A collaborative spin by Carl Scharwath and Rosalyn Bernardo Pastrana. As the music started to play You came and held my trembling cold hand Taking me to the dance floor and we danced In rhythm to every single heartbeat of mine It was getting faster and I felt faint with glee. As the music kept on playing On the dance floor you held me tighter, so breathtaking! I was lost inside your hand's magical touch Hoping I was not only dreaming Dancing with you was my solo heart's wanting. As the music started to end its sweet embrace So as your steps moved farther from me But I wanted not a release from your captivating charm While the music was only slowly fading away I was like a little child in silent tears wishing for more. But when the music ceased from playing You led me away from the dance floor Then your hand waved a simple goodbye Now my heartbeats getting slower in sad tempo But still hoping that was not our last dance. © Rosalyn Bernardo Pastrana Image above, taken by Carl Scharwath Rosalyn Bernardo Pastrana is from the Philippines. At an incredibly young age, she has started writing poems inspired by her late father who showed her the beauty of poetry. She loves writing songs, doing collaborations, along with joining anthology and poetry prompts. She has also a keen interest in photography and graphic design. Rosalyn has previously been published on another collaboration, most notably with same photographer, Carl Scharwath. Carl Scharwath has appeared globally, with 150+ Journals selecting his poetry, short stories, interviews, essays, plays or art photography (his photography has been featured on the covers of 6 journals). Two poetry books, 'Journey to Become Forgotten' (Kind of Hurricane Press) and 'Abandoned' (ScarsTv), have been published. His first photography book was recently published by Praxis. Carl is an Art Editor for Minute Magazine, a competitive runner and a 2nd degree Black-Belt in Taekwondo.

Carl awoke to sunlight sparkling on his windshield. He sat up and stared through the bug-splattered glass at a small sign a few yards ahead that read: November Falls. Pop. 58. The painted number was fresh. His car was parked in tall grass on the side of a two-lane road that ran along a narrow, gently flowing river in a gorge bordered on both sides by steep, rocky mountainsides. He looked at his watch. It was 7:40 AM. He checked his cellphone and found it was dead. On his car radio all he got was static. He rolled down the window and inhaled the aromas of sun-heated grass, wet earth and honeysuckle. He yawned as he always did when inhaling fresh air in the morning. His mouth was dry, as if all the moisture had been absorbed by cotton that remained stuck in the back of his throat. He rubbed dirt from his hands, and then cupped them together and covered his nose and mouth with them. He exhaled. His breath smelled like garlic toast spread with Limburger cheese. He turned and searched for bottled water among the empty whiskey bottles, beer cans and fast food wrappers lying in the back seat. He found it, but what was left in it barely moistened his tongue and did nothing to remove the acrid taste in his mouth. He looked in the rear view mirror and then opened the glove compartment and took out a handgun. He slipped it in the waistband in the back of his pants, hid it with his shirt tail, and opened the car door. As soon as he got out of the car, he relieved himself. He then walked across a small meadow to the bank of the river where through the clear water he watched trout swim just above the rocky riverbed. "Ahoy there, stranger," a voice called out. Startled, Carl quickly turned to see a man coming his way who was carrying a fishing pole and tackle box in one hand, and a can of paint and paint brush in the other. He was dressed in dark green waders and wearing a white ball cap. From a distance the man's smile seemed to take up his entire face. As the man walked toward him, Carl bent down and quickly washed the dirt from his hands in the river, letting the cool water soothe the blisters on his fingertips. He then scooped water into his mouth, swished it around and spat it out. He then gulped down several palm fulls and stood up just as the man was within a few yards away. The man's face was ruddy and lined with wrinkles. He had a thin mustache that was snowy-white. He glanced up at the sky. "Looks like it's gonna be another beautiful day in November Falls," he said. He then gazed at Carl. "You here to do some fishing?" Carl shook his head. "I used to fish, but I'm just taking a look around," he said. "To be honest, I'm not exactly sure where I am." The man chuckled. "Not too many people come to November Falls on purpose. Once you enter the canyon the only way to find your way out is to turn around or go out the other end." "What's the law situation in November Falls?" Carl asked. "Law situation?" "You know. Cops. Sheriff." "Oh, there's no need for any of that in November Falls," Myles said. He set his tackle box down in the grass. "This is my favorite fishing spot. The trout practically jump onto the hook." A hawk's screech momentarily drew both men's attention skyward. Its call echoed. It circled above the water downriver and then dived and was lost from view. "What are you doing with the paint?" Carl asked. "It's my task to change the population figure on the sign," Myles said. "I've been walking out here almost every day recently. I was out here twice yesterday. Changing the sign gives me an excuse to fish." "How far is the town from here?" Carl asked. Myles pointed west. "It's not really much of a town size-wise but it's about three miles from here. You won't find friendlier people anywhere else on this planet than you'll find in November Falls, I suppose." "Is there a hotel or motel in town?" Carl asked. Myles shook his head. "I'm afraid not, but Betty Codescu rents out rooms. Her place is on Maple Street. The road you're on turns into Maple Street. You can't miss her place. It's painted canary yellow. She has a rooms-to-let sign in her window. Just tell Betty that Myles referred you to her." "Thanks," Carl said. He turned and walked back to the car. Before pulling onto the road he watched Myles change the number to 53. A short distance from where Carl had left Myles, the canyon walls bowed out on both sides, forming a crater-like bowl. The river curved, following the direction of the canyon wall it ran alongside of. A few of the houses of November Falls came quickly into view. Their pristine white painted walls and silvery slated roofs glistened in the sunlight. Carl reduced his speed and entered the town slowly. The first street sign was Maple Street. There were fifteen buildings on the tree lined street: eleven houses, a grocery store, saloon, diner and hardware store. The facades of the businesses had been painted recently and although the houses were Victorian, they showed no sign of wear. The lawns were immaculately manicured and they all h ad flower gardens. Honeysuckle and roses grew everywhere. There were no cars or trucks on the street and none of the houses had driveways. Two streets branched off of Maple Street. There were three people out; all were elderly. One stood on the front lawn of one of the houses and two others were standing in the street. All three stood absolutely still and stared up at the sky. Who's taking care of these old people? he wondered. He slowly drove by them noticing the whiteness of their hair; it almost glowed. He stopped briefly in front of the saloon, but seeing it was closed he continued on. A few minutes later he parked his car at the curb in front of the only house painted something other than white; an almost startling bright canary yellow. There was a rooms-to-let sign in the front window. He got out of the car and brushed dirt from his pants and then opened the trunk. After pushing aside a shovel and two sawed-off shotguns, he took out his toiletries bag and small suitcase. He walked up the cobblestone walkway to the house and peered in through the stained glass in the door at the foyer. A grandfather clock stood in one corner. He kicked dirt from his shoes and rang the bell and waited several moments before the door was opened by an elderly woman with long white hair. Though wrinkled, her face retained the beauty of a much younger woman. Her eyes were lively, full of expression. "Are you Betty Cadescu?" Carl asked her. "Yes, I am. Can I help you?" "I need a room for a few days. Myles referred me." She looked at him, appraisingly. "How is it you know Myles?" "Well, actually I just met him just a little while ago for the first time by the river outside of town," he said. "My