First, announcements. Author and contributor Gabriel Tait would love reviewers for his novella The Ranleigh Tapes. Please contact us if you’re interested and he’ll send a copy.

The Ranleigh Tapes
Gabriel Tait | Fiction | 2025 | Approximately 27,000 words

Six months sober, Ranleigh Meeks sits down with his sponsor and records an account of his life. There is plenty to account for. Told through tape transcripts, The Ranleigh Tapes follows a man trying to speak honestly about addiction, childhood and the consequences of his own decisions. Memory does not give everything up at once, and neither does Ranleigh. Dark humour runs through a confession that is sometimes painful, sometimes uncomfortable, and distinctly his own. The second book in the Meeks series changes the form completely, giving Ranleigh the microphone.

Author bio
Gabriel Tait is a Toronto novelist and the author of Meeks and The Ranleigh Tapes. He began writing fiction at fifty, after carrying the idea for his first novel since around twenty. Sober since October 27, 2001, he brings that experience to fiction about addiction, identity and consequences. He is working on Echo, the third and final book in the series, planned for late 2027.

Complimentary EPUB and PDF review copies are available. Interested reviewers can contact me at gtaitbooks@gmail.com. There’s no requested review deadline.

Book details and samples: gabrieltait.com

Also, our regular contributor Rui Carvalho invites readers and contributors to submit poetry to the next annual Nature Writing Contest.

Our contest, Nature 2025-2026, is a new opportunity that we, as organizers, create to reach the rest of the world. Every Contest is a challenge for authors participating and to people that make it happen. This year we invite all authors to write poetry about:
(i) Flowers;
(ii) Trees and wind;
(iii) Water;
(iv) Nature Conservation;
(v) Turtles;
(vi) Love for people and nature;
(vii) Hope and Happiness.

Rules and submission information here.

**********************************

Now, for this issue, Where the Light Enters.

In this issue, the voices gathered here do not speak as a chorus so much as a constellation — each light arriving from a different sky, yet all of them tracing the same shape: what happens to the human spirit when it is pressed, broken, or silenced, and how it manages, against every odds, to press back. Bai Gengsheng frames the whole collection when he reflects on how Lan Xin shows that people who reclaim their inner identity, who transform suffering into wisdom and love, can become a source of light for many others. That is the quiet thesis of everything that follows — that pain, metabolized, becomes radiance.

Suffering and its Aftermath

Patrick Sweeney’s poetry enters the dark first, grappling with violence and its aftermath, absurdity, mortality, damaged landscapes, memory, and the strange ways people try to make meaning from disturbing or ordinary things. Around him, the wounds multiply. Mahbub Alam portrays a world devastated by suffering, where love, humanity, and hope have been broken, yet people continue struggling forward despite pain and uncertainty about whether a brighter future will ever emerge. Manzar Alam reflects on the fragility of life and the inevitability of death. Tie Wu laments children killed in war and condemns humanity’s inability to prevent violence. Mesfakus Salahin mourns the lives of children in poverty around the world who never had a chance, even in nations which are on paper moving towards democracy and prosperity.

Ali Farhan, in Faleeha Hassan’s translation, portrays a young person destroyed by war and deprivation whose dignity survives even after almost everything meaningful has been stripped away. Yago Rotter illuminates the painful loss of childhood innocence as Shahina Egamnazarova explores childhood dreams, growing older, distance, and the painful realization that some aspirations or people may remain beyond one’s reach. David Kokoette depicts betrayal, humiliation, social rejection, and the realization that misplaced trust can destroy a person emotionally. Daniela Chourio’s poem reads as a meditation on severe emotional or physical pain and the threshold between collapse and release. Yeon Myung-ji’s piece is a meditation on grief — specifically, a mother’s loss of a child — and on how sorrow stands in awkward, painful contrast to the living world around it.

Allison Grayhurst walks a difficult road, moving through suffering, grief, and spiritual crisis toward surrender, love, and restoration. Abigail George addresses family trauma, addiction, abandonment, mental distress, caregiving, and the desperate hope that someone — ultimately God — is listening. J.J. Campbell’s works form a loose portrait of aging, exhaustion, mortality, desire, family responsibility, and the uncomfortable ways ordinary life forces us to confront death. Campbell uses blunt humor and conversational language to make serious subjects feel immediate rather than sentimental.

John Van Sicklen Maeck II’s dramatic excerpt suggests that longing is easy, acting on it is hard, and even at sixty-five it may not be too late to walk out the door. The poet writing as “Given Twice” speaks as an overthinker, mid-life, haunted by the gap between the ideal and the real, between the lived life and the unlived one. Sayani Mukherjee holds that hope through darkness, confusion, spiritual emptiness, and emotional uncertainty. Danijela Ćuk offers compassionate support in the face of emotional pain, betrayal, loneliness, and crisis. And Lan Xin, returning twice more, urges us to free ourselves from resentments and toxic relationships that hold us back from our potential, and meditates on patience, spiritual interconnectedness, renewal, and the wisdom of allowing life to unfold in its own time.

Reclaiming Voice and Identity

Out of that suffering rises the collection’s great theme: the reclamation of voice. Menda Vreto’s piece is about a woman overcoming suffering, imposed silence, and social judgment to reclaim her voice, identity, dignity, and freedom. Ermira D. Ifandi speaks to the struggle to preserve identity and truth when human language becomes distorted, manipulative, or cruel. Delsa López Lorenzo explores the inescapable power of memory — especially painful memory — and the impossible desire to erase the past as easily as deleting digital information. Philip Butera creates a surreal, psychologically layered poem about identity, trauma, entrapment, imagination, and the struggle to exist without needing permission or approval. Nidia Amelia García celebrates female identity, cultural tradition, beauty, and dignity. Wanchen Cao writes of abuse, manipulation, and a harmful relationship disguised as love and concern. Jiang Liu’s story concerns letting go of habitual pessimism and choosing, however quietly, to help another person move toward hope and change.

