A collaboration of Carl Scharwath's photography and poem by Subrina Rubin. My world spins When I am broken Failing to get you beside Falling from unknown heights Failing you to trust I no longer believe in faith High to be higher Round and round Move down to top All inside my head My eyes whirl Dark vision I lost you Inside the black hole Of my heart. © Sabrina Rubin

Be foolishly with me Once you know me, Depart, Gather the blood shrouds Take me home, And depart Adorn my ugly face With eighty veils, And depart Come merge again Live again, love again, And depart Tear apart my nails For I have peeled my secrets, And depart Give one more face With a new attire, And depart Like a poison destroy my existence Then heal my being, And depart Go deeper yet exiled Burn our tales, And depart Be here, all alone When I am died, And depart Come after you come Be still after you go And depart.

DEVOTION I'm asked to write about "devotion", Then there will be no single emotion. "Poet" tends to talk about moods; No limits when he harks and broods. A poet is like that lone bird, Acutely yearning to be heard. His words tweet a soft melody; To our aches, that's a remedy. He writes about love and passion, Together evokes women's fashion. His sole theme is about women, In their seas, he keeps swimming. I, to my theme, am devoted. In love, I am self-promoted. Only to my wife, I indite About our sorrows and delights. © Written on 07/19/2017 Published with permission by poet. IN THE SHIMMERING GREENERY Scrounging an instant of silence from time, Seeking around in the stream of events, The wind was making an exquisite old rhyme, And the leaves were falling off so intense. She was staring at the green, old Oak tree, Brisk wind was stiffly wagging its branches. The ground was grassy and insect-free. The tree stayed flinty on farms and ranches. She was shedding tears down her rosy cheeks, Like the Oak tree when shedding its dead leaves. She may sometimes keep weeping hours and weeks, Her tears of gloom, a simple flower deceives. Despite greenery, the grass and its splendor, Dejection overwhelms her with pains and aches. Yet her two hands were still warm and tender, No one would ever know the sorrow it takes. © 07/21/2017 Permission granted to publish by Poet. Author Bio: Walid Boureghda is a 42-year old Algerian poet, working as a training executive at Sonatrach-ENI Group. He holds a B.A. degree in the English Language and Literature from the University of BATNA in Algeria. He draws inspiration for his poetry from the unceasing love of his beloved wife. He also writes about spreading peace over the world and dispelling hatred and bigotry.

لچّہ کار: انیتی نسر ۔ امریکہ رجانکار: اُزیر مھرؔ ۱۔ گُمسار اِے کوٹی ءَ من ایوک آں جیڑگ آں پرچیا؟ منی گرنچ بستگیں سینگ ساچشتکاريں دستاں داریت ھیال ءُ لبز زورآوریں مُجے ءَ پیڑاتگ اَنت پاد پرش ءِ سر ءَ گران اَنت، ارواہ ءِ جھگ ءَ دارگ ءَ انت فون ءِ نیمگ ءَ چارگ ءَ آں بلے لنکک سُنّ انت ڈائل کت نہ کن آں یک پرشتگیں گُلباگے ءَ یک توارے بے چڑکھی ءَ چہ نیموناں کپ ایت ءُ کیبورڈ انگت یک اجبیں ازبابے اے روچ گُشئے بد اِتگ اَنت ءُ بیکار درا بنت اگاں یک چیزے ءَ مانا بہ داشتیں بگندئے گڑا بگندئے وت سریں لبز شتور گِپت اَنت ءُ تو اِے کوٹی ءِ تہ ءَ درا بوت ئے من ایوک آں انچوش بے برمش آں انچوش کہ اِے سینگ ءِ تہ ءِ بستگیں گرنچ اِے مجگ ءَ وَ گْوش آں شموش ئِے بلے اِے دل گُمسار اِنت۔ LOST In this room, I am alone, wondering, why? My knotted chest stops creative hands from writing, prevents an avid mind from thinking clouded thoughts and words into an overwhelming fog. Weighing feet to the floor, halting soul's escape staring at the phone, I cannot dial as fingers are numb. Once breaching paradise, a voice without volume, falls short of reason, and keyboard is still a foreign object. These days seem frozen, unproductive. If but one line made sense, perhaps, just perhaps, stubborn words would flow and you would appear in this room. I am alone. I am silent as the knot in this chest tells this head to forget, but this heart is lost. © Annette Nasser Balochi Translation Written by Uzair Mehr

I Am Not Alone I pass every night without you. I feel you in my dreams everyday. In my relaxed soul, I feel you in the smoking because I complete this time And I feel I am not alone. The Old Man When his wife is dead, he goes to her grave for visibility every night. He knows her peaceful love. He always carries asunder flowers and, He always goes without shoes because he is crazy for her love he just feels her soul has a heart and also remember her bravery, her certainty. Then he feels relaxed when people ask him to his circumstance, he smiles and says, "The world is unfaithful, remember that." The Burning Civilization (For Hayat Mirza) We can't discuss about the society. Everything is perfect but in our life, you can't avail my scalded words. Some words discuss to your faith in loyalty. But fears we have in our hearts when we come to your memoranda, we write everything to your soul, we burn candles to your blood and, remembered your smile, delighted your charming face but fears will be gone. We still can't discuss about your blood because I can't express your faithful dream when you observe me too deeply. Please forgive me because we are also burning in this circumstance. The Wilderness They disappeared her flower because he knew the truth of truths. Everyday some flies came for it because he knew the flavor of truth but one day casually, indocile flies came in that garden and destroyed that flower and gone to wilderness. About the Poet: Asghar, son of Umeed as famous by his pen name, aka AR Arman, is a student of Balochi Literature Department at the University of Turbat. He is a passionate literature lover based in Turbat City. Arman is a Balochi poet mostly writing Balochi Ghazals, prose poetry and beguiling poetry on different topics from love, death, revolution, rights and justice to name but a few. He sporadically also writes Urdu and English poetry.