name is Carl Hendrix." She smiled knowingly. "Meeting him any other way would have been surprising." She stepped back from the door. "Please come in, Carl." Carl stepped in. The air was scented with lilacs. Other than ticking produced by the swinging of the clock's pendulum, I was quiet. He peeked into the living room. The furnishings were early twentieth century. The overstuffed furniture was upholstered in dark red velvet. "Nice place you got here," he said. "Thank you," she replied and closed the door. "Come in and sit down. You look as if you've had a rough journey." He rubbed the stubble on his square jaw. "I've been on the road for a few days." She walked into the living room and he followed. She sat in a rocking chair and he sat on the sofa. He placed the suitcase and toiletries bag across his lap. "Where are you going?" she asked. "Going?" He shifted uncomfortably on the soft sofa cushion. "You must be going somewhere," she said. She began rocking the chair. "West." He glanced out her front window. A man was standing in the street in front of her house with his head tilted back and gazing up at the sky. His white hair glistened in the sunlight. "What is it with the old folks in this town?" he said. "I'm an old folk," she said. "I mean. . ." Unable to find the words to respond he stopped abruptly. He looked around the room and not seeing a television, said, "Are there televisions in the rooms?" he asked. "No, there aren't. I don't own a television. No one in November Falls does." He ran his hand through his greasy hair. "No one?" What about a radio?" "No one owns one of those either," she said. "How do you folks keep up with the news?" She brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. "What news should we know about?" "It could save your lives," he said. "You never know who might come through here." She chuckled. "That's silly. When it's time for our lives to end, watching the news won't prevent it." She stopped rocking. "You seem like a nice young man. Would you like to see your room?" "Yes. I need a bath and I'm dog-tired." He stood up. "How much for the room?" "Whatever you can pay will be fine." She stood and walked past him to the bottom of the stairs that led to the second floor. "You can get your meals over at the diner," she said. "I'm a terrible cook." Late afternoon Carl left Betty's house and slowly walked to the diner. There was a small blackboard in the window with the day's menu written on it. There were no prices listed beside the vegetable soup, grilled cheese sandwich, or meatloaf special. A bell above the door tinkled when he went in. The whiteness of the walls and floor momentarily blinded him. The men and women sitting at the tables and at the counter all turned and looked at him with huge smiles. Their faces were wrinkled, but radiated good health; their cheeks were pink, their eyes sparkled, their white hair shone. "Hello, Carl," some of them called out. Others greeted him with, "Welcome to November Falls." "I'm Jim," said a man wearing a straw hat. "Glad to meet you, Carl." A woman with a bright pink scarf tied around her neck said, "I'm Louise. I hope you like our town." An elderly woman wearing a red checkered apron came from behind the counter. She was carrying a pot of coffee. "I'm Hazel. Betty came in for lunch and said such nice things about you," she said. "I hope you don't mind sitting with strangers." He looked around the diner. There was an empty seat at two of the four square tables covered with red checkerboard tablecloths. The diners at the tables with an empty chair waved their arms and called out to him to join them. There was an empty stool at the counter. The seat was upholstered with red leather. "I'll sit at the counter," he said. "That's fine," Hazel said. "I hope you don't mind a grilled cheese sandwich. We're out of everything else and Frank, the cook, has left." To the disappointed groans of the patrons at the tables, Carl sat at the counter between two men. Hazel came around the counter and poured coffee in a cup and set it in front of him. "I apologize but we didn't get cream or sugar with our delivery this week." "That's okay." He took a sip of the coffee and uttered a subtle moan. "That's the best coffee I've ever tasted," he said. "I'm so glad you like it. It's made with water from the falls," Hazel said. "I'll be back with your sandwich in a few minutes." She placed the coffee pot on a heating plate behind the counter and then went through a door into the kitchen. "I'm Doug," the man seated to Carl's left said to him. "It's an honor to meet someone famous." Carl took another sip of coffee. "What makes you think I'm famous?" "Betty said you were interested in television and you look like someone who might be on television." "Since you don't have televisions in this town how would you know that?" "Oh, we used to have televisions, but that was some time ago. After we saw everything we needed to see we got rid of them." Carl took another sip of coffee. "The waitress, er, what's her name, said Frank the cook left. Where did he go?" "Hazel. Her name is Hazel. One of the sweetest persons you'll ever meet," Doug said. "Hard to say where Frank is at the moment. Distance is really hard to measure sometimes." "What?" The man on the stool at Carl's right, leaned over and said, "I don't mean to interrupt your conversation, but Myles said you were a fisherman." "I'm not a fisherman," Carl said. "I fished with my dad when I was a kid." "Why did you stop?" the man asked. "My dad took off," Carl said. Doug asked, "Where did he go?" Hazel came through the door carrying a plate with the grilled cheese sandwich on it. She placed it in front of him. As she refilled his cup, she said, "Don't let these two talk your ears off. I hope you enjoy your sandwich." "I've lost my appetite," he said as he pushed the plate away. "What do I owe you?" "It's on the house," she said. "Money is meaningless in November Falls." "Goodbye, Carl," everyone called out as he went out the door. Betty was sitting on her porch swing when Carl came out of the house. Purple, red and gold bands of light were fanned out across the twilight sky. The air was thick with the scent of honeysuckle. Birdsong chorused from the trees. He leaned against a porch railing and looked out at the street. Four people were standing in the street and gazing up at the sky. One of them was Hazel. "Why do they do that?" he asked. She rocked the swing. "Does it bother you?" "Not really, but it's freaky." She had braided her hair and rolled it into a bun on the top of her head. She played with one of the bobby pins that held it together. "Myles stopped by while you were resting. he said he'd stop by early in the morning to take you fishing." "I don't have any fishing gear," Carl said. "Oh, I'm sure there's plenty of that sort of thing around, " she said. He looked down the street and saw light coming from the saloon. He licked his lips and stepped onto the top porch step. "I think I'll take a little walk." She pulled the bobby pin all the way out and then reinserted it. "Stay out of trouble." Going down the street he passed Hazel. He stood in front of her, said hello, and waved his hand in front of her eyes. Getting no response, he shook his head and walked on, thinking, This is crazy. I'm getting out of here tomorrow. The saloon door was open. Music he had never heard before spilled out from a jukebox. Inside, the walls were painted white. White tablecloths covered the tables. It was immaculately clean. The only person in the saloon was an old man with a gleaming white handlebar mustache who was standing behind the bar. He was wearing a white apron. Carl walked up to the bar and sat on a stool. "Welcome to my saloon, Carl," the bartender said. "Betty said you'd be coming here." "How could she know that?" Carl asked. The bartender wiped the bar with a wet rag in front of where Carl was seated. "She has a second sense abut those kinds of things." "I think Betty talks too much," Carl said. The bartender chuckled. "Maybe so. If you had asked her she would have told you that I don't serve alcoholic drinks." Carl wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "No alcohol? What kind of a saloon is this?" "It's where the people of November Falls come to socialize in the evenings." Carl glared at the bartender. "There aren't any people in here." The bartender put a whiskey glass on the bar and filled it with water from a tall, white, slender bottle. "This is water taken from the falls west of town. Drink it. You might like it. It's what we folks who live here drink. It will help calm you down." Carl swatted the glass from the bar