Our modern society has gone astray during much of the past several centuries. While every person is in pursuit of one thing or another, we are searching for our own soul. If we can persist on this search on a sustainable path then we can hope that the days in which we will be revived as our true selves are very close; the days when we will turn towards our true nature and win back our best values.

Enduring a most unfortunate period, the last couple of generations have renounced their warm, cozy homes and embarked upon peculiar pursuits; they either took refuge in a world of “matter,” or rather machines. They fell prey to different fantasies, let themselves fall into the maddest of delusions, and spent their lifetimes amidst insanity. At times they turned into wild mad men, and their thoughts were stained with blood. This disorder has continued up to our days and these brutal and unrelenting sins are no more bearable.

Nowadays, however, they are growing more and more aware of the void they happen to be in and have started to open the doorways for alternative thoughts – even if only a little. They have started speaking about faith; they have even started to accredit some value to the past and its wisdoms. Indeed, though it was only yesterday that they made no mention of God or His Messengers, and that they insulted believers and cursed at our historical values, today they are adorning many of their thoughts with soul and meaning, weaving their words with the silk threads of the metaphysical. For this change to hold ground with this color and harmony we want, it is important that these divine days continue uninterrupted for another quarter century. Afterwards, perhaps we can be hopeful for a prosperous future.

To this day, those who have lost their spiritual power have gone to waste just like seeds that have decayed in infertile soil. Indeed, whatever has happened to this day cannot be undone, and many have been sacrificed, honor has been destroyed, decency has been tattered, and our innocence and purity have been shaken as a punishment for misinterpreting history. From now on, we must review our intentions and wish for the best. We must always be alert and awake not to leave any voids in our feelings, thoughts, or logic that may prevent us from serving others so that our future will not become soaked in blood and tears. We must take advantage of all possible opportunities when the hurricanes subside to some extent, and where signs appear on our horizon in order to breathe life into even the most lifeless points of time so that they become the voice of common sense. We have just started to gain a feeling of the mystery, magic, and endlessness of this “book of existence” and all of its contents that are put on exhibition in the universe. We must practice active patience, remain alert, and be prudent so that we are not held back and pushed further away from what is close at hand until the day the meaning and wisdom found in this “book of existence” become evident with the help of the sciences and allow us to learn the purpose of our lives. We must be careful to not suffer any spiritual or moral loss on what seems to be a winning path.

Indeed, in this apparently calm yet active period, as the promised divine days have started to break with their colorful flow, we must knead the dough of spirit and meaning that will shape the enlightened generation that represents the future. They will bear this spirit on their shoulders with their own coat of arms made of hues and patterns unique to them. We must knead that dough in our safe basins and in the best form we can so that our society will be able to step onto new lively formations with a rich heritage of thought and consciousness of history. While we, as a society, strive to realize this very significant task, there will be those who either knowingly or not will try to object to these vital efforts, not to mention those who will underestimate, belittle, and even reject the efforts altogether. In response to all of these hindrances, on one hand, we will make a great effort to strengthen our free will by starving the roots of our evil inclinations while uplifting our capacity to do good; on the other hand, we will exhibit a sensitivity to not allow any intellectual or logical voids in our plans and projects as we strive to advance with a purity of intention. We believe that because our ultimate goal is the consent of God and our provisions along the way are faith and sincerity, God will raise us with advances of mercy and favor along the way. No matter where we happen to be, we will be nurtured through His manifestations.  

Yes, as we close our eyes and fill ourselves with the exhilaration of serving God Almighty, the seeds we scatter throughout the four corners of the world will, through His Divine will, certainly find life one day. Even those we think have been lost will sway like ever-blooming ears of grain, and they will sing the melody of their good fortune when the season is right.

With favor and mercy from God, we will walk into the future with “faith and knowledge” taking the lead as “thought and worship” will be closely knit together. We will do our best to conform to “causes” and submit to God with a tight embrace in full acceptance of His will (tawakkul). Our hope will be the source of our action, and our patience will follow right behind like a trusted companion. Even retributions will be considered a blessing, and each blessing – just like an unexpected advance – are references to the reliability of the true source of everything.

We will walk, and He will always guide and protect us and will never abandon us throughout our journey. We will walk, as the light from the waves of the eternal worlds will manifest in our eyes, while our ears will have the ability to receive the truest of words without error, and our hearts will beat with inspirations of wisdom. This can be possible if we can maintain our relationship with Him as our Creator and us as the created, and do not forsake His kind favors to “familiarity” and monotony, for this may fade away “colors and freshness” like the winds of autumn.