Dr. HC Rozalia Aleksandrova’s “Motherland” portrays her homeland as a loving, enduring mother whose embrace preserves identity and gives people hope, strength, and a renewed sense of belonging after hardship. Dr. Fadi Sido calls for replacing Germany’s alienating, technocratic, economically driven social order with a new democratic philosophy in which human dignity and security are foundational principles around which politics, economics, and institutions must revolve. DW Chance discusses broken systems, moral responsibility, memory, and the disappearance of things that once gave human beings a sense of reality. Bangladeshi imam Hossain Mohammad Salim’s biography presents him as a writer and speaker who opposes religious exploitation and communal division, and promotes education, justice, and interfaith harmony. 

Nature, Water, and the Body as Teacher

Shah Jehan Ashrafi celebrates the natural world as a source of power, beauty, humility, perseverance, and mercy, suggesting that by observing nature we can discover profound truths about life and ourselves. Graciela Noemi Villaverde draws on a tree as a metaphor for the cycle of life, death, and transformation. Tanja Ajtic uses watercolor as a metaphor for a person who experiences life deeply but has difficulty expressing what they truly feel. Soumen Roy conveys deep emotional experience through the imagery of flowing water, brokenness, and writing. Mark Young’s art pieces work as abstract meditations on entanglement, conflict, connection, and reciprocity — a visual echo of the same forces the poets wrestle with in words.

The Intimate: Love, Family, Memory

Milena Pčinjski sends up a brief, sensual poem about desire, intimacy, and the charged silence between two people. Milka J. Šolaja offers a nostalgic love poem about memory, lost love, and the passage of time. Aliyu Ibrahim gives a lyrical meditation on love, tenderness, sincerity, and the power of kindness to overcome conflict or hostility. Dr. Tania Rahman Toni expresses regret after losing someone through neglect, betrayal, or failure to appreciate their love. Abdulla Akhmatovich Mengkobilov declares a poet’s enduring love, suffering, faith, and determination to survive through his words. Eva Lianou Petropoulou’s piece is a romantic poem about discovering a profound, almost mystical connection with another person.

Family anchors much of this issue. Amina Zafar qizi Sunnatullayeva urges parents to nurture their children and allow them freedom to pursue their own dreams. Jernail Singh urges modern parents to teach children responsibility and self-confidence by letting them handle challenges on their own. Madinabonu To’rayeva reflects on the patient, self-sacrificing love of her mother. JÖrayeva Marjona Baxtiyor qizi expresses her love and nostalgia for her mother’s care. Azizjonova Mohinurbonu Qudratali qizi celebrates the love and dedication of her father. Joey McIntyre’s nostalgic coming-of-age story concerns a young boy spending a weekend with his mother and, through ordinary moments, beginning to understand who she is and how deeply he loves her. Otamuradova Asalbonu Qodir qizi relates how education can empower young women, while Fhen M.’s poem connects a child’s education with Filipino history, showing that learning is built layer by layer, from personal experience and family stories to the larger historical forces that shape a country. Katica Protić focuses on a moment when people drop their social disguises and reveal genuine feelings, while Vesna Malović Petrović explores loneliness, nostalgia, aging, and the longing for emotional connection, ultimately holding onto hope.

The Contemporary World: Technology, Education, and Money

The issue turns a clear, questioning eye on modern life. Ziyoda Sayfiddinova addresses ways to identify and prevent internet addiction in young people. Karimova Marjona Faxriddin qizi outlines modern pedagogical techniques for Uzbek elementary education. Fariza Qurbonova examines how Uzbek youth combine English and their native language over social media. A’zamova Feruza Abduholiq qizi discusses how Uzbekistan’s service sector is adopting artificial intelligence. Shodmanova Ruxshona Jaxongir qizi outlines prospects for launching Apple Pay in Uzbekistan. Sherzod Suvonov highlights the need for social awareness, wisdom, and human-centered design in technology. Shohjaxon Shonazarov, twice over, advocates for economic development indicators that go beyond pure financial matters to consider broader human well-being and explores how economic growth can improve living standards for ordinary people. Dr. Bhagyashree Varma argues that Dr. Jernail Singh’s epic poem Lustus forces us to confront whether our progress, stripped of compassion and wisdom, can sustain civilization and that it deserves to stand beside Paradise Lost as the defining epic of our age. Pat Doyne’s satirical poem uses Trump’s own rally words to paint him as vain, authoritarian, and unfit to command nuclear power.

Ozodbek Narzullayev reflects on how success, wealth, and social status can transform a person and sometimes cause them to forget their old friends and humble beginnings. Yuldasheva Shodiyona urges a balanced attitude towards money — saving while not forgetting to live and enjoy life. Qosimova Zulhumor Toxirjon qizi discusses how Uzbekistan’s independence led to greater opportunities for women and young people. Dilnura Xudoyqulova offers gratitude for her home country of Uzbekistan, her cultural heritage, and her Muslim faith.

Society Held Up to the Mirror

Alex S. Johnson issues a satirical postmortem for call-out culture, and under the alias Kandy Fontaine shouts an aggressive, satirical poem attacking rigid gender roles, macho posturing, sexualized dominance, and patriarchal ideas about strength and masculinity — then turns documentarian, interviewing zinester Pagan Kennedy on the history of independent media and the struggle to make technology serve ordinary and powerless people rather than corporations and institutions. Jasmina Qahramonjonova advocates for national legal remedies as a tool to address environmental pollution from plastics. Christina Chin humorously draws on Halloween imagery to point out the horror of ordinary human selfishness. Bill Tope’s humorous short story depicts a small child getting lost in a crowd and discovering that making yourself noticed is sometimes the best way to get help. Ajah Israel Chukwudi argues that genuine human relationships require sincerity, loyalty, remembrance, and gratitude rather than hypocrisy, resentment, betrayal, or selfishness. Gulasal Jumayeva addresses the difficulty of truly knowing a person, acknowledging the many poignant human struggles beneath the surface. İlker Ortaç’s art seems to speak to identity, connection, and the way people are shaped by what surrounds them. Otaxonova Nodira Farxod qizi laments social exclusion and adult worries, while Jo‘raqulova Rayhona Muhiddin qizi encourages us to take life in stride, as if it were a movie.

Journeys: Place, Pride, and Belonging

Francis Godoy’s poems humorously explore how cultural and national identity can suddenly become meaningful through everyday experiences, revealing pride, belonging, and connection. John Grey’s works collectively explore departure, connection, exclusion, belonging, home, and the struggle to express oneself. Brian Barbeito’s Mexico poems present travel as a journey of spiritual awakening. Kayne Young highlights how we’re never too old to change, as reinvention is a lifelong journey of living honestly and growing. Timothee Bordenave contributes a nostalgic, autobiographical sequence about London as a place of friendship, suffering, spiritual awakening, youth, and transformation.