with his hand. It hit the floor and shattered. "Everyone in this town belongs in an institution. How come there isn't anyone in November Falls under the age of eighty?" "We were all young once," the bartender said. Carl pulled his handgun from the back of his pants and aimed it at the bartender's head. "Alright, tell me what's going on here. None of that double-talk either." "I would like to stay around and talk but it's my time to go," the bartender said. He took off the apron and laid it on the bar. "You're not going anywhere until. you answer my questions," Carl aid, waving the gun at him. The bartender chuckled. "Sorry, but I'm due on Maple Street." He walked around the bar and headed toward the door. Carl aimed the gun at the back of the bartender's head and pulled the trigger. The bullet left the barrel of the gun, froze in mid-air and fell to the floor. The bartender walked out of the saloon. Stunned, Carl briefly stared at his gun as if seeing it for the first time and then flung it across the room. He ran out of the saloon and down the street, pushing aside several men and women who were gazing up at the starlit sky. he turned on Oak Street and ran a block before stopping, sweating and breathless. The Victorian homes on both sides of the street were dark. The only signs of life were the birds in the trees. He collapsed to his knees and screamed, "Where has everyone gone?" "Everything that the town needs is brought in by a truck once a week," Betty said. "It didn't bring butter or jelly along with a lot of other things this week so we'll have to eat dry toast." She passed a plate with four slices of burnt toast across the table to Carl. He picked up a slice and bit into a corner. There was a resulting crunching sound. He put the toast on the table. He glowered at her, "I don't like being talked about and even more I don't like not having my questions answered," he said, angrily. "Something weird is happening to the people in this town and I want to know what it is." She wiped toast crumbs from her lips with a napkin. "Weird things happen to people in every town," she said. "You shouldn't let such things upset you so." Carl knocked the plate of toast from the table. "Listen, lady. I went up one of your streets last night and every home on it was vacant and so are almost all of them on Maple Street, so you can't just pass that off as an every day occurrence." "Those aren't homes anymore," Betty said with a smile. "Those are just houses." The door bell chimed. "Oh that must be Myles here to take you fishing," she said. "Now get along with you." Carl scooted his chair back from the table and stood up. "When I get back I'm getting my things and getting out of this looney bin." He stormed out of the kitchen. When he opened the front door, Myles was standing on the porch in dark green waders and a white ball cap, and holding two fishing poles, a tackle box, a can of white paint, and a paint brush. "Looks like it's going to be another beautiful day in November Falls," Myles said with a big smile. Carl shut the door. "When is it never a beautiful day here?" he asked sarcastically as he took the paint and paintbrush from Carl's hand. Walking to the car, Carl looked up and down the street. It was empty. He put everything in the trunk as Myles stood by, watching. "What are the guns for?" Myles asked. "I'll give it to you straight. I'm no angel," Carl said. "There are people looking for me and I need to protect myself." He slammed the trunk closed. When they got into the car, Myles said, "I always wondered what it would be like to ride in one of these." "You're kidding me, right?" Carl said as he started the car. A moment later he pulled away from the curb. He did a u-turn and headed east on Maple Street. Before passing the last house he looked in the rear view mirror and saw Betty standing in the street and looking up at the sky. It isn't until they reached the same spot where Carl had awoken the previous morning that either of them spoke. "Why are those people after you?" Myles asked. Carl pulled the car into the grass a few feet from the November Falls sign. The number on it was 28. "I took some money. A lot of money. Two million dollars to be exact." He pointed at the sign. "That number must be a mistake." Myles opened his door. "I never make mistakes." He stepped out of the car, and then bent down and looked in at Carl. "Money is meaningless." "Only in November Falls," Carl said and then he go out of the car. After taking the things from the trunk, Myles set the paint and paintbrush in front of the sign. They walked together to the riverbank. "Sorry that I couldn't find another pair of waders for you," Myles said as he set the poles and tackle box in the grass. "Not too many people in November fAlls fish." Carl sat on the ground. "That's okay." He took his shoes and socks off and rolled up his pants legs. Myles opened the tackle box and took out several spinners and bright yellow plastic minnows and attached them to the line and hook. "Did you enjoy fishing with your dad?" he asked. "It was the best times I ever had," Carl replied as he stood up. "He used to pack baloney sandwiches and we'd go to this fishing hole that my dad liked. We'd spend the entire day talking and fishing. My dad was a great guy." Myles handed him a fishing pole. "What did you do after he left?" "Tried to forget he had ever existed." Myles stepped into the water. "Try not to injure the fish when you take them off of the hook and put them back in the water." "You don't eat them?" Carl said as he stepped into the river. "Heavens no." In a matter of thirty minutes the two. men had caught and released twenty trout. Carl was laughing as an eleventh fish dangled from his hook and Myles said, "I'm sorry, but I have to go." "Not now," Carl said. "I never knew fishing could be like this." As Carl watched, Myles walked out of the water, laid his pole down, took off his waders and laid them in the grass. he walked to the sign, wiped away the number on the sign, opened the can of paint, and dipped the brush into it. Carl got out of the water laid his pole next to Myles'. "Do you have to do that now?" he said. Myles applied the brush to the sign, and then dropped the brush. He stepped back from the sign, tilted his head back and stared up at the sky. Carl rushed to him, grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. "What's wrong with you? Snap out of it! What you're doing, what all the old people in this town do, is insane." The smile that was spread across Myles' face didn't wane. His eyes remained focused on the sky. Carl looked up at the sign. The population number was 0. He ran to the riverbank and put on his shoes and socks. When he stood and turned, Myles was inside a beam of white light and being lifted into the sky. Carl watched until Myles disappeared beyond the bright blue sky. Then he ran to his car and got the shovel. He frantically dug in the spot below the sign where he had buried the money. With his fingers blistered and his hands and pants dirtied, he tossed the shovel aside and pulled out an empty white linen sack. He ripped it to shreds, looked up at the sky and screamed, "Why?" He the looked at the sign. It read, November Falls. He ran to his car, got in and sped away, heading west toward the town. Minutes later he knew he had entered Maple Street, but the street no longer existed. It was gone. The entire town had vanished. His handgun lay in the road. His suitcase and toiletries bag were in a bare patch of ground where Betty's house had been. He raced on, leaving his things behind. The last thing he saw as he drove out of the canyon was a series of small waterfalls with water so bright that it was luminescent. The End. Steve Carr, from Richmond, Virginia, has had over 530 short stories published internationally in print and online magazines, literary journals, reviews and anthologies since June of 2016. He has had seven collections of his short stories published. His paranormal/horror novel Redbird was released in November 2019. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize twice. Steve is on Twitter and Facebook. His website is: https://www.stevecarr960.com/