We will walk away from today’s lethargic masses to discover the enlightened generations who offer much promise for a brand-new world. We will walk away from them without tarnishing the image of, or slandering, anyone by planning our thoughts according to our actions and carrying out our actions as lifeguards do so that others may live. We will do this to prove that there really are passengers who can be void of blood and grime, and void of revenge and hatred. We will keep walking without stumbling on our path and will not be obstructed by any obstacles along the way. We do not, and cannot, claim to pardon the thousand and one incidents of murder and brigandage that we have been witnesses to. When the laws and rights of the public are the matters at hand, the feeling of forgiveness and pardoning transforms into a feeling of justice, and the style of living closes off to inhumane behavior of any kind. Yes, it is requisite of one’s respect for humanity to transform goodness – and the bridges leading to goodness – into avenues and to award those who want to go on this destination. Likewise, respect for the human being also requires the prevention of evil and stopping those who engage in evil. Indeed, goodness must always be recognized and praised, and, at the same time, people must be warned against sins so that no one avoids accountability by saying, “The fault is not ours; we were driven to these ways.”

Those who think in this manner are actually trying to take refuge in such inconsistent excuses in order to escape the responsibility of their present wretchedness and misery. In fact, they can be described as disoriented and decayed souls that have been unable to appreciate and comprehend the distinction of being human. It is a fact that those who carry the spirit of true humanity have no other choice than to assume part of the responsibility that belongs to the society in which they too have risen and flourished. Such a sense of responsibility is the requisite of a humane spirit, comprehension, and thought – not to mention the command and will of the One who has equipped the human being with such dynamics. Provided that their conscience has not decayed completely, become atrophied, or that understanding has not died, it is unthinkable for a human being to be negligent of such a responsibility.

In terms of the contemplation of being truly human, we hold ourselves accountable for current mishaps and for the sake of the peace and security of tomorrow’s world. When we say “the human being” and “culture” we wish to underline once more the priority of “faith,” which is the first stage of true liberty and the only source of light to guide us to the final destination.

Indeed, the first phase and the highest priority in reviving out-of-control generations to their true human form is by embedding faith and all that it promises into the depths of their nature and character, and to ensure their continuity. Explaining to generations and feeding their souls with both the apparent and hidden aspects of existence by imbuing them with the culture of faith and making it possible for them to embrace all things with compassion will serve to liberate the generations who we have failed to keep under control and whose disintegration we have been unable to prevent. A spirit that is not cleansed through faith cannot be pulled completely away from savagery, avoid aggression, love or compromise with other people, and, above all, cannot begin to reach towards the heavens. It is inevitable for such a person to be tainted by greedy ambitions and to live a life full of grudges and hatred, and to have their heart be blackened with grime. Truly, faith enables the human to hear, listen, and interpret existence in a completely different way by imbuing knowledge and love of the eternal, building a connection with all of existence, and by moderating hatred and flaws. It saves a person from the misery of disorientation.

At the present time, generations from every walk of life who have reached such deep levels of faith, and thus – though weak at the present moment – hold promise and hope for the future, must be imbued with a zeal for service to humanity and a feeling of responsibility and duty free from the promise of fame, fortune, or status. They must be nurtured to have no expectations for recompense so that they neither dive into thoughts of gaining support from any government, from the public, or centers of power so that they will not raise their hopes for future prosperity. In this way, strong structures that flourish with knowledge and wisdom will light the lanterns of our thoughts in every corner, and we will not be held back by certain desires and ambitions. Instead, we will continue on with feelings of altruism, purity in our souls, seeking God’s good will and consent, and always aware that He is the one who employs us in this service.

The fact that a love for Divine Truth holds great importance, in itself, is also something that should certainly be underlined. The power that forms when reading, contemplating, studying, and researching are united with a love of connecting to the truth – for the sole fact that it is the truth – would, I believe, be enough to open the doors for the whole universe. For centuries, while certain nations have been lifted towards the skies through a love of the truth, even if only in certain fields, others have always been the ones to watch from afar with a desire and longing to imitate their success. They have taken it in with a sigh, watching like paralyzed spirits that are bound by the chains which enclose our feelings and thoughts. Nowadays, even if we can appreciate the fact that this important matter is at least being articulated, syllable by syllable by a certain group of people, it is still difficult to say that it is being handled in the mindset of true scientific thinking. We are in need of true scientific thinking that has, with its cultural and ethical dimensions, settled over the blockade of belief in the truth and will awaken in our souls a thought of physical and spiritual transformation towards the heavenly realms. The constant development of thought, the transformation of theory into practice, and the promise of advancement that such a transformation holds have, so far, only been possible, and will only be possible, through the push of such scientific thinking. True scientific thinking is what is fundamental; science and technology, on the other hand, are merely products derived from it. We are witnesses to the many high caliber individuals, to the heroes of determination, to such great performances, and lifetimes dedicated to this cause.

