender elbow curve, legs spread in delight. Desire brimmed in their glassy, oddly dilated eyes, dark as blackberries. With pupils wide open, the whites around the irises glowed. They stared at each other with such rapture. It was if they were seeing each other for the first time. Their bodies were singing with ecstasy as if life itself flowed through their veins. Mike and Eva were overtaken by this passion that blossomed like a crocus in the winter of their lives. They never reached orgasm. But it didn’t matter. Their minds opened like window shades and they were attuned to each others’ emotions, constantly asking, “Does this feel good?” “Or that?” Mike sighed with contentment and Eva
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purred like a happy cat. They were keenly aware of each other, yet they were both afloat. Not out of control---they could have reached for the phone, done what was necessary. But all hostility toward the world was gone; an oceanic feeling united them with everything and everyone. Time was an accordion. What seemed like five minutes was actually five hours. The door of the cabin gaped into an endless night and the waves crashed on shore like Wagnerian music. What had brought them here was a longing for a perfect moment. It was granted. Mike did not hallucinate, but Eva did. She gazed at objects and wondered, “Am I swinging from the ceiling?” “You are in my arms. It’s the fan moving,” was Mike’s reassuring reply. Mike also couldn’t see the purple birds flying out of the tapestry behind the bed. And when Eva cooed, “These birds are juicy grapes…plump to bursting, “ Mike gripped her earlobes with his teeth and nibbled on them as if they were grapes, all the while shaking with laughter. The next morning on Little Exuma, light nudged Eva and Mike awake and rays from the amber crown of a rising sun drew them from their bed and sent them running to the beach. The wet sand sucked at their feet as they stepped into the waves and waded in. The water rose above their waists, tickling their navels. They squealed with delight like little children and didn’t need to be reminded that the Old CAN be explorers. ***
The Younger Woman You were younger, yes, but we were well-matched. Shall I confess? I was in love with you even then– yearned for hot sweaty sex, motel-room afternoons! Now, suddenly– somehow– I’m grown too old for you, troubled by deafness, failing eyesight, E.D.– the years bruise themselves against my sides, go spinning away into yesterday– all wearing the faces of old men.
Taa ğaş bír kîskaayaklî Sen menden taa ğaş edíñ, ebet, ama bíz ekewmíz uyuşkan edík. Torasîn aytayîm mî? O zamanlardan berítlí sewdalîman saga súyúşmege ğan atkandan, motel odalarînda úyleawgansoñ. Şúndí, bírden – bír túrlí – seníñ katîñda bek kart kaldîm, sagîrlîk şegíşíp, sokîrlaşîp, múyúzsúzleníp – ekí yagîmdan yaşlarîm sîgîştîra, tínewúníme órílíp alayîsî da kart bír kíşíníñ yúzún alîp.
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I Am Newtown (Dec. 14, 2012) I am the gun– I am the weapon of choice– spitting bullets into the faces of children, tearing open kidney and lung. I am the clip that holds me, I am fire and smoke and noise. I am explosion in the chamber, the weeping parent, the mother’s open arms, a father’s heart that breaks but does not fail. I am the betrayed mother, the bloodied corpse in the bed– on my ruined head are children’s prayers, above me are lullabies. I am the shooter betraying all, in me is innocence and murder – at my feet blood flows– at my side are games of childhood. I am the funeral oration, the song that does not sing but weeps.
Bellwether Happiness is the absence of pain.– Epicurus A morning without pain forecasts a good day. Agony of the flesh goes into hiding– disguises itself beneath the ribs, behind the lungs. Heart finds promise in small events– muscles stretch, bones creak awake, body renews itself– in the afternoon hope is almost reborn. But the night still holds terrors – the waking suddenly to know– death’s in the room– and a hurt that goes to the quick of the human soul.
I am a child’s tiny casket adorned with flowers, dropping downward, downward.. I am the American dreamer hearing gunfire in the night, awaking to morning, finding only more darkness, and waiting for the saddest future.