By Steve Carr The Author's Short Story was originally published within the contents of our 3rd Issue of ILA Magazine, (May/June). We are also posting here, on our blog for readers to enjoy within a clearer view. In the Casa De La Danza, young women in hues of pink, orange and green slinky satin dresses, sit in a row of chairs along one wall. They look like different flavored shaved ices melting in the heat of the ballroom. The blades of the ceiling fans whirl slowly about, circulating the warm air that is heavily scented with the perfumes, colognes, and sweat of the dancers. The girls fan their rouged faces with bamboo fans. Impassionately, they watch the couples on the dance floor. Mateo stands near the entrance, his hands in his pockets, a toothpick dangling from his lower lip. Surreptitiously, he eyes Aymee who sits at the far end of the row of girls. While the other girls sit with their knees touching, she has her legs crossed. Her foot wiggles, lazily keeping rhythm to the music, the bright green comb she has inserted into her dark brown hair piled high on her head like a mound of cascading chocolate is slightly askew. He has known her since they were children but hasn't seen her in a long time. At that moment he wants her. he wants any woman. But not to dance with. These girls, the ones in the Casa De La Danza waiting to be asked to dance, do only that. Dance. His patience with the slowness of the night is frayed. Despite his athletic good looks, he is unable to compete with the men on the dance floor who move their bodies in ways he is unable to do. He turns, spits out the toothpick, and leaves the building. The recent downpour has left the air even more humid than usual. The palm leaves on the tall trees droop as if oppressed by the rain, humidity, and their inconsequential existence. The asphalt that covers the parking lot is coated with rainwater that makes it shine like black gloss. The cars in the lot are all older model Russian-made Ladas, all with excellent paint jobs in colors fit for an upscale whorehouse. His motorbike along with a dozen others, stand side-by-side at a rack, chained there like animals awaiting slaughter. The boys who ride them are of the Cuban middle class, although technically a class system doesn't exist. His only consolation in owning a motorbike is that it gets him where he wants to go. He can't afford anything but what he has. He sweeps the water from the bike seat with his hand and unlocks the chain. He wraps the chain around the handlebars, and gets on. There's a moment of anxiety before he turns the key. Will it start or not? His motorbike is like the women he dates, ill tempered and unpredictable. It sputters momentarily and then he drives off. The streets of Havana are busy. Old cars, junk-heap pickup trucks and aging buses move slowly along the crowded thoroughfares where pedestrians seem impervious to the headlights that catch them in their beams and the honking of the horns that implores them to get out of the way. The white light that shines from the moon that is peeking out from behind diminishing storm clouds illuminates the brightly painted facades of the buildings. Graffiti is scrawled on every available surface. Little of it is political, which could get the artist arrested. Most of it is intended to be poetic. Mateo turns onto a side street with the intention of taking the less busy back streets. Only two blocks inside the meandering tangle of streets, his motorbike is stopped, surrounded by four men. Standing in front of the motorbike, gripping the handlebars is Diego. "Hey man, word has it you know a way that could get an amigo off this goddamn island if he wanted to go to America." Mateo looks around at the men surrounding him, and then back to Diego. he only knows Diego. He doesn't recognize the others. "Yeah, buy some oars and build a raft," he says. "Now, get outta my way. Abuelita can't soak her feet unless I'm there to help her and you know how cranky old women can get when they have sore feet." Diego grabs Mateo by his shirtfront. "Listen cabron, I'm gonna be keeping my eye on you and if I see you getting ready to depart Cuba without taking me along, I'm gonna cut your throat." He lets go of Mateo's shirt and shoves him back on the seat. Mateo puts his foot on the gas pedal and speeds on. # Mateo tears a piece of rind from the orange with his teeth and spits it on the floor. Around his chair there are several pieces of orange rind and a banana peel. He bites into the pulp, slowly swallows it, savoring the taste of juice dribbles down his chin. Doves perched on the wrought iron railing outside the kitchen window fill the air with their coos. In the next room, his grandfather has the television turned up loud. A soap opera is on. The actors speak rapidly, in the heat of discussion about someone's unwanted child. Mateo tears another piece of orange peel from the fruit and spits it on the floor. "Cerdo," his sister, Adoncia, calls him as she walks into the room and sees the mess on the floor. "Oink, oink," he replies as he bites into the pulp. She goes to the refrigerator and takes out a plate on which sits six eggs. "Diego came here last night looking for you while you were out," she says. She places a frying pan on the stove and turns on the flame. "I told him you had gone dancing." He wraps his hand around the orange, squeezing it. Choking it. "Why would you tell him that?" It's where you said you were going. You go dancing at the dance halls and clubs every Friday and Saturday night." "I go to meet jevas, not to dance," he says. She pours fat from a jar into the pan, waits for the fat to begin to sizzle, then cracks two eggs and drops them in the pan. "Anyway, Diego seemed in a rush to see you." "He saw me. I saw him." She pushes at the eggs with a spatula. "What did he want?" "To see me," he says, rising from the chair. With his bare foot he brushes aside the debris he has left on the floor and leaves the kitchen. In the living room his abuela is rocking back and forth in the rocking chair Mateo made for her. Her favorite wool shawl is draped across her frail shoulders, although the room is hot. Potted ferns and cactus are lined up on the windowsill that overlooks a noisy alleyway. He glances out the window to make sure his motorbike is still chained up just as he left it. He goes to his grandmother and kisses her lightly on the forehead. "You're a good boy, Mateo," she says as she affectionately pats his hand without looking away from the television. He kneels down by the chair and looks up at her wrinkled face. "I will be going away soon," he says. "Where is there to go?" she says. "Where can anyone go?" The actors in the soap opera are screaming at one another. "There is a whole world beyond Cuba, Abuelita," he says. "I want to go to America." "Be sure to wear a raincoat and make sure your sister wears hers," she says. "Adoncia is such a good girl," she says. Mateo stands, swats a fly buzzing around his head, and goes into the bathroom. He strips off his boxers, steps into the shower, and turns on the cold water. Just like the water that comes out when the hot water knob is turned, it's tepid. Hot or cold knob, what comes out is always the same. While lost in thought, thinking about Aymee, and fully aroused, there is a sudden banging on the bathroom door. It's Adoncia. "Mateo, something is wrong with Abuelita," she screams. # Mateo's grandmother lays in the hospital bed blankly staring up at the ceiling. Mateo passes his hand in front of her face, but her eyes don't follow the movement. They follow nothing. There is no longer any life in her eyes, although her heart beats and she breathes. Tubes, monitors and IV's are connected to her body. Adoncia is sitting at the bedside, holding her grandmother's hand, crying softly. "How long will she live?" Mateo asks the doctor who stands at the foot of the bed making notes in a chart. The doctor looks up, as if startled from a dream. "It's hard to say. She has had a severe stroke. If we keep her on life support, she could remain alive for a long time. There's no way to really predict these things." "My grandmother won't recover?" Adoncia says, not taking her eyes from her abuelita's face. The doctor hesitates before saying, "At her age, it's unlikely, but miracles do happen." "And if she's taken off life support?" Mateo says. The doctor looks first at Mateo, and then at Adoncia who has her lips pressed against the back of her grandmother's hand. "Perhaps it's time you contact your priest." # The wet sand beneath Mateo's feet is cool and soggy. It oozes up between his toes but is washed away by the ebb and flow of the tide. In the early evening sky, seagulls perform a chaotic ballet accompanied by their screeching cries. They have been drawn to crabs scampering beneath the cover of mounds of sea foam that washes in and out with every wave. Mateo has rolled up his pant legs revealing his muscular calf muscles. Whenever he looks at them he is reminded of his lack of coordination when dancing. He once took lessons on how to dance the Cuban tango, but was told by the instructor, "You should