Those who will reconstruct the future will come from among these heroes. They will turn around this narrow, contaminated world, won over by adversities, to construct a wider, purified and more harmonious world that will remind us of heavenly beauties. They will do this to the extent that we are able to teach them love for the truth, the spirit of research, and the nuance of renewal. This will raise them to a level where they are able to distinguish between what does and does not belong to the roots of spirituality and meaning.

While the generations that have been connected with these dynamics and have reached a love for truth are considered the heroes of their own people, the disoriented masses who have lost their souls and meaning will always be considered a source of shame and dishonor and will darken the future of our society.

We foster the hopes that our intellectuals who stand in a position of influence will take advantage of the opportunities at hand, prepare future generations to the throne of hearts, and turn the pits of failure into zeniths of victory.

The man had only fallen unconscious, but his family thought he had had a heart attack and brought him to emergency. The initial diagnosis was that his artery was almost clogged up due to cholesterol, and the doctor on duty decided to follow a clean-up procedure. This would be my seventh time in a similar operation, so I was not really nervous. But in the eyes of the patient’s family, I saw panic. Their eyes were screaming for help, and watching them made my eyes almost deaf when I finally managed to throw myself into the surgery room. Oh my comfort zone: staff only.

As the operation started, the serpentine cord that carried the visualization instrument gradually made its way towards the patient’s heart. The walls of the arteries were covered with black remains, fatty tissues were hanging down here and there, and minor clogs were built up at sharp turns. I remembered my dad, who was a plumber. Many times, he was called into the “staff only” rooms for clogged pipes. In contrast to my love for them, the “staff only” rooms were his nightmare. “Poor dad,” I thought, pitying him, even if it was thirty years later.

“Go on,” came an unknown voice, waking me up from my childhood memories. “Where,” I asked in my mind. Then I realized that the camera was showing inside the heart. Looking from within, it only made sense that the man fell unconscious. How could such a heart support the demands of a body?

“He probably hasn’t had a refreshing breath for a long time, and certainly wasn’t able to run with his grandchildren,” I murmured.

“He never did that anyway, so that he should suffer from not doing it now!” answered the unknown voice.

“This is not the time to critique. He is in our hands waiting for help,” I replied.

“Well, do what you can. Even if you can fix the entrance, you won’t be able to fix me. By the way, would you like a drink?”

Wasn’t that a kind heart? Learning who my host was, I rejoiced despite the stress. With the heavy illumination in the surgery room, I was in fact terribly hot at that moment – as if helping my mom while cooking in the kitchen. “Yes, please, a cold drink would quench my heat,” I accepted.

“I am sorry, but I only serve hot drinks here. Cold drinks are served in dead bodies,” teased the heart. “Here is your energy drink.”

“WHAATTT?” I spat all that was in my mouth, and threw the cup towards the heart. The same instant, I received the words of disdain: “Did you just make a heart attack?”

“You are, sir, sucking the man’s blood,” I replied in anguish.

“That is what’s available in here,” answered the heart teasingly. “I have production wells extending throughout his body, and I drink this warm energy drink constantly. Without it, I cannot live. If I cannot live, he cannot live. So it is a win-win situation, you know what I mean?”

“Wait a minute, aren’t you the embodiment of love and compassion? Aren’t you supposed to give without a return?”

“That is true, indeed so. But there is another condition on the same agreement, which says that I have all the rights to defend myself if my carrier denies my rights of privacy.”

A heart defending its privacy from its carrier! I was as bewildered and as silenced as a fetus going through birth. The heart took my confused pause as a request for explanation.

“My carrier developed a habit of welcoming thieves as if guests into me, and they kept robbing me,” the heart cried, collapsing. “After a while, I decided to separate myself from him, even if that meant the end of my life. The first thing to do for winning my independence was not to use his blood. So, I started narrowing the artery that was feeding me. After all, I was doing something I was familiar with: giving without taking. That rendered me weaker; but he became weaker, too. With his health gone, no thieves were interested in him anymore. And I was safe from both my carrier and the thieves.”

Strained between anger and affection, my breaths became deeper and stronger. For relief, I turned my head around. Then suddenly, I started shaking from what I happened to see. “What is this door,” I managed to ask at last.

“Don’t you see the sign? It is a room for staff only.”

“Staff only!” I smiled as if I had found water in the desert. But after realizing that I wouldn’t be able to go in there, I went through a storm of sentiments: outcast, unable, sad.

“You feel distanced, right?” asked the heart, to which I nodded.