Shannon Scoates and Somdatta Mitra’s collaborative poem is about girls whose childhoods are taken from them by oppression, forced expectations, restrictive traditions, and the denial of education and personal freedom — a global cry. Debabrata Maji celebrates the beauty of cultural diversity. Elmaya Jabbarova’s reflective poem accepts the end of a season, releasing sorrow and moving forward together into an uncertain future.

Sherzod Suvonov’s “My Qasrim” is a vision for an interactive historical world where game technology, AI, economics, architecture, and human creativity come together to help people understand how civilizations developed and how human decisions shaped them.

And the Magazine Itself

Finally, there is the community that holds all these voices.

Jacques Fleury offers a testimonial about how meaningful and transformative inclusion in Synchronized Chaos has been for him, especially as a Haitian American writer. Lan Xin highlights her gratitude for the international artistic partnership she has forged with Eva Lianou Petropoulou. And Dr. Jernail Singh Anand reviews Dr. Lalit Mohan Sharma’s new book Across the Pause, highlighting the collection’s main point: a poet’s responsibility is to remain deeply sensitive to human experience. Bahtiyar Hidayet’s paean transforms Alissa White-Gluz, singer of Canadian metal band Arch Enemy, into a heaven-sent woman of iron whose powerful voice slams open the door of truth against the world’s lies. DK Jammin’ offers a cohesive spiritual meditation on faith, surrender, transformation, and the difficulty of recognizing grace while it is happening. Christopher Bernard, in the eighth installment of his children’s book Otherwise, points to the value of hope against imagination-killing tyranny.

Gregg Dotoli’s work asks us to stay fully, individually alive and to choose reinvention over resignation in a world that would flatten us. Xhuli Spahiu offers up a call for global peace and compassion as Frederick Schardt suggests that real progress may not mean becoming more technologically advanced, but recovering our ability to gather, create, feel, share, and care for one another. Federico Wardal reviews Alessandro Cardente’s new book Manifesto for Gentle Communication.

And it is in that sensitivity — the poet’s obligation to feel deeply for others — that all these scattered voices finally converge: a magazine that is itself a mother, an embrace, a proof that even the darkest winter of the human heart can be transformed into light for many others.

Marmalade Sunrise

I hear you between perfect notes
See you in each marmalade sunrise
dream of you
wake with you
you’re earth’s finest spring
and most elegant hour
exotic scents and nature’s spell
awaken the you in me
as warm rays whisper your name
I know I’ll never be the same

Job Gobbler

AI code is reinventing Labor
physical bots replace labor
And build for us
A choice:

Expand or minimize our minds
Waxing sameness and bell curves
May drive our lives
pelted with homogenized reiteration slop and misinformation
A spawned distrust
Labor becomes days of rest
forced sloth or voluntary reinvention


Among the hottest hots
and the driest droughts
the iguana never shouts

Gregg Dotoli is a Delaware poet and former computer scientist whose work has appeared in International Times, Mad Swirl, and Taj Mahal Review. His collections include Poetry Fob and Everblue Soul.

Previously published on Medium by Boomerang here:  https://medium.com/boomerangs/starting-over-in-uruguay-with-a-partner-and-a-dog-named-jasper-cd3711949f5a?source=friends_link&sk=67635f56cce67baf27a235ec61b723b5

When we stepped off the Buquebus ferry here in Uruguay, we were swept into a crowd of people going about their lives.

Some were greeting family, while others were heading for taxis or their cars. I moved with them, carefully trying to navigate our dog Jasper and keep him from being stepped on.

Yet as I guided our happy little companion, it hit me that we weren’t just arriving for a visit; when it was over, we wouldn’t be flying back home. This was it, our new home. Even at my age, I felt excited all over again about the path we had chosen, and to be honest, a bit startled that this whole new chapter in our lives had actually begun.

When it comes to travel, I am no stranger to living in another country. As a young man in the military, I spent nine years stationed in Germany. Six years at Hahn Air Base in the Hunsrück mountains near the Mosel River and Koblenz, and then another three on a special duty assignment at RAF Rhinedahlen, near Düsseldorf.

I didn’t want to go back to America, so arriving in Uruguay did not introduce me to the idea that I could build a life somewhere else. It simply reminded me that I was still capable of doing it.

Between Germany and Uruguay, I left the military, became a houseparent for disadvantaged kids, built a career in Silicon Valley and corporate America, divorced, and came out at 40. Now I’m retired, running my coaching business, and building a life here in a new country we call home with my partner and our dog Jasper.

Those changes didn’t happen in a neat sequence, but each made me question what I thought my life would be.

For example, when I came out, I thought a great deal about the life I had already built and the impact of what acknowledging my sexuality might have on it. I couldn’t see all the choices ahead of me. What I know now is that coming out was not one grand act of reinvention after which everything settled into place.

It was merely the beginning of learning to live more honestly, a learning journey I still find myself on today.

Retirement has raised a different set of questions for me, and possibly for you too if you have already crossed that threshold. For much of adult life, work gives our days shape and a ready answer when someone asks what we do. When that changes, we have to decide what deserves our time and energy now.

I am still working through what that means for me.

One recent morning here in Uruguay, I sat down to plan my day and realized no corporate schedule was waiting for me. I had coaching work to do, but I was free to decide what else deserved my time. That freedom felt good, and honestly, a bit unfamiliar. Retirement has changed my calendar and my sleep habits, and yet I am still learning how to let it change my idea of myself, which is all for the good.

As a coach, I encourage my clients to challenge their own assumptions often. An idea about who you are, or what is possible for you, can feel like a fact simply because you have lived with it for a long time. I ask them to stay willing to question those ideas, to push themselves to grow, and always to be willing to reinvent themselves when the life they want calls for it.

Standing by that ferry, I had to take my own advice.

It would have been easy to tell myself that a move like this belonged to the younger man who once lived in Germany. Instead, here I was, at 62, making a home in another country. I knew from experience that living abroad would ask me to learn and adapt. This time, I was choosing to do it at an age when I could have decided I was done with big changes.