just concentrate on walking." The wind blowing in from the Gulf of Mexico is warm and filled with salt that is invisible but clings to his skin. On the horizon, there are ships carrying large containers, heading for the open sea. Smaller vessels, many with white sails, ply the waters nearer to the coast. The sea craft of the Tropas Guardafronteras skim the waters, on constant lookout for anything that appears illegal. The bells of buoys mix with the blaring of horns from the boats, the crashing waves, and the ruckus of the gulls. Mateo came to the beach to think, but in the noise, he finds that hard to do. He turns to leave when he sees Aymee at a distance, walking up to the beach, accompanied by two other young women. He hastily puts on his shirt and tucks it in. He stares out at the sea as if in deep contemplation, remembering that when they were children, Aymee was very smart. After several minutes of trying to appear intelligent, he turns his head and sees that Aymee and her companions have left the beach. Returning to where he left his motorbike chained to a bike stand by the boardwalk, he finds the words "no olvides" spray painted on the bike seat in bright red. He wonders, Don't forget what? He looks around for signs of Diego and his crew spying on him, waiting, but the boardwalk is mostly crowded with couples walking hand-in-hand or other loners like himself standing about, aimlessly searching for something. Something real, but elusive. The drive through the city is slowed by a sudden downpour. The large potholes in the streets quickly fill with rain water, forming small pools. The drainage system has quickly baked up, creating overflow from the sewers that carry garbage and vegetative debris in rapidly flowing streams along each sides of the streets. He is soaked by the time he reaches home. At the front door, he removes his shoes, empties the sand from them, and along with his sopping wet shirt, leaves them on the ground, next to the welcome mat. Inside, it's quiet. he goes into the bathroom, removes his clothes and drys off. In his bedroom, he puts on his best shirt, pants and shoes. He goes into Adoncia's room, steals money she keeps in her jewelry box that she thinks she has hidden from him, and then calls for a taxi. Twenty minutes later, he gets in the back seat. "El Casa De La Danza," he tells the driver. The ride to the dance hall is much faster than when he rides his motorbike. He feels slightly guilty for taking some of his sister's money, but his pay as a public servant mopping the floors of government buildings doesn't allow him the luxury of taking taxis and she'll only be angry for a short while when she discovers the theft. She can be mean, but forgiving. At the Casa De La Danza, he pays the driver, who grumbles about not getting a tip, and dashes to the entrance attempting to keep from getting wet. The rain has diminished, but not by much. Just inside the doors, he stops at the ticket booth and hands money to Hernando. "You going to dance tonight?" Hernando says. He hands Mateo the ticket to get in. "I never dance," Mateo says, taking the ticket and stuffing it in his pocket. "Why do you come here, then?" "I dream of being able to dance." In the ballroom, he stops and looks at posters propped up on easels. "Concurso de tango Cuban esta noche," is written in bold gold lettering accompanied by photos of couples dancing the Cuban tango and one couple holding a large trophy. He finds his usual place near a wall just inside the ballroom, near where the young women waiting to be asked to dance, sit. He sticks a toothpick in his mouth, leans back, and props one foot against the wall. The moist air from outside has given the ballroom the sensation of being in a hothouse. As he watches the girls fan themselves, he unbuttons his shirt to mid-chest, revealing the beads of sweat on the cleavage of his well-developed pectoral muscles. He has seen them all before, and they have seen him. There is a mutual, unspoken, bond of indifference between him and them. The mirrored ball that hangs in the middle of the ballroom ceiling turns slowly, casting small squares of reflected light onto the dance floor and the dancers. The circle of fragmented light cast about the room is mesmerizing, hypnotic, despite Mateo's attempt to ignore it. Amidst the dancers caught in the glittering light, Diego is dancing with Aymee. Mateo's rage boils up from the core of his being, rage towards Diego, Aymee and Cuba. He retrieves his ticket from his pocket, crumbles it in his hand, and throws it on the floor. Hastily departing the Casa De La Danza, he runs into his best friend, Jose, who has just bought a ticket. "Hey man, I just heard the news," Jose says." "What news?" "You don't know?" Jose says, surprised. "Your Abuela has died." # "I think it was a sign," Mateo says. "I hadn't seen Aymee in a very long time and then I saw her three times in less than twenty-four hours. Three is a lucky number, no?" Adoncia slowly shakes her head. "When will you return?" Mateo shoves the last shirt into his duffel bag and closes it. "I must first get away," he says. "Diego has made it clear he intends to kill me if I try to leave without him." "Like it or not, he is our older brother," she says. "He never came around except to get money from Abuelita and then he doesn't show up at her funeral." Adoncia presses a small wad of pesos in his hand. "When does the boat leave Havana?" "At nightfall." He lifts the bag from his bed and places it on his shoulder. he looks at his sister who has tears welling in her eyes. "I will send for you when I'm settled." He leaves the apartment, glances at his motorbike set free of its chains, and waits for a taxi. The End. Steve Carr, from Richmond, Virginia, has had over 500 short stories published internationally in print and online magazines, literary journals, reviews and anthologies, since June 2016. he has had seven collections of his short stories published. His paranormal/horror novel, 'Redbird', was released in November 2019. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, twice. His Twitter handle is @carrsteven960. His website is listed below: https://www.stevecarr960.com You can also find Steve on Facebook. You can contact Steve, via email at: carrsteven960@gmail.com

Meet Mudasir Rehman Dar, the first creative Artist from Jammu and Kashmir, awarded in the Asia India Book of Records, famous for making the world's smallest painting of Holy Khabba on a ring stone leaf and pencil lead. He is best known as an artist and well-known painter, famous for his unique style of creative Abstract paintings. He hails from South Kashmir's Kulpora Village of Kulgam district in Jammu and Kashmir and his art gives a social message. This young, creative artist is well known for creative abstract paintings and portraits and has been carving for platform to display his talent, despite winning several awards at mega stages. The artist states that since his childhood, he was naturally attracted towards the art. "I used to make paintings with different messages. I usually tried to focus on social evils, through my artwork like an addict, child labor and other social injustices besides ongoing conflict," he said, adding that "this artwork is giving me peace of mind." He said: "So far, I have won so many awards at national, state and district levels, besides dozens of certificates." And, getting entries in Asian and Indian book of records is acknowledgement of work which creates true happiness to show his real talent. He is receiving appreciation because of his art at different mega stages, yet the support which he needs to continue his artwork from government, is nowhere in sight. Kashmiri youth are talented but they lack platforms where they can show their talent and government must look into it seriously. It is pertinent to mention here, that Mudasir is a God gifted talent who has created the world's smallest painting of the Holy Kabbah on a ring stone leaf and pencil lead. Truly, this artist we have found, through his paintings and portraits, each, tell a story of life in Kashmir and so much more. Below, Artist Mudasir Rehman Dar shares his paintings. "My art always gives a social message." - Artist Mudasir Rehman Dar Check out the slideshow below, we have added another photo of the artist and more paintings... A Kanger, [ka-gir], also known as kangri, kangid or kangir, is an earthen pot woven around with wicker, and filled with hot embers, used by Kashmiris beneath their traditional clothing pheran to keep the chill at bay, which is also regarded as a work of art and can be viewed on the artist's Instagram and Facebook pages.