Here, we present a Special Feature, including poems and Interview with Author Haroon Rashid. ILA Magazine: Please give a brief introduction about yourself, i.e., your educational background, family background (optional), and what you are currently working on. Author Haroon Rashid: I am recognized worldwide, for various writings, a Post Graduate in English Literature and a Post Graduate in Public Administration with a Bachelor's Degree in Commerce, and presently a writer. ILA Magazine: What was your aim as a student, and did writing change it? Author Haroon Rashid: As a student, I always loved to interact, explore, understanding every creation, and now my writings are reflecting that love, all around. ILA Magazine: When you began your journey into writing, what was your first genre of literature? Author Haroon Rashid: I was writing since school as an amateur, perhaps professionally, I began in 2016 and social causes referring to humanitarian aspects was my first genre. ILA Magazine: Are there any interesting areas of literature you would love to write about at present time? In the future? Author Haroon Rashid: There are many unexplored areas which I am looking forward to, and some I have already published, hoping to bring new light and new perspectives to beautiful readers all around the world. ILA Magazine: What is the inspiration behind your writing? Author Haroon Rashid: Everything coming to my way is an inspiration, perhaps the oneness, the harmony, the belongingness and love for each other is an inspiration that drives to invest my blood in ink so that humans recognize each other with love, respect, honor and equality. ILA Magazine: What helps you become a better writer? Author Haroon Rashid: Understanding, realizing, exploring, observing, interacting, learning, reflecting, are some of the attributes that help me become better, everyday. ILA Magazine: Have you written any poetry or other forms of literature that made you (or your readers), think twice? Author Haroon Rashid: Readers all across the globe have showered me with so much love, respect and honor to my writings and I have realized people have framed my writings on their tables, walls, paths, and conducted essay writing competitions upon them, environment sustainable development forums use it for enlightening, people including celebrities across the globe shared and re-shared it in more than 148 languages, now chosen for textbook poems for next generation to understand, used for donation campaigns and there is so much more that made readers and I, not only to think but also act upon, the poems written by me, in real practical spheres of our lives. ILA Magazine: Do you have a favorite author/poet? Please explain further. Author Haroon Rashid: Yeah, every writer is a blessing upon us for making aware and understanding life, its phases from better perspectives. Every writer I have read, is my favorite and there are endless names, there are so many yet to read, few among the ones that I have read and loved are Socrates, Aristotle, Plato, Rumi, Shams, Tagore, Ghalib, G. B. Shaw, Bronte, Virginia Woolf, Jane Austen, Shakespeare, Faulkner, Tolstoy, Mahatma Gandhi and so many more. ILA Magazine: Tell us about your best experience you've gained through your writing. Author Haroon Rashid: Since my childhood, I was looking for a profession where I can see humans as humans and not humans through their descriptions, my writing is an asset upon me which everyday makes me realize that we all are souls at the end and whenever I meet any person, the only thing that comes to my heart is that we all are passengers in this body which we have to leave at anytime, so I always pray for every human who meets or whom I have met in the real or virtual world, my writings are the heart that I have and realizing this, I feel honored that I could have been anything, perhaps nature chose me to be a writer and I feel blessed this is the best experience I've learned through my writing. ILA Magazine: What types of literature do you find yourself writing the most, and do you have a favorite form/style? Author Haroon Rashid: "A good writer is not who conveys his/her emotions but the one who invokes." - Author Haroon Rashid. So, as long as one can invoke, I feel, one can write any form/style and there are so many yet to explore and bring to light, concluding on one or two particular form/styles will be little early. ILA Magazine: Have you published anything recently? Are there any books in the