“That sign is there so that the grown-ups don’t enter. If you were a child, you would not be able to read it, and would directly rush in without asking.”

“Why children only?” I inquired.

“If you can go through this door in your heart, you can get out into the heart of another person. And if you are a grown-up at that moment, you are going to be treated like a thief in that heart. But if you are a child, you are going to be welcomed as a guest.”

I listened to the heart, waited in front of the door. I thought about the people in my life, especially those with whom I wanted to be closer. This door could be the key. I raised my hand, held the door knob. But then I thought about what I was going to face on the other side. Was I entering as a child? Or was I an ambitious adult who was going to be treated as a thief? It was also possible that my grown-up state could trigger the heart on the other side to react to its carrier just like this one; and that would mean trouble for one of my loved ones…

I certainly was not staff… I stepped back from that door for staff-only, as if waking from a pleasurable dream that I did not want to leave. Then, the heart gently told me: “Go upstairs to the kitchen, now; you are expected to open a clogged pipe.”

The Fountain was being published in German as Die Fontäne, in Russian as Noviye Grani, in Arabic as Hira, and in Turkish as Sızıntı for quite many years, and now two major languages—Spanish and French-spoken by large populations of the world are coming into scope (Both magazines were released a year ago; Revista Cascada started online, it is now available in print).

Ebru started off this year with a remarkable gala followed by a symposium early February in Dakar, Senegal. Honored by the Prime Minister Abdoul Mbaye, the gala featured several ministers, academics, and community leaders, not only from Senegal but all over from thirty countries, who came to witness yet another initiative inspired by Fethullah Gülen. Most of the participants were already familiar with this name either through successful schools that are run in partnership with Turkish entrepreneurs and educators or through dialogue activities by foundations like ATSA, (Atlantique Turquie-Sénégal Association Pour le Dialogue Culturelle Entre Les Civilisations) which was one of the organizers of the event. This was not the first time Senegal met the Hizmet / Gülen Movement; Yavuz Selim Colleges have been open in this country since 1997 with a well-deserved reputation for academic excellence. We congratulate Ebru for this great start, and hope Revista Cascada will soon carry the banner to the expansive territories of Cervantes.

The Fountain features in this issue contributors from India, Pakistan, Turkey, Italy, and United States. Mohammad Aleem from India reviews Fethullah Gülen’s masterpiece “The Messenger of God: Muhammad.” Aleem, who also translated the book into Hindi, praises the work as follows: “Any person who enjoys reading would not be able to keep himself or herself unmoved if he or she gets the chance to go through such an emphasis made in this book encouraging readers to try their best to emulate the Prophet in every possible way and guide them to become a human as God has envisaged for them so that they can understand the intricacies of this world and the next.”

Seema Arif from Pakistan takes us on a thoughtful journey into the challenges of the present conditions of life. She questions on what modernism and post-modernism have brought into our lives when she says, “In search of the “theory of everything,” we have almost forgotten all good and great theories and ideas about everything, leading us to skepticism and unbelief.”

Rev. Dr. Pachomius Okogie from Italy presents a wonderful metaphor of the “horizon” as an endless opportunity for liberation: “Because the horizon has power to liberate us from the present, the immediate, the obvious. … With the horizon, there are no closed doors, no human being is a finished project, no done deal, no finished once-and-for-all discussions, no insurmountable barriers. The horizon’s open field stretches into infinity.”

Finally, Katharine Branning from USA sets on our table a delicious and beautifully garnished salad from the wise server of a local deli she frequents for lunch. In this thoughtful memoir from an ordinary working day in New York, you will find a feast of wisdom, as healthy a nourishment for the heart as a freshly mixed green salad.

However, it is not my husband, but rather my son, whom I want to talk about now. The anniversary of my son’s death was yesterday. It is probably in vain to talk about the last days of his life, because people already know that part of the story. He was part of an incredible story, but unfortunately he was on the wrong side.

My son learned at an early age how to become a man like his father, one who was devoted to his work and driven by success. His father did not spend much of his time with his family, but on those occasions that he did, he spent most of the time talking about his successes and the growing influence of his business. It was easy to tell that my son was captivated by his father’s success. To him, his father was an angel who had descended from heaven to tell him stories of miracles and wonders.

Unlike his father’s business obsession, my son developed an interest in machines. He dissembled and re-assembled all sorts of machines from a very young age and was able to combine different objects to come up with his own primitive inventions. Before he went to elementary school, he invented an automated knife that would spread butter on his bread and a machine that would bring him the remote control when triggered by pulling down on a string. Often, I found myself worrying about my son’s future education and wondering what this kid could possibly learn at school.