By: Safdar Bhatti My very heart bleeds for you Your forlorn cries oppress My brimming breast to break Into dirge, a mournful dirge, Oh! the cruelty, Imposed on beings by their own kind In the sacred land All hold holy, Which religion teaches sacrilege? Bloodshed, cruelty, disorder? Which religion teaches hatred? Greed and imperial oppression? Then why all this hiss Of the Serpent bent To turn the vein of Humanity blue Peace, the soul of society, Let it flourish the world around Terrified angels be consoled With the treat of brotherly love.

Soft show. A classy tiff. They both sit... wearing glasses and blue T-Shirts...The conversation starts between them... Wilde: There are many attractive women in this circus - and I have been unable to take my eyes off them, only them for the past few jiffies, not a cheesy pick-up line, you know, I crave to smooch and leave them as hearts are made to be broken. Shaw: I don't wish to answer this. I am forlorn, Wilde, I have tried not to be. We both have been married so long, just remember, those who cannot change their minds, can't change anything, and I am sure if you commit it, you will grieve it, tomorrow. Wilde: Okay, you are not letting me and you know this makes me talk more; maybe that is good for you, but to live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all, is good for me. We have been spending time together, lunches, meetings, that kind of stuff...don't you even feel to be my decent buddy? Shaw: I can't believe it, that is just not something you desire to marry or love every woman. The world doesn't move like this. Beware of false knowledge. It is more dangerous than ignorance. You are a good writer, you should know it by yourself, alas! How can your mind think to sleep with other women? Oh God, it is the worst thing I have ever observed from your countenance, Wilde. Wilde: You are crazy, and you always will be, you are the only one who discovers instantly what is on my face. In faces, I reckon this may have made you uneasy. That is very nice of you to say because a good friend will always stab you in the front. Keep it up, you are going to match my genius very soon. Really great, Shaw, seriously. Shaw: Ooh, I understand, can I give you the word of advice? (Wilde - yes). Success does not consist in never making mistakes, but in never making the same one, a second time. In your life, you have been seduced by many women, and at times, you couldn't even decide what is best for you. Now leave this all behind, and use a glass mirror to see your faces and use works of art to see your soul, you will uncover something, a fresh realm of solace. My way of joking is, to tell the truth. Wilde: Shaw, I am not young enough to know this. But, I know this, one shouldn't start a conversation like this, with someone who doesn't belong to and you are the instance. We know, experience is simply the name we give our mistakes. So, let's end it, and relish the show of Chris Rock who reveals many entertainment shows like acrobats, trained animals, musicians, dancers, hoopers, tightrope walkers, jugglers, magicians, unicyclists, etc. Shaw: Well, Wilde, they both are: 'Thank you for'; that is why I say, life isn't about finding yourself, life is about creating yourself. So this time, I should go with you, let's be quiet and relish it. Watch and notice their actions. Both are now silently watching the show... © Adi Adnan Author's Bio: Adi is a poet, writer, columnist, translator, Ghazal writer, motivational speaker, blogger and reviewer from Tral, Kashmir (J&K). He has contributed his poems to various reputed magazines and journals. He has also published his poetry book, "Tears Fall in my Heart." In 2020, Adi was awarded by Gujarat Sahitya Academy, for poetry. In 2021, he was awarded the Shakespear medal for his literary merit, writing quality, uniqueness, and creativity. Furthermore, he has won the 2021 best achiever award in the field of English Literature as the title, 'Best English Poet.'