I hope I continue to be the poster boy for never being too old to change.

I don’t mean that I have mastered reinvention, or that every new beginning feels comfortable. I mean I want to remain willing to look at my life honestly, question what I think I know about myself, and grow from there.

The people getting off the ferry with us had places to go, and so did we.

Ours just happened to be the beginning of a new life in Uruguay.

Kayne Young coaches gay men 50 and over, helping them navigate identity, relationships, and what comes next. Explore his work and coaching at OUT50+.

AFTER THE SONG

A play in one act

by John van Sicklen Maeck II

Based on This Time I Would Like to Stay
Essays on Love and Grace

Characters

JOHN, sixty-five. A writer. He has packed Ruth’s things before she has asked for them.

RUTH, in her seventies. She has known John for several months. She has returned for a lost earring and hopes to stay for breakfast.

MARTIN, John’s contemporary and longtime friend. His adult daughter is bringing her new partner to lunch. Martin has prepared more than the lunch requires.

YOUNG JOHN, John as a young adult. Played by the actor who plays Martin. No literal change of age is required.

Setting

A San Francisco apartment. Saturday morning. A table, two chairs, a counter and a front door. A cushion on one chair has a torn tie. The chair itself is stable. On the table are two mugs, a small plate, a pen and a folded sheet of paper. An electric kettle, a coffee pot and a loaf of bread wrapped in a cloth stand on the counter. A woman’s scarf and a paperback are packed in a paper shopping bag by the door. The missing earring is at the bottom of the bag. Coffee is ready. Breakfast is not.

Daylight falls across the back wall. It moves gradually as the morning passes.

One continuous act for three performers. Martin and Young John are doubled. The imagined encounter requires no change of set; a shift in light or attention may mark it. Ruth remains still and neither hears nor takes part in the encounter. Young John leaves before the morning resumes. All characters and circumstances are fictional.

After the Song

JOHN puts the folded paper into the shopping bag. He takes it out. He writes one more word, crosses it out, folds the paper and leaves it under his mug.

JOHN: Dear Ruth.

The bell rings. He moves the bag behind the door, then opens it. RUTH is outside, wearing a coat and carrying a handbag. She touches her bare earlobe.

RUTH: I got halfway to the market.

JOHN: What’s wrong?

RUTH: An earring. Can I come in?

He opens the door farther. She enters and kisses him. For a moment he holds her.

RUTH: Good morning.

JOHN: Good morning.

RUTH: There. We managed it.

JOHN: What does it look like?

RUTH: Like this one.

She turns her head for him. He smiles.

RUTH: My mother gave them to me. She has opinions about where I leave them.

JOHN: I’ll look.

RUTH: Thank you.

He moves toward the counter. She sees the bag.

RUTH: That looks like my scarf.

JOHN: It is.

RUTH: And my book.

JOHN: You left them.

RUTH: Last night.

JOHN: Yes.

RUTH: You work quickly.

JOHN: I didn’t want you to worry about them.

RUTH: I wasn’t worrying.

JOHN: Well. Good.

She takes the scarf out of the bag. A small leaf is caught in its folds.

RUTH: There’s half a park in this.

JOHN: I took you the long way.

RUTH: I noticed.

JOHN: I didn’t want that bit to end.

RUTH: Neither did I.

She puts the leaf on the small plate. Her hand rests on his. He turns his hand beneath it. They stay like that. She lays the scarf over a chair and puts her book on the table.

RUTH: I was going to ask if you wanted breakfast.

JOHN: Here?

RUTH: I thought the bakery. But here will do.

JOHN: Of course I want breakfast.

RUTH: With me.

JOHN: Yes. I understood the implication.

RUTH: You answered the part about food very promptly.

He laughs. She smiles. He almost reaches for her; instead he straightens a mug.

JOHN: Coffee?

RUTH: Please.

He pours. He notices the folded paper under his mug and puts a hand over it.

RUTH: Have you already written about last night?

JOHN: No.

RUTH: That was quick too.

JOHN: I was trying to explain something.

RUTH: To me?

JOHN: Eventually.

RUTH: I’m here now.

JOHN: I can see that.

He takes his hand off the paper. She does not reach for it.

JOHN: I had a lovely evening.

RUTH: So did I.

JOHN: I mean that.

RUTH: I believed you the first time.

JOHN: I don’t want you to think—

He stops.

RUTH: What?

JOHN: This morning feels different.

She puts down her mug.

RUTH: Different how?

JOHN: Last night I knew what I wanted. This morning there seem to be consequences.

RUTH: I wanted you last night too.

JOHN: I know.

RUTH: You sound surprised to remember it.

JOHN: I didn’t want to assume.

RUTH: You found a bag, though.

He looks at it. She sits.

RUTH: I haven’t asked you to sell the apartment.

JOHN: I know you haven’t.

RUTH: I haven’t brought a second set of saucepans.

JOHN: I wouldn’t object to saucepans.

RUTH: What would you object to?

A second bell. JOHN moves toward the door too quickly.

JOHN: That’s Martin.

RUTH: Does he have the answer?

JOHN: He’s come for his chair.

RUTH: Then this shouldn’t take long.

JOHN opens the door. MARTIN enters carrying an empty reusable shopping bag.

MARTIN: I thought I’d put the cushion in this. Morning, Ruth.

RUTH: Morning.

MARTIN: Am I early?

JOHN: No.

RUTH: John was explaining something. I think we’re both early for the explanation.

MARTIN: I can come back.

RUTH: Your chair is here. Apparently everything is ready to go.

MARTIN sees the paper bag. He looks at JOHN, then chooses to examine the cushion tie.

MARTIN: You said you’d fixed this.

JOHN: I tied it. It tore farther up.

MARTIN: Ah.

JOHN: I’ve got a needle somewhere.

MARTIN: You’ve been saying that since Wednesday.

JOHN: Coffee?

MARTIN: That would help.

JOHN finds another mug. MARTIN takes his chair toward the door. RUTH lifts her scarf from it. He stops, awkwardly holding the chair while JOHN hands him coffee.

RUTH: We could all sit down.

MARTIN: One of us would have to be particularly fond of somebody.