works for more future publications? Author Haroon Rashid: "Author Haroon Rashid Quotes" is already published and at present there are more than 3500 poems and endless quotes I have written, will be publishing them along the way. Writing novels and stories will be published soon. ILA Magazine: What do you expect readers will obtain after reading your poetry/literature? Author Haroon Rashid: A new and better perspective toward their own selves, their surroundings and the world as a whole. People are not blind, but they don't have a better thing to reflect upon, so reading my writings, they have better things to reflect and better ways to love their own selves in order to love all. ILA Magazine: Do you have a poetry page, blog, website or narrative channel, if any? Would you mind sharing it with us? We will gladly feature anything you would love to share. Instagram (@authorharoonrashid) Facebook Twitter (@AuthorHaroonR) Medium https://www.authorharoonrashid.com https://www.muckrack.com/authorharoonrashid ILA Magazine: What are the hardships you have endured, if any, through your journey of writing, and how do you deal with the challenges? Author Haroon Rashid: Writing is a blessing upon me and I in my journey, have been skilled well enough that I don't find any hardships or struggles while writing, yet, perhaps the struggle and hardship I have as a writer, is when some ill-intended people have tried to imposter me, imitate me, plagiarize my writings, bluffing others', taking away my works as their own, damaging my mental and social health, are some of the pertinent hardships I've been through, I would like to request all that, there's a lot of struggles n lives of creative people, please don't put unnecessary burdens on the shoulders of creative people by snatching their art. Nature gives us thoughts and nature is the sole protector of it, so avoid doing wrong tactics and celebrate the originals in order to cherish more blessings coming from them. ILA Magazine: What advice can you give the emerging writer of today, who is just beginning their journey into writing? Author Haroon Rashid: Read enough to write enough, before you begin to write, make sure you have read, understood and analyze different perspectives. If you will not find pleasure in reading, then you will have pain while writing. ILA Magazine: Is there anything else you are willing to share with us, beyond what has been asked above? Author Haroon Rashid: The great thing about writers is that they already have so many questions in their minds about everything in the world and a writer should not wait for other's to make them respond, rather on their own, become a stimulus in order to make others respond to the need of the times. Whenever something wrong is happening somewhere, mind will bluff you with logics and logics are the perspectives that are brought to light to make others believe in, but it's the heart which shows us the real light, real truth, real perspective. Before you make up your mind and take sides to things happening around the world, make sure to listen to your heart, it will always lead you to the right path. - Author Haroon Rashid. Below, Author Haroon Rashid has shared some of his poetry with us.... There's a lot of joy, lots of adventures and lots of destinations to explore but there's a lot of suffering, there's lots of pain, pain in our hearts of not meeting the ones who can be a part of our journeys ©Author Haroon Rashid We arrived to an age where we don't need discussion anymore nor we need to seek any guidance. We are very much wise at this age. All we need is a space where we can make ourselves a better version. We should understand the time frame of our life to make our life according to time. The goal should be focused as we have to behave like a professional. Time is precious, refuel and refine and redefine. Chill, but don't make it a habit. Be disciplined and make a life of worth by adding a worth to it. Have an orientation and stay focused. Our focus will decide our success. Be prepared, be ready, our time is about to come. © Haroon Rashid Once again I let my heart fool myself. Once again, I'm going to fall in love. Once again, I'm going to feel everything that I have felt before, but this time, it's totally new. Once again, I'm going to feel all those things that I haven't felt before but now I am going to live, more and more. Once again, I am going to feel love that I haven't felt and now this time, I am going to rise in love, in love, that will make me feel alive. © Haroon Rashid I have to be what I am. I have to become for what I am made for. I have to rise again no matter what. The time is right, the moment is right. I have to show the courage to lift myself up from the petty downfalls. © Haroon Rashid We fell asleep in one world and woke up in another. Suddenly, Disney is out of magic, Paris is no longer romantic, New York doesn't stand up anymore, The Chinese wall is no longer a fortress, and Mecca is empty. Hugs and kisses suddenly become weapons, and not visiting parents and friends becomes an act of love. Suddenly, you realize that power, beauty and money are worthless, and can't get you the oxygen you're fighting for. The world continues its life and it is beautiful. It only puts humans in cages. I think it's sending us a message: "You are not necessary. The air, earth, water and sky without you are fine. When you come back, remember that you are my guests. Not my masters." © Haroon Rashid Author Haroon Rashid is a writer, hailing from beautiful Jammu and Kashmir, India, (also known as 'Heaven on earth.'), and the author of 'We Fell Asleep in One World and Woke Up in Another.' 