VISUAL ART 'Acrylic Impasto 1.1' Painting by Amitabh Mitra 'Coast' - Painting by Amitabh Mitra ‘Sandy Dunes 002.1' Painting by Amitabh Mitra ‘Acrylic on Canvas 2' Painting by Amitabh Mitra 'Free State 1' Painting by Amitabh Mitra 'Huzrat Kothi' Painting by Amitabh Mitra 'Acrylic on Paper Using a Palette' Painting by Amitabh Mitra 'Wild Coast Cintsa 3' Painting by Amitabh Mitra A charcoal portrait (above) of Cecilia Makiwane © November 7, 2016, sketched by Dr. Amitabh Mitra, is of the first black registered nurse in apartheid South Africa. Amitabh's portrait is on permanent display at Cape Town by the University of Cape Town. Dr. Amitabh Mitra is a trauma surgeon at Cecilia Makiwane Hospital in Mdantsane, Eastern Cape. You can read more about Cecilia Makiwane Hospital and view Dr. Mitra's portrait on the Wikipedia website at: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cecilia_Makiwane_Hospital Above, a charcoal portrait, sketched by Dr. Amitabh Mitra, © December 8, 2014, of Dr. Neil Aggett, the first white doctor tortured and killed by the apartheid regime, can also be viewed on Wikipedia. The inquest is still continuing. Dr. Mitra's charcoal portrait was presented to alma mater, The Kingswood College, for the museum. You can read more about Dr. Neil Aggett and view Dr. Mitra's portrait on the Wikipedia website at: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neil_Aggett Moosa Moolla (born in 1934), is an Indian South African Anti-apartheid activist, leader and diplomat. The charcoal portrait (above) is sketched by Dr. Amitabh Mitra © July 25, 2919. You can read more about Moosa Moolla and view Dr. Mitra's portrait on the Wikipedia website at: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moosa_Moolla Charcoal Portrait on Paper, of Ahmed Timol, by Dr. Amitabh Mitra © July 30, 2019. Ahmed Timol was a teacher, known for anti-apartheid activism. You can read more about him and view Dr. Mitra's portrait on the Wikipedia website at: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ahmed_Timol Amitabh Mitra Bio Amitabh Mitra is a poet, artist, publisher and a medical doctor. A widely published poet in the web and print, Amitabh has held many exhibitions of his poetry art. 'A Slow Train to Gwalior' is a CD of his ten most popular love poems recited against a background of Indian and African traditional music. A documentary film incorporating his love poems is being produced in South Africa. His website below: https://www.amitabhmitra.com

I want to be the son of nature For deep wounds, not going back to my doctor. This doctor, putting the outside of my worldview. I have to respect him. I should run away of him and search for my soul. I want to rise up to the same tree, but for shadow like roots, put myself inside ground for steaming smell of soil around. Not working, fog in mountain with "Shimshal"* melody, not be a mixture of cloud. What's a profit of wind? If he's not boring, dance inside eyes. Don't put Leaves drunkenness on the path of rivers. But wind, is a traditional musical instrument God, playing our words and put it on a melody line. Wind born on a burp of air instead smell, he was busy with buzzing. He ran behind the soil, hanged himself with a claw: for the love of steam. Before we came, was busy pairing. He brought three girls into the world: snow, hail and rain. Rain, so softly umbrellaed: Stone liked to melt underneath it. Until the human came to the world: Learn from it and avoid cruelty. When he saw the hail, He's more far away from the soul. But snow, with all this softness He can't calm down our stupidity. I want to be the son of nature. When I was blind, put a drop of rain inside my eyes. When I was injured, wrap my wounds with leaves. When my hand is broken, grafting a stick of a tree from me, so that my writing can be re-greening. When my hair is falling, plant a mint on my head, so that instead of sweat, it will spread, smell good. When my hearing deafens, take me to the sea, put two seashells for me, and at least, it will move waves to me. So that I will not be the son of nature, when the basil goes back to the mint tribe. Mentha pulegium, who anyone doesn't eat freshly, when he gets old, his height will rise as old man, drying same old "Mentha pulegium." Come on, let's be in nature, spreading peace! © Written by Peshawa Kakayi Qaladze, Kurdistan Region of Iraq Translated to English by Dlovan Ali *Shimshal: A Kurdish cultural musical instrument. Type of a flute. BIO: Peshawa Kakayi, was born on April 19, 1984, in Qaladze, Kurdistan region of Iraq. He graduated from the Political Science Department of the University of Sulaimaniyah. He writes in many literary appendixes in Kurdistan. He has published eight books of poetry, written in Kurdish. * Residue of Breaths: Poetry Collection © 2008 * I am, I Guard Flowers, Poems © 2011 * Garden - Your Love Poetry © 2015 * From the House of Aunt Khunche, I Went to Saeed's Son-in-law (Open Text) © 2017 * American Letter with the Taste of Poetry (Poetry, Prose, Narration) © 2018 * Cosmology (Poetry) © 2019 * Rebuilding the Light on the Return of Zoroastrian i Ahmed Mala (Investigation) © 2020

Gently, the snow was falling and the village road frosted with sweet whiteness. The plum trees, the icicles were freezing. The spring water had become a garden of ice, the blue vase had been cracked. The white beard man, the snow landscape was catching his eye and he was singing a winter chant and the admirable snowman with his soft arms kept a fire burning and figs were boiling in a pot. The white smoke of the fireplaces was rising up from the madhouse's chimneys and the children had white dreams. Shivering sparrows in cold were cuddling together under the eaves the snowflakes like butterfly, were gently fluttering to the ground. © Diyar Latif Translator: Daliya Raouf Diyar Latif came to life in 1989. He is a poet, journalist, writer, Peshmerga, as well as an activist, and works in literary meetings. He is a resident at the Town of Kfri, in the Iraqi Kurdistan region. The works in each of the (Plastic Land) books are poems. He has published a literary research book titled, 'Title and Text.' His last published book in in partnership with a literary meeting titled, 'Modern Poetry and Some Margins.'

© Written by Imtiyaz Pandow Here I bring you A tale of my burning home from this dreary paradise where peace is no where in the whirling shades of this incompatibility. Being its dwellers means to fall prey to its expected uncertainties either become the victims or firsthand witnesses of these uncertainties. We are left in a despair only to scribble the epitaphs over the gravestones and sing the elegies to mourn in a grief of those falling flowers, Who in their tender age are being forced to leave for the heavenly abode Whose blood soaked bodies are tomorrow's witnesses of today's brutalities. Imtiyaz Pandow is from Budgam, Kashmir and is a postgraduate in Journalism and Mass Communication. He is a Web Content Editor on ILA Magazine. He has worked with several local and national media organizations. He is interested in poetry and fiction and his poetry has been featured by several outlets. The author can be contacted at: imtiyaz@ilamagazine.net

Here, we will feature two of his poems, mentions of his published books and a review of his poem, 'Everything Returns Back', written by ILA Founder, Annette Nasser and published in his English Poetry Anthology, 'Sillage.' LIVE IN THE MOMENT Living life of humans is a virtue that is to be earned, if we sideline our past and futuristic aspect is slightly turned. We can't at the same time, dwell in past, present and future. Our whole life however, is based on structure. Living in the moment is easier to say than to adopt in reality, however, its urgency is felt every time for our suitability. Too much of indulgence in thinking about past deeds, pulls us backward and hampers to meet our present needs. Past should not come on the way of present as obstacles, on the ashes of past should stand the present day miracles. Future is always uncertain like the Monsoon in Indian subcontinent, it always feeds us with new recipes of hopes and discontentment. © Dr. Alok Kumar Ray .............................................. POURING OF RAIN Each time rain comes to rejuvenate me and drenches in ecstasy, Nostalgic feelings hover in my mind to generate fantasy; It makes me spellbound when I hear its rhythmic sound, Like an old wine, it intoxicates me stealing my ground. It's lovely, soothing like a devotional song that I always admire, Its pitter patter sound releases my captivated aspire; Kindles, ignites in me, long forgotten virgin fire, Scintillating, alluring, helps to come out from despair. It relieves me from all sorts of mundane tensions, Embedded feelings in me get wings to fly in unison, Chilling effects, I feel when cool breeze blows; Pangs of pain decimate; my innersole