RUTH laughs. JOHN does too, a little late. MARTIN puts the chair down. He remains standing.

MARTIN: My daughter’s bringing her fellow to lunch. I need somewhere for him to sit.

JOHN: You could let him stand.

MARTIN: I’ve considered it.

RUTH: Do you dislike him?

MARTIN: I haven’t met him.

RUTH: You’re ahead of schedule.

MARTIN: He sends her things. Long things. He says his whole life depends on whether she loves him.

JOHN: People say that when they’re in love.

MARTIN: I know. I’ve said it. I don’t want my daughter having to keep a man alive by loving him.

RUTH: What does she say?

MARTIN: She says I should meet him before I give her the benefit of my extensive experience.

JOHN: Sensible.

MARTIN: You haven’t heard me rehearse my questions.

JOHN searches a drawer. He takes out a small sewing tin and opens it.

JOHN: Here. Hold that bit against this bit.

MARTIN puts down his mug and holds the torn ends together. JOHN tries to thread a needle.

JOHN: We used to like a grand declaration.

MARTIN: We still do. I was delighted by the last one addressed to me.

JOHN: I grew up with those songs from the sixties. I used to turn up the radio before I knew what they were singing about.

MARTIN: I remember your car.

JOHN: Terrible car. Wonderful radio. We had some good times.

MARTIN: We did.

RUTH: So did I.

They look at her.

RUTH: You two weren’t the only people alive. I liked wanting someone. I liked being wanted. I still do.

JOHN: So do I.

RUTH: Good. I was beginning to feel I’d attended something we were all going to regret on principle.

JOHN: I don’t regret you.

She looks at him. He returns to the needle.

MARTIN: I remember a girl calling the house. I told my roommate to say I’d gone to Big Sur. I was sitting on the kitchen floor eating her peaches.

JOHN: Did you ever tell her?

MARTIN: No.

MARTIN rubs a mark on the back of the chair. It does not come off.

RUTH: I had a room with a window over an alley. Music downstairs. Nobody could find me unless I let them.

MARTIN: Sounds wonderful.

RUTH: It was. My father had the address, of course. He sent the rent.

They laugh. JOHN finally threads the needle.

JOHN: Ha.

MARTIN: Try not to put your finger in it.

JOHN starts to sew. He has to concentrate.

JOHN: I can hear a song now and be right back inside it. All that longing. I don’t want to be finished with that.

RUTH: Neither do I.

JOHN: Then what are we supposed to grow out of?

RUTH looks at the paper bag. She takes a drink of coffee rather than answer. MARTIN steadies the cushion. MARTIN’s phone vibrates. He reads it while keeping one hand on the cushion.

MARTIN: She’s reminding me he’s a vegetarian.

JOHN: You knew that.

MARTIN: I said I did.

RUTH: What are you making?

MARTIN: Fish.

A silence. MARTIN looks from one to the other.

MARTIN: I can do eggs.

RUTH: Ask her.

He does, with his free hand. JOHN pulls a stitch through.

JOHN: There was always somewhere else to go.

RUTH: I asked a man to come with me once.

JOHN: Where?

RUTH: Down the coast. I had a car for the summer. He sold his bicycle to help pay for the trip. I told him we’d find work and a room somewhere.

MARTIN: Did you?

RUTH: I found a room. With somebody else.

JOHN stops sewing.

RUTH: He was standing there with a duffel bag. I remember being annoyed by the bag. I asked him what he’d thought was going to happen.

JOHN: You were young.

RUTH: Yes. So was he.

MARTIN’s phone vibrates.

MARTIN: Eggs are fine.

Nobody answers. He pockets the phone.

MARTIN: What did you do?

RUTH: I gave him some money for a bus. He was going to leave anyway.

MARTIN: Was he?

She turns her mug by its handle.

RUTH: He took the money.

JOHN turns the cushion over. His thread catches. MARTIN helps free it. RUTH takes an envelope from her handbag.

JOHN: What’s that?

RUTH: Something I was going to ask you.

JOHN: You can.

RUTH: Tickets. Thursday. The little concert I told you about.

JOHN: You bought them?

RUTH: Two.

JOHN looks toward MARTIN. MARTIN looks closely at the stitch.

JOHN: We hadn’t decided.

RUTH: I know.

JOHN: You said you were thinking of going.

RUTH: I was thinking of going with you.

JOHN: Ruth—

RUTH: They were selling out.

She puts the envelope on the table.

RUTH: I tried the website three times. It kept asking whether I was a robot. Eventually I began to wonder.

JOHN does not laugh. She pushes the envelope toward him. He keeps his hands on the cushion.

RUTH: Thursday, John. That’s all.

JOHN: I haven’t decided what I want.

MARTIN lets go of the cushion. JOHN holds it alone.

RUTH: This morning?

JOHN: More than this morning.

RUTH: All right.

She puts the tickets back into her handbag. She collects her scarf.

JOHN: I didn’t say no.

RUTH: You didn’t say yes, either.

MARTIN picks up his mug and moves toward the counter, giving them what little privacy the room permits.

JOHN: For months I kept looking at the telephone. Then you’d call, and there was an evening to live toward. Sometimes I forgot to eat.

RUTH: I didn’t. You should have come round.

It almost makes him laugh. He cannot quite manage it.

RUTH: I kept the messages.

JOHN: You did?

RUTH: You sent one while I was in the dentist’s chair. I had to wait twenty minutes to look at it.

She puts a hand into her handbag, then takes it out empty.

RUTH: I was pleased it was you.

She puts on her scarf. JOHN does not stop her.

MARTIN: Shall I take the chair as it is?

JOHN: No. It’s nearly done.

JOHN resumes sewing. MARTIN returns. Neither looks at RUTH. She stands near the door, holding her handbag. Then she takes off the scarf.

RUTH: My earring.

She crouches to look under the table. JOHN starts to bend toward her. The thread pulls taut.

MARTIN: You’ve still got this.

JOHN straightens. RUTH stays down a moment. She wipes under one eye before standing.

RUTH: Nothing there.

JOHN: We’ll find it.

MARTIN’s phone vibrates. He reads it.

MARTIN: She’s asking me to put away the photograph.

JOHN: Of her mother?

MARTIN: His wedding. To his former wife. I looked him up. I printed it.

JOHN: Martin.