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w. jack savage
Veterans at the Post Office Carl felt stiffer than usual that Thursday morning but there was nothing wrong with his sense of wonder. As he carefully negotiated the two steps down into the main lobby of the post office and took his place fourteen customers back in line, he quickly processed that while he couldn’t exactly remember, he was pretty sure there were no lines at the post office in the old days: certainly not on a Thursday morning in May. In recent years, Carl had aged noticeably but even so, still felt somewhat self-conscious about his thinning hair. With a good shampoo and a little work with the hair dryer you really couldn’t tell but that morning he’d finished up a story and was in a hurry to get it mailed and so he put on a baseball cap instead. He held onto his four Manila envelopes with corresponding envelopes folded in half and partially sticking out. There were four places for postal workers to assist customers but only two were ever manned. He knew if he got the little Asian girl at the counter everything would be fine. She knew what he wanted: four stamps to mail each package and then exactly the same postage to put on the inside envelopes to achieve ‘Self Addressed Stamped Envelope’ status for their return. Then, after putting them all on and sealing each with the return envelopes inside, the biggest part of his day would be over. “Excuse me?” a young woman in her twenties said behind him. He turned and looked and smiled, now sure it was he that she was addressing. She was a sort plain looking girl with a very nice posture, he thought. “Yes?”
“Were you with the 1st Cav?” Carl seemed confused as to how this young woman or even why she should care if an old guy like him was in the 1st Cavalry Division?” “Why yes,” he said with a nod and a smile. Then it hit him. He was wearing the 1st Cav hat his niece had bought for him somewhere. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize I had a hat on. I wondered how you knew.” “I was in the 1st Cav too,” she said, as they both shuffled up another spot in the line. “I see,” he said. “Uh, and where did you serve?” “Well, I would have served in Iraq,” she said, “but a week before my unit left Germany I was in a car accident. They sent me home after that.” That’s ah,” he began, “I mean I’m sorry about your accident but it’s kind of strange. The same sort of thing happened to me; although, I was already in Vietnam when it happened. It ended my time in country and in the service. Just a stupid accident.” Carl shook his head and said, “I wonder, did you kind of feel cheated that you didn’t get a chance to go over?” She smiled and said, “At first I did, yeah. But in the end I guess I was lucky. Several members of my company were killed the first week” “I suppose you know we lost our colors in Korea and they started the division back up for Vietnam. I was with the 1st of the 8th.” She nodded. “I guess, I got cheated out of seeing action too: not unlike you. I saw some before, before the accident.”
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w. jack savage
california, usa wjacksavage.com
They shuffled up a few more places and she said “What happened?’ she asked. “If you don’t mind my asking?” “We were walking down the road that led to the helicopters to take us out to the field. It had rained the night before and it was real muddy so we were kind of walking close to the edge where it was dryer. There were some guys digging out the ditch alongside the road. I guess one of them swung his pick back and hit my head. I woke up in Japan and they said my skull was fractured and that I was going home.” They both smiled at each other and nodded. “At first I felt like, if I was gonna get hurt that bad, it should have been in combat, ya know? But so many guys got killed, some later that day, that I guess I was lucky.” Now only four people were ahead of them. “Women didn’t serve in those days did they?” she said. “Sure they did, mostly nurses but a lot of other stuff. They were WAC’s, you know. I used to see them training at Fort Gordon, Georgia where I took my AIT. I don’t know how you do it today, living in the same barracks. I just can’t imagine it.” She nodded and said, “It’s different.” “It’s just guys, ya know? Some guys turn into complete idiots around women, especially at that age.” “It goes both ways, actually,” she said. “It’s tough sometimes.” Now with only one customer ahead of them, Carl extended his hand and said. “Carl Gundrum.” “Jackie Kittles,” she said shaking his hand.