'We Fell Asleep in One World and Woke Up in Another' became the fastest, most popular of poems, teaching leadership all across the globe, translated into 148 languages. Many people, including celebrities, have shared his poem on social media platforms and fundraising events, making him globally renowned with an unusual success story. Among his world-famous writings are: 'Suicide Poem', 'Come Back from the Heaven', 'Skin', 'Will Meet Again', 'Human Trafficking', 'Humanity Poem', 'Faith', 'Mother', 'Spiritual Love', 'The World', 'Media', 'Human in Uniform', 'Get Up', 'Kashmir', 'Meet a Person', along with endless quotes. He has a book titled, 'Author Haroon Rashid Quotes', available on Amazon. Author Haroon Rashid has been interviewed and featured on various websites, journals, magazines, religious online blogs, art pages, newspapers and publishing websites. Every writer is different, but he is one of those who can touch souls with even the simplest expressions of words. In Haroon Rashid's earlier days, he was much into sketching and drawings, along with a mix of his playful and fun-loving nature, maintaining a good brain in his studies and academics as well. Since the beginning, he has been drawn toward fine arts. He took an interest in painting, music and dancing, during his school life. After school, he pursued his higher education, completing a Bachelor's Degree in Commerce and a Double Post Graduate in English Literature and Public Administration, including the aforementioned, he also took an interest in Science, Psychology, Anthropology, Sociology, Geography, History and other fields of study. His graduation was a life-turning experience for him. He began gaining interest in writing as his art was mixed with world affairs and eventually his writings spoke to his heart at global levels, making him a renowned writer, par excellence. He is currently working on International Projects while spreading his aura and glory with the magic of his words, and shall continue until he takes his last breath. He may be contacted via email at: authorharoonrashid@gmail.com

By Indu Kilam She lies beside him, on the big walnut bed which came with her when she made her entry into the house. Oblivious of the warmth of his arm, which lay on her shoulder in protective warmth, she searchingly looked towards the bare wall, for some change, some sign. The wooden latticed window. Tightly shut and bolted, as if afraid to let in the cool breeze. Some deft and talented fingers had painstakingly crafted the intricate mesh. The beehive and, perhaps to let in some life to help her breathe. The moon beams stealthily entered through the honeycomb, bringing with it, silvery light to illuminate the room. it fell on the bed, the dead walls and suddenly brought to light, the whole room. He continued to sleep, snoring peacefully, but she arose, as if in a dream. Noiseless were her footsteps, as not to disturb the sleeper, she moved towards the window. Gently, opened the bolts that shut her from her secret desires and dreams. The intoxicating zephyr flowed in gently, playing with her loose hair and brought to disarray her diaphanous white dress. The scent of the soft breeze tempted her. She needed no cajoling for her craving was immense and she stepped out with a firm step. She rose up among the silvery clouds, conversed with the moon, desired the fiery sun, drank to the dregs, the waters of the mighty oceans, along with its venom and nectar. She burnt in the fires of hell and sang with the angels in heaven. She dived into the dark Hades and found the lost treasures. She lulled the naked orphan on the street, she held her own in front of the mighty, fought battles like a warrior, unconquered and unwavering. She loved the way that only she could, returning back right in time to enter in her destined world. Closed the window, tight shut. Tiptoed to her side of the bed and lay down. He continued to snore, mindless of her desires, and the sun shone through the meshed window. Professor Indu Kilam taught English in various colleges of Jammu and Kashmir, for more than 3 decades, and retired as Associate Professor from MAM Post-Graduate College from Jammu. A translator and a social activist, she has been working for the cause of women and children. She has to her credit, the translation of Ms. Naseem Shafaie's Sahitya Academy award winning collection of poems, 'Neither a Shadow a Reflection.' She has also translated a number of Dogri poems. Holding a brilliant academic record, she has a Masters in English and a degree in Law, and has been living in Jammu since 1990. Her poems are nostalgic and she moves with ease from the past to the present, penning memories with a delicate touch, making all, beautifully poignant.