MARTIN: I wasn’t going to leave it on his plate.

JOHN looks at him.

MARTIN: It was on the sideboard.

RUTH: You printed it?

MARTIN: The printer was on. She thinks I’m treating her as if she were nineteen.

JOHN: Well.

MARTIN: I know how old she is. I was there.

He begins typing. He stops. He shows JOHN the screen.

MARTIN: Does this sound all right?

JOHN: You could leave out the part about experience.

MARTIN: It’s the part I have.

JOHN reads farther. RUTH takes off her coat. She has decided to stay for the earring, at least. MARTIN looks at the phone.

MARTIN: I don’t want her hurt.

JOHN has no ready answer. He sets the cushion down.

MARTIN: I used to be the person she called. About everything. A leak. A feeling. Now I hear about things when they’re already over.

JOHN: You’re hearing about this one.

MARTIN: Yes.

MARTIN looks at the phone. He deletes what he has written and types again.

MARTIN: I’ll put it away. Anything else I can do?

He sends it before he can add more. He sits in the uncushioned chair. JOHN puts a hand briefly on his shoulder.

MARTIN: I bought enough food for six. There are three of us.

JOHN: You’ll have leftovers.

MARTIN: I was going to give them some to take home. I bought containers.

RUTH sits opposite him. JOHN remains by the cushion.

RUTH: I’d take the food.

MARTIN: Would you?

RUTH: Yes. I don’t like those containers that never close properly.

MARTIN: These close.

A small relief. MARTIN picks up his mug. The phone vibrates. He reads it, then puts it away without reporting the reply.

JOHN: What did she say?

MARTIN: See you at lunch.

JOHN finishes the last stitches. MARTIN helps him tie the cushion to the chair. It takes the two of them a moment to coordinate their hands.

JOHN: There.

MARTIN tests the tie, then lifts the chair. The cushion stays in place.

MARTIN: Thank you. What do I owe you?

JOHN: Nothing.

MARTIN: Excellent. I brought exactly that.

He puts his empty shopping bag in his pocket. He starts toward the door. JOHN holds it for him.

MARTIN: You coming for a walk tomorrow?

JOHN: Yes.

MARTIN: Ten?

JOHN: Ten.

MARTIN: If you ask me how the lunch went, allow a little time.

JOHN: I will.

MARTIN looks toward RUTH and hesitates.

MARTIN: See you, Ruth.

RUTH: Good luck with the eggs.

MARTIN: Thank you.

He goes. JOHN closes the door. RUTH remains at the table. There is now only one chair.

JOHN: I’ll get another.

RUTH: John.

He stops.

RUTH: Stay there a minute.

He leans against the counter. She takes out the envelope, holds it, puts it back.

RUTH: It was nice buying two.

JOHN: I should have gone with you to get them.

RUTH: You haven’t said you’re going to the concert.

JOHN: No.

RUTH: I bought them online anyway.

She laughs once. He starts to speak.

RUTH: Don’t say it was nice of me. I wanted to go with you.

JOHN: I know.

RUTH: I told my sister I’d met someone.

He straightens.

RUTH: I didn’t give her your address.

JOHN: I didn’t mean—

RUTH: I know everything you don’t mean.

She looks away. He takes the folded paper from under his mug.

JOHN: I was going to leave this with your things.

RUTH: May I read it?

JOHN: It isn’t finished.

RUTH: May I?

He hands it to her. She opens it.

RUTH: Dear Ruth. I am trying to find an honorable way of saying—

She turns the paper over. There is nothing on the other side.

RUTH: You’ve given a lot of room to the honorable part.

JOHN: I couldn’t get further.

RUTH: What were you going to say?

JOHN: I’m lonely.

She looks up from the paper.

JOHN: At night I go back over it. The women I loved. The drives. Waiting for the telephone. Wondering whether a letter had arrived.

RUTH: How many?

JOHN: I start counting. Then I remember somebody I hadn’t thought about for years. It was only a few weeks. Do I count her?

RUTH starts to answer. JOHN goes on.

JOHN: Of course I count her.

RUTH leaves the letter open on her lap.

JOHN: There’s one woman I keep remembering outside a theatre. Her hands were in her pockets because she’d lost her gloves. She was laughing before she got to me. I can see her coming round the corner as clearly as I can see you.

RUTH: What happened?

JOHN: We were happy for more than a year. Then she wanted something I couldn’t decide about. I wanted it after she’d gone.

He looks at the letter. JOHN straightens. At the far edge of the daylight, YOUNG JOHN appears, puts on a jacket and checks its pocket for keys. RUTH remains seated with the letter open on her lap. The action of the apartment pauses.

JOHN: Where are you going?

YOUNG JOHN: To see her.

JOHN: What are you going to say?

YOUNG JOHN: I don’t know yet.

He smooths the front of his jacket.

YOUNG JOHN: That I want to be with her all the time.

JOHN: Do you?

YOUNG JOHN: Tonight.

JOHN looks down. YOUNG JOHN starts toward the door.

JOHN: Then why say all the time?

YOUNG JOHN: Because she might let me stay.

The younger man waits for an answer. JOHN has none ready.

YOUNG JOHN: You know what it’s like.

JOHN: Yes.

YOUNG JOHN: I can feel it in my hands. I keep thinking about touching her.

He raises a hand toward the door and holds it there.

YOUNG JOHN: What am I supposed to do with it?

JOHN: Stay here a moment.

YOUNG JOHN: With you?

JOHN: If you like.

YOUNG JOHN turns back. He puts his hands in his pockets, takes them out again.

YOUNG JOHN: Is this what you’ve learned? To stand still?

JOHN: To let someone finish.

YOUNG JOHN: You still interrupt.

JOHN: I know.

YOUNG JOHN: Sometimes you just save the worst bit.

JOHN: Sometimes.

YOUNG JOHN looks toward the door. His hand rises again. He notices it and lets it fall.

YOUNG JOHN: I’m still thinking about her.

JOHN: So am I.

YOUNG JOHN: Then are you teaching me how to choose, or how to be afraid of what I want?

JOHN looks at the bag behind the door.

JOHN: I don’t want you afraid of wanting her.

YOUNG JOHN: Who packed that?

JOHN: I did.

YOUNG JOHN: Did she ask you to?