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“Can I help the next customer?” said the little Asian woman postal worker. After getting all his postage and affixing it and sealing it all up for mailing, Carl paid with his credit card and headed off. When he got outside he saw Jackie Kittles. “Hi,” he said again. “Can I ask you a question, Mr. Gundrum?” she said. “Sure you can but call me Carl, Jackie.” “It seems like you were born through the Korean War and served in Vietnam. There’ve been several wars since then. Has being a veteran changed how you look at wars in general?” Carl nodded and said, “Yes. Because when you served, when you joined and went through training and were willing to fight, whether you fought or not it kind of gives you an elitist feeling. I mean, I can find fault with all those wars, any of those wars. But because I was a volunteer for one of them, it’s like my point of view means more than people who never served. I know that’s awful but that’s how I feel sometimes. I shouldn’t because in fact, I saw some action but not that much and certainly not enough to give me nightmares or anything. I was sent home after being injured in an accident like you. It makes me feel bad to admit it but that’s the way I feel sometimes. You’re young. What’s your experience so far?” “Mine’s a little different,” she said. “You see I lost my left leg below the knee in the accident. I’m a veteran, a disabled veteran but without explaining everything people don’t get the whole picture. They naturally assume I lost my leg in combat and it’s like you said, since I volunteered for that combat, I almost feel entitled to let them think that. But being a woman, people don’t see you as a veteran: they don’t imagine that. It doesn’t matter to guys at all. They just see
w. jack savage
you as having part of one leg missing. How it happened doesn’t seem to matter to them. Most of them would rather have a girl with two legs. That’s just the way it is.” Carl nodded gravely and said, “I can see that. But it’s kind of funny when you think about us being veterans. I’d never buy a hat like this for myself and rarely wear a hat at all. It’s really the only hat I have and yet without it, you’d never think to ask if I was a veteran and I’d not only not think to ask you, because of the era I served in, I’d have never known you had part of your leg missing. At my age, when you asked me if I was in the 1st Cav, I was muttering under my breath about having to wait in lines at the post office. When I was your age there were no lines. I guess what I mean is it’s six of one and half a dozen of the other. Things have been lost over my lifetime but a lot of things are better too. Wars never seem to make sense and if they do, it’s only at the beginning. But even knowing that we still have them. Let me ask you this: in my day a young woman like you might experience war as say, having a brother who served or maybe even your dad. Then, once you have children it would be worrying that war might touch them when they grow up. Do you think you feel any different as things are now and having served? “I don’t know,” she said. “Because you see it goes back farther then that. When you were growing up, on the playground were there as many girls playing games as there are today?”
didn’t have them. After a while I just quit looking for that. It kind of made me bitter when it didn’t work out and bitter is worse than having seizures. Later on they came up with treatments you know and the seizures went away. By that time I was kind of set in my ways. So I guess I missed that part about seeing how kids grow up compared to how it was for me.” Moments later it would be over and Jackie and Carl would shake hands and go their separate ways. It had been invigorating for both of them and each would think about their exchange for quite a while. The truth is, outside of families, men in their sixties and young women in their twenties don’t have enough in common to meet as strangers and talk for fifteen minutes or so. But people still have wars in common and the people who fight in them tend to view each other more equally than might ordinarily be the case. Carl would think about these things for some weeks and finally, put a version of it down on paper. Not long after, as he stood in line at the post office to send off his story to the submission’s editors of several magazines, he began to think of all his recent experiences and sending off his stories as a sort of clearing house for what his life had become. As he did on that particular day, his sense of indignation at waiting in line at the post office seemed nowhere to be found.
“No, I guess not, now that you mention it. Girls played with dolls, I guess.” “They still do but what I’m saying is, we were raised to be more, think more and told we could be anything we wanted. From what my mom told me, that’s all new. So in a way, I’m a product of that as much or more than having served in the army. Do you have any children?” “No, I never got married. I was engaged once but that accident left me with seizures and I guess it was just easier finding some guy who
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Photoshop - Nymph Flora Monument, the Nikita Botanic Garden
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Qul Sharif Mosque in Kazan
Published on Dec 25, 2012
Published on Dec 25, 2012
2 - taner murat - scythia minor-liitle crimea; 4 - jude conlee - california, usa; 6 - phyllis j. burton - england, uk; 11 - dr. mig - eskişe...