Unfortunately, within the first week of school, my worries about his education came true when my son was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactive Disorder (ADHD) and quickly became an outcast at school due to his hyperactivity. My divorce from his father during the same year only made things worse. I didn’t know what to do. Although it was not the best solution, I still thought it was best for my son to continue to study at a normal, public school.

In his second year, a fan club was formed to celebrate the superheroes that made this planet a better place to live. Mr. Incredible, Elastigirl, Frozone, Gazerbeam, Superman, etc., were all invitees of this club during their biweekly activities. My son, having grown up with the example of his successful father, soon developed an interest in this club. There, my son had found an excellent replacement for his father, whom he deeply missed since our divorce.

One day he returned from the club’s activities and was not the same person that usually returned from school. I hardly recognized him. The angry-looking, hyperactive outcast was gone, and in his place was a child who was destined to follow his dreams. During dinner, I asked how his day had been. He talked about a man that I “better marry,” because he wanted him as his father. Guess who it was: Mr. Incredible.

“I asked and he said he was single and he loved children,” my son insisted.

“But I’ve never met him!” I replied, smiling.

“I’m sure you’ll love him,” he said.

I was so happy that, after two years of misery and distress, we could have a dinner like mother and son.

The dream went on for a few months, until one night when he came home from a friend’s house, looking very distraught. I thought perhaps he had a fight with his friend, but it wasn’t that. He had tried to tag along with Mr. Incredible as his sidekick but had been kicked out of his car, because Mr. Incredible found him too young and didn’t want a sidekick. After all, Mr. Incredible always worked alone. Eventually, my son was able to accept the situation and he realized that what Mr. Incredible said was true, that he actually was too young. However, his awe of Mr. Incredible never faded. He always sought ways to get Mr. Incredible to accept and appreciate him.

By the time my son was in middle school, companies began to purchase his inventions. He was already well on his way to becoming as successful as his father had been. I frequently asked myself what this boy would accomplish in the future. He already had achieved what most people never would in an entire lifetime. Flying boots were his latest invention. He thought this would catch Mr. Incredible’s attention because flying would greatly improve Mr. Incredible’s ability to fight crime.

One night, he was brought home by the police. I literally freaked out. I thought he had done something horrible with one of his crazy inventions. Apparently, he had tried to help Mr. Incredible at the scene of a robbery, but everything had gone wrong and Mr. Incredible rejected him as a sidekick once more. Being an adolescent undergoing puberty he had difficulty in facing this latest rejection from his hero. He not only craved acceptance and appreciation but he needed them. From that day on, all the Mr. Incredible posters, stickers, and T-shirts were gone from our house. Instead, my son started putting up posters of villains and he started to idolize them.

I couldn’t tell anyone, but I was terrified when I found a paper in his room that said, “Revenge of the Bad Guys.” I hoped this was a sort of adolescent fury that would go away in time. And it did – at least I thought it did.

After he completed his university degree, my son started a company that focused on the research and development of defense systems. Because of his genius, he easily achieved immediate success and purchased two islands in the Pacific: one as his home to live with his fiancée and the other as his base of operations. I was a happy mother because after so many years of hard work and worries, I thought my son had finally overcome his difficulties and was moving on with his life.

My dream did not last long. After the government grounded all the superhero activities due to public unrest towards the superheroes, my son started popularizing his inventions that mimicked the abilities of these superheroes: flying boots, a machine that made any shape by freezing the humidity in the air, a never-ending rope that never broke, etc. I never thought that what he was doing was simply a disguise to hide his true goal: discovering Mr. Incredible’s secret identity and getting revenge for himself and for all those whose parents or spouses were hurt or killed by the superheroes. I found out about this from one of his journals that was later given to the police by his fiancée.

You know the rest of the story. My son was struck by a car that Mr. Incredible threw at him and was finally killed by the very jet engine he had invented and built. Mr. Incredible had once been my son’s hero and was now his murderer. What can I say? Congratulations, Mr. Incredible on another job well-done! I hope you can enjoy dinner with your family tonight as I’m writing these lines in sorrow …

It was on one of these sunny days that I had a guest. He was a generous young man. Soon after he came nearby, he served his blood to the mosquitos. Considering all the things humans pick from nature, their blood is the fruit that nature can pick in return, right? Anyway, the reason that I called this guest generous is that he did not kill the mosquitos while they were sucking his blood. He sat near me, and started pondering over the nice valley below. I didn’t know at first if I should talk to him. The snail creeping on me preferred to keep silent too. So I decided not to speak to him.