JOHN: No.

A pause. JOHN looks toward RUTH. She has not moved.

YOUNG JOHN: What were you going to tell her?

JOHN: I haven’t managed it yet.

YOUNG JOHN: So what makes you—

JOHN: Nothing. I wish someone had told me I could wait.

YOUNG JOHN: Would you have listened?

JOHN: I don’t know.

The younger man checks his keys again. This time he leaves them in his pocket.

YOUNG JOHN: If I wait, she might go.

JOHN: She might.

YOUNG JOHN: I could ask her to walk tomorrow.

JOHN: Do you want to?

YOUNG JOHN: Yes.

JOHN: Then ask her.

YOUNG JOHN: She could say no.

JOHN: Yes.

YOUNG JOHN looks at the door. He takes a breath and waits. After a moment he removes his jacket and leaves the edge of the light. YOUNG JOHN is gone. RUTH lifts her eyes from the letter. The morning resumes. JOHN turns toward her.

RUTH: Have you seen her since?

JOHN: No.

RUTH waits.

JOHN: I’m sixty-five. I’m not married. I look at the time and think, where did it go?

He rubs his face.

JOHN: Then I remember her laughing, and I can’t call it wasted. But it’s gone.

RUTH: I don’t know what to say to that.

JOHN: You don’t have to know.

She reaches for his hand. He lets her take it. Neither speaks. They let go. She folds the letter and puts it on the table.

JOHN: I was happy last night.

RUTH: So was I.

She takes a breath, picks up her mug. It is empty. She puts it down.

JOHN: You said you felt at home here.

RUTH: I did.

JOHN: Why?

RUTH: You put a blanket over my feet. I’d been cold all evening.

JOHN: Do you know what I was thinking when we came round the corner?

RUTH: That you’d lost your keys.

JOHN: After that. The light caught the side of your face. You turned to say something. I didn’t hear the beginning. I was so glad you were there.

She smiles.

JOHN: I kissed your hair. I cried a little. I thought I should apologize for it.

RUTH: I noticed.

He crosses to her. She stands. He touches her hair. She catches his hand and brings it to her cheek. They kiss. She stays near him.

RUTH: I have to go to my sister’s this afternoon.

JOHN: I remember.

RUTH: You asked me to come to dinner tonight.

JOHN: I did.

RUTH: I could get a later train.

JOHN: Could you?

She looks down at their hands. He loosens his hold. She lets her hand fall.

RUTH: I’ve changed the visit twice already.

JOHN: Because of me?

RUTH: Once.

She steps away and collects her coat.

JOHN: What time is the train?

RUTH: After lunch.

JOHN: When will you be back?

RUTH: Tomorrow evening.

She sits with the coat on her lap. He sits on the floor beside the counter.

JOHN: Martin and his peaches.

RUTH: Yes.

A quiet interval. JOHN drinks his cold coffee. RUTH holds her empty mug.

JOHN: Shall I make some more?

RUTH: I’d like tea.

JOHN: I’ve got tea.

RUTH: I know. I saw it in the drawer.

He gets up, rinses their mugs and puts the kettle on.

RUTH: One cup. Then the bakery.

She strokes the edge of the envelope through the opening of her handbag.

JOHN: I’ve been writing about grace.

RUTH: Did that help?

JOHN: Until you came back for the earring.

She laughs, then looks at the time.

RUTH: I need to eat before I go.

She gets up and puts on her coat. She takes the envelope from her handbag and holds it out. JOHN turns from the counter.

RUTH: Thursday?

He looks at the envelope.

JOHN: No.

She draws it back. He reaches toward it before she has put it away. She stops.

RUTH: Do you want it?

He withdraws his hand.

JOHN: Who will you ask?

RUTH: Daniel, perhaps.

JOHN: Daniel.

She watches him, then looks down at the tickets.

RUTH: I haven’t asked him yet.

JOHN: No.

She puts the tickets in her handbag and fastens it. The kettle clicks off. JOHN looks toward it.

JOHN: Do you still want tea?

RUTH: Yes.

He makes tea and offers her a mug. She takes it and sets her handbag down. She unwraps the loaf on the counter, breaks off a piece and holds it out to him. He takes it. She tears off a piece for herself.

JOHN: Thank you.

They stand at the counter, eating bread and drinking tea. She brushes a crumb from her sleeve. He finishes his piece.

RUTH: I’m going on to the bakery.

JOHN: I’ll come.

She looks at him, then puts down her mug. He does the same. He gets his jacket and checks his pocket for his keys. She collects her book, scarf and bag. He opens the door.

JOHN: You can leave the book here, if you like.

She looks from him to the paperback.

RUTH: I might want to read it tonight.

She puts it in her handbag. He nods, then stops.

JOHN: The earring.

RUTH: We haven’t looked properly.

They look at the table, the counter, the floor. JOHN checks the paper shopping bag. He tips it gently onto the small plate. A tiny earring falls out beside the leaf.

RUTH: There she is.

She puts it on. JOHN holds his palm below her hand in case it falls. She catches it herself. He withdraws his hand.

JOHN: Is it all right?

RUTH: A little crooked.

She adjusts it. JOHN takes a step toward the table, where the unfinished letter lies. He stops. RUTH waits at the open door. He joins her. They go out together. The letter stays on the table. The bread lies open beside the cups. There is one chair. Daylight has moved farther along the back wall.

End of play

John van Sicklen Maeck II is a San Francisco writer working in memoir, poetry, theatre, and reflective nonfiction. His writing explores love, grief, family, and the difficulty of caring for another person without taking over.

Artificial Tears

​     Yeon Myung-ji

​Spring, when unsent text messages bloom into cherry blossoms.
Sentences I want to press down and write; sitting in the flower shade, I cannot read the lines of that day and feel motion sickness.

​Hidden matters remain deep in the sea for a long time,
and the hurried footsteps that used to call “Mom” no longer open the door.

The end of April reaches the sea and begins to gather cold tears,
and deep shoulders come leaning in as dusk falls.

Because tears would not return, I put artificial tears in my pocket
and sat for a long time beneath the cherry tree dropping its petals.
In front of a young mother snapping photos while exclaiming “How pretty, how pretty,”a girl sitting in a wheelchair is smiling faintly.