Written by Shahid Fayaz Saqi, Author and Poet from Gundbal Mohd Pora Kulgam Rambling in the wild-open fields With broken and effetled legs Like God wholly mortified me The gusts of wind picked me up To gratulate the diadems of nature. The reflection of nature's bride Mured and shut my eyes Like unpleasant clouds seized my vision Put off the black and inky cascades On jocund faces of hilly universe. Now I put my eyes on rest and Unfold the fingers of imagination. Blindly, with fast fist and feeling The music of hill tops When divine flags flapping with The breeze of celestial munificence When birds breezily twittering With nodding of head All round roaming of astute birds, Entangled I was absolutely alone with speechless fowls Like I committed an irredeemable felony But I think it was delate My fellow travelers, tenders and Confidants were birds Hardly steps were getting up Falling of tears like shower of March. It was corporal punishment, All parts shivering like fast quake. Another sky fell on me, sun goes Behind the dark clouds Like someone stole it from my fissile lap Darkness covered the taken roads Looking back, I could see horrible Shapes and shadows of fay. The birds also began to search for their nests. The doors of my city were shut on me, No inning for spending nights in Calm and Peace. Friends also turned out to be Enemies Like every door was pushing me with belittling. The caretaker of the mosque also kept the door locked. Now my head rests on the land of dead men And fighting its own battle in abstract flashings. As soon as eye to eye fell, Dreadful sounds of snakes began to revolve around me Like the heinous screams of the dead Coming out of the graves. Insects spread their fearful nets Like snakes were humming me With the screams of hell. I fell asleep in the snake's lap And went to the world of dreams. In dream, the viper tormented my soul With vigorous bites and dragged me to hell When fangs grabbed my thin and whimpy neck, A scream came out and I woke up. It was the same snake in whose lap I had fallen asleep. I was helpless and did not have the courage. Dark clouds released the sun with a hope I saw a large crowd and flocked of kin. They were staring at me with unknown eyes. I saw I was lying down on the sepulcher of beloved Who annihilated herself in my love. About the Author: Shahid Fayız is a B. A. Student who writes under the pen name, "SAQI". He hails from Gundbal Mohd Pora Kulgam. Born on the 18th of October 2000, the Author depicts love, loss, separation and divine power. Though having an extraordinary hold in different forms of writings, Shahid Fayız has been writing doleful poems and short stories in both English and Urdu. His latest works are: My Foretaste At Dusk, Nightlong Wailing, Nest At Heaven 1, Nest at Heaven 2, Long Tales, Wandering Through The Shadows, Sunset in My City, God Has Given Me Such a Nature, Sensational Accent, Soul of My Heart, The Ocean of Oceans, Colorful World and Saqi. The Author also writes for newspapers and magazines. He began writing at his tender age of 14, though the subjects of his writing have always been way beyond his age. As a young poet, he has a belief that nature can heal every person better with Broken Hearts. The main purpose of his writing is to bring a reformed society by writing on present situations like social evils, etc., that have engulfed the society of saints. He is always in a black mood, as his life is beset with anxieties and sadness. He treats with others quite well, in the way he speaks, smiles behind, impressing others of that which has made them affectionate. He is used to melancholic life and has welcomed his problems as the relation of life because these problems generate activism, creating such heaviness in his life, that he feels the presence of death in his surroundings. Owing to alienation from his noble beloved, sheds his tears which later he collects and drink in the name of precious wine. He describes all of his problems created by people in his work. The Author relates back, his success to his Mother 'Dilshada Banoo", who inspired and helped him in shaping his life. The Author can be reached at: shahidfayaz432@gmail.com

By Mushtaque B. Barq PROBE He was looking at the micro screen of his cell phone. Occasionally a faint smile like a guest from remotes and frequently a sigh like an excruciating gust after hitting the frozen peaks were pulling his dull cheeks. His eyes like his face were clasped between stares and blinks to amplify his agony which was like a polished mirror reflecting even the feeblest ray. His wrinkled forehead like a rejected canvas of an artist looked dull. His pale face melted waxy hills of my endurance. I stepped into his gloom and found he was probing an old photo of wife. SCHOOL BAG She was arguing with a vegetable vendor when our school bus stopped at Alamgeer Bazar. Something made her run away. I shouted "stop", but she was not meant to listen to anything, at least that time. Why on earth our school bus had compelled her to run away like a thief. I stopped when a bag slipped out of her hands which she tried to hide