glows. My cosy wishes dance with rhythmic sound of rain, Like butterflies, they hover here and there to sustain. That earthy smell mesmerizes me and I become restless, Pouring rain droplets thrill me and kills my fatigue - the mess. Each time rain brings for me heavenly blessings, why I don't know. But I am sure the whole rainy season keeps my emotions in tow. © Dr. Alok Kumar Ray 'SILLAGE' - Permeating Salubrious Odour Poetic Motifs by Dr. Alok Kumar Ray. Sillage can be found on Google Play and published by Sankalp Publications The author can be reached at: alokray1966@gmail.com An International Anthology of Poems: Trouvaille - A Medley of Poetic Beads.... Compiled and Edited by Dr. Alok Kumar Ray Review of Dr. Alok Kumar Ray's poem, 'Everything Returns Back' by Annette Nasser, Founder of ILA Magazine and ILA Magazine group, USA and published in the author's book, 'SILLAGE', pages 105-108, and can be viewed above, in the 'slideshow.' EVERYTHING RETURNS BACK Everything is reciprocal Be it relationship or fellowship, Sow the seed of love to reap crops of friendship. Harsh words pierce in the heart like a sharp knife, Occasional cool breeze in summer rejuvenates life. Life and let live others even if be in hardship, Newton's third law relies on this equity partnership. All of us are tied with the thread of humanity, Diversity among us is not a curse to maintain unity. We all are humans though are of myriad kinds, Disparities among us are natural That cannot block our strides. Variety is the essence of life That cannot be undermined, With ebullient emotions of fellow feelings We are entwined. Everything returns back whether good deeds or bad, Mitigating woes of others shields us against sad. Earth cherishes different Races, languages, faiths and cultures, It's like a garden where Flowers of different varieties dance in rapture. © Dr. Alok Kumar Ray Review of Dr. Kumar's Poem: The poet states, "everything is reciprocal whether relationship or friendship", and with this, should also be, cooperation and understanding in balance and awareness of values, morals, respect of other cultures, traditions, philosophies, professions, creativities and principles of growth, within this same process, applying to friendship. He writes with an open mind and heart, through words and actions, that we can overcome just about anything, with spiritual strength and conviction, with positive attitudes and with simple acts of kindness and generosity, by spreading and scattering seeds of love the world over, circulating for the purpose of growth, joining hands of different nations, dispersing and connecting, setting into motion, initiating trust, respect, faith, into something worthy of friendship. The more giving you are by sowing seeds of love, the greater the abundance in receiving, even in friendship. His insightful thoughts by loving others the way we would like to be loved, will also multiply too, in friendship. By sowing love in giving toward others, making the most of your relationship, by learning and giving as much as you can, you will also reap the crops of friendship. What you give out of the goodness of your heart, you will also reap in return. He writes that even in hardship, we must learn to live together in unity. We must be able to trust ourselves and believe in our capabilities and abilities as well as others. We, as individuals, should accept the way others live, breathe and behave, because everyone does things differently in their own way. We must strive to throw light upon existential ambiguities with more certainty and clarity to be accepting others in tolerance, to be open minded, to be respectful and nonjudgmental and to try and live in harmony with others. As the poet states, even in Newton's third law, relies on this 'equity of partnership', the third law states for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction, ubiquitous in everyday life, whether in contact, interaction or actions, we are all connected through the threads of humanity, one common thread that unites us all, regardless of race, religion or culture. There will always be some groups in our society that will try to bring the world down by various cults and groups of hatred, cursing unity and humanity. Diversity is a positive influence, a wide range melange of people, regardless of differences and culture, benevolent of human kindness, passing down from generation to generation, in belief, language, values, encompassing multitudes of ethnicities and race, respect of heritage, through understanding varying prospective with room to learn from one another, whether through new experiences or ways of thinking, to a manifold of languages and traditions. The poet reminds us, 'we are all humans though of myriad kinds', countless entities, a League of Nations in grand multitude, the greatest natural influence, and as much as some groups may try to penetrate that decisive step aimed at progress, in the end, that same path we walk, we march in medley, for 'variety is the spice of life', with exuberant buoyancy and sentiment, of 'fellow feelings', interwoven together. The poet confirms in his own insightfulness, that karma returns whether good or bad, mitigating circumstances of others protects us from depression and sadness, we should feel so cherished and joyous, knowing that earth's different ethnicities, language and cultures, celebrate with intense expressions of elation and enthusiasm, much like a 'garden of different varieties and color' because at the end of the day, it is this multitude of culture, our way of living, our language, beliefs, our strength and empowerment in society, we are diversely united. It is a pleasure reviewing your poem, Dr. Alok Kumar Ray, as it will stick to me like glue and I will no doubt, go back and read it countless times, so expressive and so impressive, it truly touched my heart and soul. Annette Nasser Founder ILA Magazine USA ........................................ BIO: Dr. Alok Kumar Ray belongs to Kendrapara District of Odisha, India. He obtained his M.A., M. Phil and Ph.D degrees from Utkal University, Bhubaneswar, Odisha. He now works as a Senior Lecturer in Political Science in a Degree College affiliated to Utkal University and getting grants - in - aid Govt. from Department of Higher Education, Gov't of Odisha. He is a textbook writer and has authored books being taught in Universities within Odisha as well as Dibrugarh University, Assam in India. He has edited three books containing scholastic articles in Social Sciences. Dr. Alok Kumar Ray is a bilingual poet and writes in both Odia and English. His poems have been featured in a number of anthologies, magazines and newspapers across the globe. Poetry for Dr. Alok Kumar Ray, is a passion and he is deeply obsessed with this creative endeavor. He posts poems regularly to a number of online poetry groups and takes part in online poetry writing contests. Many times he has been adjudged as well as been awarded in poetry groups across various states and nations. Kabikanya Smruti Parishad, Talcher, Odisha had adjudicated Dr. Ray for the Kabikanya Ashes Award in 2019. In the year, 2020, LASOSYASYON LAR SAN FRONTYER, an International literary and art society, recognized by the Gov't. of Republic of Seychelles and affiliated to Motivational Strips, awarded an Order of Mahatma Medal, a Tribute to Mahatma Gandhi, an Award for Peace and Literary Conduct, to him. Recently, his debut English poetry anthology, "Sillage", was published, along with an international edited bilingual poetry anthology, 'Trouvaille" and his debut Odia Poetry Anthology, "Meghapanata" (the veil of rain), has been launched. Apart from writing poetry, he is also interested in social work, gardening and traveling. He is a life member of the International Red Cross Society and has also worked with Rotary International.

Written by Imtiyaz Pandow From predawn to dusk, an empty stomach of long fasts. The remembrance of Creator for all. The empathetic approach toward humanity. The donation of Sadqa and Zakat. The endless recitation of holiest verses of Holy Quran. The wait for Iftaari to break the fast with fresh dates and fruits, with soul-cooling elixir of Rooh Afza and milk-soaked seeds of Basil. The countless blessings of Lailat-ul-Qadr, of Sahoor and Iftari, of everyday and last Friday. This practice of being consistent for every good deed keep burning the sins, so ash-less! As no traces left behind. O' the Illuminator of hearts, We seek your guidance. O' the most Merciful! We seek your mercy. O' the Most Forgiver! We seek your forgiveness. © Imtiyaz Pandow Imtiyaz Pandow is from Budgam, Kashmir, a postgraduate in Journalism and Mass Communication. He has worked with several local and national media organizations. Imtiyaz is interested in poetry and fiction. He is also the Web Content Editor of ILA Magazine. Image of Poet and Web Content Editor, Imtiyaz Pandow