Soon after, a friend of this young man arrived. They started talking about finding water here. I thought “How do you think water can be found at this height of the hill?” But they started digging with the special equipments they had. I had heard about these things when a group of students had come on a field trip. They talked about the different kinds of rocks and the minerals in them, their story of formation through the depths of the earth or under deep water, and how one could find invaluable fluids by digging through them. Seeing these two young men, I better understood what they meant.

Anyway, after a few hours of extreme noise, I felt the wetness that touched me from below. The water was indeed rising in the well the two young men had made, and soon they were screaming from joy. As they indulged in their celebration, I was engulfed by that uncomfortable feeling I had when they’d arrived. After all, this was my place, and they had invaded it.

As if this invasion wasn’t enough, the man who had arrived first stepped on me and spread a cloth. I was enraged at the thought of this man celebrating his victory over me. But my rage stumbled upon what I saw as I watched him. He started offering thanks and praying. It was then that a sense of warmth seeped between us, and I began talking to him everytime he came. During his visits, he used to drink some fresh water, sit on me looking towards the valley, and delve into reflections and prayers. I thanked God for giving me this flat surface so that someone could pray on me. Our relationship became so special that when he was not around, I used to pray for his return.

Years passed by. Things didn’t change much with me, but the man changed a lot. His once smooth face now looked like the wavy ocean surface. His body was bent like trees on steep hills. Things were changing incredibly fast for humans. I felt pity for this man who was troubled by his daily affairs. I prayed that I could be closer to him to help relieve his pains. My prayers were accepted and this respectable man spent more and more time on me. Sometimes lying, sometimes sitting, but always contemplating or praying.

At times, he brought his grandchildren. These kids did not enjoy being here as much as their grandfather. They constantly kept looking at the glasses in their hands that entertained them. But sometimes, they had funny talks with their grandfather. For example, this one time they talked about putting the stones in water or burrying them in the soil so that they can grow like plants. When I heard those words, I thought about my genesis through the ocean beds and the inferno compartments in the earth. My life story was so naively and elegantly put into those few words of the children. It is curious how the little ones can formulize complex things so easily.

Those times of amusement used to make me think about myself. I was a mature rock, and I wanted to have youngsters around me. I prayed to have little ones that were eager to “rock ‘n’ roll.” But perhaps those little ones would not show up as soon as they did for the humans, and they would not be as rambunctious as their human peers. Anyway, with my innate desire, I kept praying to have them around.

Strange enough, my prayers were answered sooner than I thought, and I started seeing these little pebbles parting from me. In my maturity, I had the blessing of giving birth to children all around me. Now, whenever the old man came with his grandchildren, they played with mine, and that gave me immense pleasure.

At last one day, I saw a group of people coming near by with a wooden box on their shoulders. Yes, that was him, brought to meet his Lord… He was burried in the cemetery at the peak of the hill.

…

You know, it’s not easy to lose someone you love. It’s feels like burying a part of your heart before you actually die. I cried a lot, and I still do, silently, in my own way. I don’t want my sorrow to assume the form of a complaint against the decree of our Lord. Yet, I cry nonetheless. Maybe this grief is what has made me so weak nowadays. I am feeling that my end is near, too. The increasing number of little ones all around is making this message impossible to ignore. But at the same time, I am developing a hope of continuity; because the water that is springing under me penetrates into my pores, and water means life.

However, the peace that comes with this hope is always followed by the grief of losing my friend, and I am crying all my water out. To quench my sorrow, God sent me lots of people. They are all around, now that my tears are making a waterfall. But I’d rather have my friend pray on me than these people laugh with negligence at my sorrow. “Oh my Lord, my friend in the heavens… Oh my Lord, my friend in the heavens…”

People spoke of him mockingly. They said he behaved strangely, obeyed his wife to the letter. He didn’t hang out with other men after work in the coffee shop. He liked to read, a good-for-nothing sport. He didn’t speak the local accent although he had breathed the air of this town all his life. Presor Dyli didn’t curse or spit on the ground. He was unusually polite and mild, almost like-God forbid-a woman. He was weird, they said. People made fun of his wandering eyes, but that’s too cruel, and I am going to skip it.

I didn’t think of him as weird. He was different yes, but far from weird, if you know what I mean.

When Presor Dyli decided to start the first afterschool club ever in the history of our school, he ensured that he would become the laughingstock of the town for a hundred more years. Nobody knew what the club was about or even what an afterschool club was supposed to be.

Somehow he managed to secure a small room in the municipality building, five old typing machines, and a considerable supply of index cards and pencils.

Presor Dyli asked all his students to enroll in the club. Anything that could be an excuse to get out of the house, away from the never-ending chores, was welcome, so I was happy to oblige.