before being recognized by my colleagues. A tremor of worry branched over my body when she whispered into my ears: "I was carrying your school bag to cart vegetables, when abruptly your school bus stopped." SURPRISE Ahmad never invited us for a cup of tea. And we often discussed it whenever he was not around. It was raining heavily for last two days and Ahmad had missed his classes. We decided to give him a 'surprise'. After struggling for an hour to find his house, we knocked the door gently. An old man greeted us after we introduced ourselves as friends of Ahmad. He pushed the door of a room where a basket, a cane and a tin copious with rain water greeted us. We realized why Ahmad never invited us for a cup of tea. SKILL "You stitch well", praised Naseem. Tailor master sensing the current behind admiration. "Thank you", he responded. "I need you to stitch my shirt like you stitched Roshan's", she hesitantly requested. "That is not possible", tailor master reacted. "But why, I liked the way you had stitched the neck area", she asked. Nazir only knew under what circumstances he had crafted that piece when his assistant had spoiled the neck of that shirt by placing hot iron on it. "For that you need to take help of my assistant", Nazir informed. She looked at his assistant smilingly. He lowered his gaze. MURMUR She boarded the already overcrowded mini-bus with a hen under her Pheran. Farooq attuned his bulky frame to let her feel a bit comfortable. She straight away responded by showering blessings to him. The hen suddenly started to stir. Farooq innocently requested the old lady to hold the hen properly. "Don't worry, my gentle hen won't spoil your clothes", the old lady informed. "I am not at all worried about my clothes, but....." he responded. "But what", old lady asked. Farooq looked around, and then whispered into her ear, "I hope your gentle hen shall spare all my delicacies." AND HE ASKED Prakash Ram was alone in the bunker when a nine year old boy stood before him. Through that little outlet he tried to address the boy, but failed. "Uncle, can you come out of bunker", the boy asked. The man from the bunker immediately came out to deal with the boy. "What do you need?" he asked. The boy only sighed. Prakash Ram lowered his gun as a mark of respect for his innocence. After being persuaded by the man in uniform, the boy opened his heart out. "Uncle, why don't you military men go back to your own country?" PHOTOGRAPH Rashid was watching his class fellows from the third floor where he was stationed by the head boy to monitor the proceedings in the ground. He slipped into his class room to fetch a suitable note book to copy notes. The pick of the bunch was Rizwan. His blood stopped running down his veins, his heart almost clogged, his hands trembled and his words dried when he found the photograph which was missing in their new family photo album. He picked the photograph and dumped into his own bag. At home, he found Rizwan's photograph in her sister's writing desk. DRAMA A wise man in the heart of city started hunger strike against atrocities. People from all political parties flocked around, but failed to convince him to break his fast. A wiser man sensing popularity from Delhi, joined in. After the exchange of views that night the two were seen on the table eating comfortably. Next morning the wise man was selected as Chief Minister of the state and the wiser one as Prime Minister of the country. Fools celebrated, simpletons chanted slogans and party workers danced. The only one who wept was the wisest who was ONLY sold for nothing. Mushtaque B. Barq is a columnist besides a poet and short story writer. His earlier translation work: Mystic Voices of Kashmir was published by Jay Kay Books. His poetic collection is available on Poetry Soup and PoemHunter.com He teaches English Literature and is associated with various literary clubs and forums. The author was awarded 'Editor's Choice Award' for outstanding achievement in poetry presented by Poetry.com and International Library of Poetry in 2007. In 2017, the author was awarded a Certificate of Appreciation in recognition of his poetry being published in The Criterion: An International Journal in English in February 2017 and September 2018. The author's publications are available in New Age Islam, Shabnama.faiz-e-zabaan-org., Kashmir Lit (On line journal of Kashmir and Diaspora writing) and The Tibet Journal. The Author is a regular columnist for Daily Kashmir Images, his column 'Creative Beats' is a regular feature of his writing. His upcoming literary works include: A collection of short stories and 'Shades and Shadows', a novel and translated version of Sochkral, a Sufi poet of Kashmir, translated version of Veshi Syed's Urdu short stories, Kashmiri Wanwun translated in English, and Withered Pearls, an anthology of poems. The author has contributed a chapter: Location Tibet, Dalai Lama Lineage and Tibetan Muslims: A Brief Commentary in Tibetan Refugees in India. The author was awarded 'The Alamdar Award' for his translations.

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