​Eyes indifferent to falling things,
caught red-handed by the dazzlingly beautiful scenery,
make the white, scattering cherry blossoms sob.

​Lingering long beside the people of spring overflowing with vitality, I dried the wet eyes inside my eyelids.

​Rustle inside the flower petals, artificial tears spill chillingly.

Biography

​Yeon Myung-ji holds a Master’s degree in Social Welfare. She made her literary debut in 2013 with her poetry collection 『Gasibi』 through the Minerva Poetry Series.
She is the author of the poetry collections 『Sitting Like an Apple 』and 『Where Is the House of the Word “Sorry”?』, as well as the e-poetry collection『 Seventeen Miss Marco Polos』 and the travel essay collection 『Walking Step by Step to Santiago』
She has been honored with Grand Prizes at the Tolstoy Literary Award, the Homi Literary Award, the Cheongsong Gaekju Literary Award, the Aviation Literary Award, and the Kim Myeong-bae Literary Award, as well as the Bronze Prize in Poetry at the 2025 Literary Asia Awards.

​Her poems have been published in literary journals and media across numerous countries, including India, Pakistan, Kosovo, Italy, Egypt, Spain, the United States, Belgium, Greece, Iraq, the United Kingdom, Germany, and France.

TRUMP RALLIES MIDTERM VOTERS
Trump appeared Oct. 14 in Arizona’s reddest county for a rally to rev up Republican voters before the midterm elections. – azcentral

In Bullhead City, Arizona— Wow!
The President himself will speak to crowds,
since midterm voting’s all about himself.
His name’s not on the ballot, but he knows
his presence will combat lackluster polls.
“These rallies will change everything,” says Trump.

To crowds, he speaks unfiltered thoughts, off-script.
Fake news? He hates it. Hates leaked, awkward facts.
“Leakers should be shot,”  he says. Shot dead!
Free press be damned! One viewpoint only—his!
When networks give him grief, they should be banned.
And leakers? Shoot them all. Their crime? The truth.

The price of gas is high, keeps going higher.
“Good news! Our country’s getting rich!” Trump says.
“We’re making fortunes from this high-priced gas!”
Well, someone is. But who? Who is this “we”?
And if Trump’s profiting from oil’s cost,
you think he’ll lower prices at the pump?

Qatar’s $400 million plane—
a gift. Trump says that “when you’re given gifts.
you take them.”  Be polite. Return some favors.
Favors are what worried Founding Fathers,
who said emoluments should be refused.
But Trump now rides a retrofitted plane.
 
And Trump thinks he’s the world’s most VIP.
He tells the crowd a presidential doctor
is always at his side. If doctor spies
a bystander who has a heart attack, 
the doctor won’t respond. Won’t save his life.
Will shrug, “Collateral damage.” Stay with Trump.
But why are doctors watching over Trump?
How fragile is his health— body and mind?
Trump tells his fans that he’s “a freakin’ genius”
because he can remember five short words,
repeat them back in order. All are stunned
at such a monumental mental feat.

The Nobel Peace Prize! Damn! Obama got it.
Now this nobody lady. Why not Trump?
He bombed Iran, it’s true. That war drags on.
And kidnapped Venezuela’s president. 
Uses ICE to bully immigrants.
So what? He wants it. Peace Prize should be his.

Candidates who say they’re GOP
must pledge support to Donald’s every whim.
But how do office-seekers justify
support for Trump’s positions? Did they hear
his Bullhead City speech?  Is he the man
to have a world beneath his nuclear thumb?

Copyright 10/2026			Patricia Doyne

Thirty-Six

Given Twice

If I had anything

I wanted to

fix,

I would have

by now.

Thirty-six.

Im just old

enough,

to reminisce

about the something

I thought I was,

now this.

Im on fire

in amber light,

Im looking, even

though I cannot see.

High like a balloon

Considering everything I could

Be. Maybe.

Probably

not.

I understand enough

to know

I dont.

I know whats wrong

that

doesn’t mean

I wont.

Icarus

Given Twice

Leave it to me to go playing with fire.

Like I exist outside the laws of things.

what did the last year teach you if not the laws of things. The price of things. The value of things.

Disease. Unease. Disordered. Confined. And bordered.

I laughed and quipped “You never know if you’re Icarus until it’s too late. You only know you’re Icarus after you’re Icarus. It’s a goddamn shame.”

And here I am motherfucker. Singed wings unmistakably redolent of death and burnt hair. The stench of fallen hubris. The stink of reality fermenting while you thought, what? The ideal was not only real, but evergreen?

I’ve lost everything that counts, but I’ve never been richer materially.

The fucks that supposed to mean? Am I supposed to believe? Believe me? Who even is me anymore?

Nobody cares and cares even less about reality.

I don’t want to be here, and when I get to some other where, I’m not sure I’ll be there to enjoy it.

I always over deliver because I underpromise. Disappoint. Never. I’d rather be dead.

Like I am.

I cant even cry.

Mourning the things of me that never really happened. The life in me that never really lived.

Sorrow, deep subterranean sorrow, for the unlived.

I feel the life that died in me slowly exposed, some strange unfavorable wind sweeping the dirt from what I’d prefer to stay buried.

Why understand now, just when I overstand completely?

Time used me. It didn’t have to. Not necessity. Not luxury. Novelty is too endearing.

Just tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, without a boom.

Only a thud that nobody heard.

I’m bored. I’m jagged. I’m looking for a buzz.

I fucked up once, and watched my own heart stop.

I’ve been everywhere looking for that feeling since.

Love Don’t

Given Twice

Love holds up the mirror to me

Love displays me beautifully

Love gets the best of me

Love gets the beast of me

Dont you ever fucking leave me

Dont you ever disturb me

Dont you ever wake me

Dont you ever shake my fragile dream

Love is a gateway

Love is a plaything

Love is a melee

Love is a slow tragedy

Dont you break me

Dont betray me

Dont delay me

Dont——

Just portray me sweetly

Given Twice is a writer and entrepreneur in Washington. He has spent his life writing as a means of maximizing honesty. His work explores dissociation, mental illness, romanticism, and the distance between who we present and who we are. In his words: ‘I haven’t been appearing normal. I’ve just been so fucking useful that nobody could make a valid claim against my invalidity.’