I remember the first meeting of the club quite clearly. My best friend, Lindita was sitting by my side, and she would giggle every time Presor Dyli looked at us, his wandering eye extremely lapsed in the wrong direction. I became annoyed with her since what Presor Dyli was saying kindled my curiosity. I turned to her sternly and scolded, “Oh, hush for a moment, won’t you?”

She looked at me like I had gone crazy. Little did I care if I had.

His soft voice spoke in unfamiliar words such as noble cause, great service, our language sweeter than honey. I felt like I was transported to a strange new planet.

“My dear children,” Presor Dyli said, “our mother tongue, Albanian, is an old and rich language. Unfortunately, many words used by older generations are about to vanish because they never saw the light of print on the pages of dictionaries. These old words are called archaisms; most of them originate from Ottoman language as a legacy of 500 years of Ottoman rule in Albania.”

“It is our mission to save these words from dying. While listening carefully to adults talking, if you catch a word you have never heard before, write it down on the index cards I will provide for you. At our club meetings we will compare notes, consult the dictionary, and type the words we don’t find in it. Okay? Later, we will mail those words with their meaning and usage to the National Committee for Albanian Language, so that they may be added to the dictionary. I know it sounds complicated but it is easy, you will see. Any questions?”

All twelve of us stood there dumbfounded. My brain felt fuzzy, like a TV which has lost its signal.

Nevertheless, Presor Dyli went on with a new subject–the methodology of our work. After explaining step-by-step the instructions on word hunting, he relaxed our overstretched minds with a story of a smart linguist on an archaism hunt.

“This linguist on an ancient-word hunt went to the farmer’s market. Immediately he spotted his prey-a toothless white-haired lady selling eggs, and he approached her. He asked her how much one egg cost.

She looked at this well-dressed, prospective buyer and smiled. “10 leke,” she said.

Then the linguist did the most unimaginable thing. In a frenzy, he snatched the egg basket and started throwing eggs to the ground, one by one. The old woman, cursing with contempt in her heavy mountainous dialect, fought back with this crazy man. To the surprise of everyone watching, the linguist, delighting in every curse as if receiving blessings from heaven, took out his notebook and excitedly recorded the lingual pearls.

The old woman, making no sense of what had happened, squatted over the broken eggs and cried over the ill fate that had befallen her. Right then, the linguist told her that he would pay for all the eggs he broke, 10 leke each. She did not believe him at first, but when he took out his purse and pulled out the money, she opened up like the sky after a storm. She thanked him effusively and upon hearing that he was willing to pay 15 leke for each, she let flow from her old mouth a string of benedictions. Again, the crazy linguist wrote down whatever she said, as if his own life depended on it.

“Well, children, this is the story of the linguist who dearly loved our language and did everything in hand to preserve it, even wasted eggs and paid for them” Presor Dyli smiled. “Don’t try this yourself though, all right?”

Later he dismissed us with the air of a commander sending his troops on an expedition.

I hugged the pack of index cards he had given me, and on my way home I made a mental list of suspects. I put my grandmother at the top. She was over eighty. She was bound to spill some ancient word from her mouth. Second, came our next-door neighbor, an old lady. “She loves to chat for hours. She gossips a lot too, but if breaking eggs is okay, then I will put up with that.” I decided.

I went to sleep that night, my chest filled with great aspirations for the remarkable service I would render to our mother tongue, which was sweeter than honey.

The next day I lay in ambush for my neighbor on her way to the farmer’s market. She started into her favorite sport-gossip-immediately.

“Did you see how the so and so’s wife was dressed in the so and so’s wedding?” she asked.

I shook my head, but that only invigorated her.

“Her outfit was for hakaret. How could she come in a dress that was so revealing? She should have…”

“Wait, wait a second,” I interrupted. A bulb started blinking in my brain.

“What is hakaret?” I asked, feeling for my pencil and the index card pack in my pocket.

She looked pretty annoyed to deal with words when greater scandals regarding the wife of so and so were involved. She answered anyway, maybe for fear of losing my interest.

“Hakaret means something discreditable, something that people will point their fingers at.

I started scribbling industriously on my index card as she spoke. My neighbor eyed me suspiciously.

“What are you doing?”

“Taking notes.”

“You aren’t going to tell the wife of so and so about what I said, are you?” She looked worried.

“Oh no, no. This is something related to my language club assignment.” I assured her.

Unconvinced, she decided to take no further risks and bade me good-bye, murmuring something about not wanting to miss the fresh eggs in the market.

As I watched her hurry away looking flabbergasted, I wondered if she would tell someone in the market about her neighbor’s so and so daughter doing strange things with a pencil and some what-you-call-them cards.

That evening I listened all ears, pencil in hand to my grandma complain to Mom about one of her grandchildren, my uncle’s only son among three daughters.

“The child is spoiled rotten and if something isn’t done to bring him to his senses, he will bring shame to all of us. It is as clear as that. As they say, you don’t need a kilavuz to the village for what you can see.”

“What is a kilavuz, Grandma?” I asked curiously.

Grandma froze, unprepared for this all-out assault. Soon enough she came to her senses and replied, “Kilavuz is someone who leads the way.”

“A guide?” I said, coming to her assistance.

“Yeah, something of the sort. Now why don’t you go and pick some grapes from the vine, wash them thoroughly, and bring us some to eat.”

I went out, sat on the front steps and wrote down with indescribable delight, kilavuz, my second victory. My heart beat with glory.

At the third club meeting I brought three hard-to-find words. You know the first two already. Why, the third came from a street argument among two drunks shouting at each other at the top of their lungs. I just wrote down the word because, as you can figure out, I couldn’t ask them, drunk as they were, about its meaning. I asked my mom instead. She blushed and threatened to make me bite on red hot pepper if I ever spoke that word again. Just as Professor Dyli asked us to hand him our index cards, I erased the third word. I reasoned that our language might do better with one less bad word.

Week by week, month by month, the about-to-be-lost words accumulated, like little streams in a pond. When we finally correctly typed thirty of them, Presor Dyli put the list in an envelope and mailed it with an accompanying letter, explaining our humble service to the National Committee for Albanian Language.

We continued on our word pursuit the rest of the school year, although we didn’t hear back from the NCFAL. Presor Dyli’s matchless enthusiasm fueled our little engines.

During that year, our country was undergoing great changes, although we, young club-goers, took little notice. On the radio, television, the coffee shop, the street, everyone talked about the big transition from over forty years of communism, to democracy. The land and the factories were being privatized and words such as private property and business were articulated boldly for the first time in many years. We brought them over to club–that’s how I remember. Presor Dyli told us that they were new words, therefore of no use to our mission.

My parents talked over dinner each night of how some of our neighbors or their friends had come up with amazing ideas to start a trade, and how courageous it was to take such a risk in the collapsing economy. Some of them had turned their patios into little shops, selling anything they could lay a hand on and stock in such a little space. My parents wished we were living in the walk-in level apartment, so we could try our luck in business. Why, it was such a convenient thing to work so close to your living quarters. I understood nothing of their talk. Nonetheless I listened carefully, my pencil and cards nearby.

At one of our meetings, which I learned later would sadly be the last, Presor Dyli told us apologetically that he had to quit the language club. He had to dedicate his time to something really important.

“I am sorry, children. I tried to find a substitute to keep the club going but to no avail. You kids did a great job. I am proud of you. I am sorry to quit but I have to,” he said in a sad tone. He did not look at us.

We left in silence, wondering what could be so important and so sorrowful at the same time.

Had he come down with a bad disease and he needed to go for treatments? Was he moving to another city? Had he received a disheartening letter from NCFAL? What could it be?

Weeks went by. Presor Dyli still taught us language arts during regular school hours but as soon as the last bell rang, he would hurry in the direction of his apartment. I had been taught to never pry. That’s why, tempted as I was, I never followed him.

One day, I took another way home after school because I had to take a make-up assignment to a sick classmate. I was entertaining myself with my shadow sliding ahead of me on the pavement, when his voice startled me.

“One kilogram tomatoes, two dozen eggs, one box of matches. Anything else I can get for you, sir?”

Yes, it was him. In his apartment’s patio which had been converted into a shop. I couldn’t believe it! He still had on his morning attire-white shirt and black pants. A black apron hung loosely about him and his shirt sleeves were rolled up. He had tomato stains on his shirt.

“No thanks,” replied the customer as he handed him the money.

As Presor Dyli rummaged in the big front pocket of his apron for change, a passerby who was the age of my father, stopped at the door of the shop and shouted.

“Hey Abdyl, how is it going? You’ve got a pretty good-sized shop here. Hang in there, buddy and before you know it, you will own a big market, just like Naim. He started small like you but look at him now. Has money to cover himself standing. I am happy for you, man.”

He made his point and patted Presor Dyli on the shoulder.

“Finally the cat caught a mouse, eh, Abdyl? “

I was about to cry. This little business was his really important something. What’s worse, he didn’t even mind being compared to the ill-famed Naim, a mafioso who was known to sell anything illegal.

Presor Dyli looked up. He saw me standing on the pavement across the street, like a statue of salt. He tried a genuine smile and waved at me, a bit hesitantly.

I was waking up from the dream.

He had lost his charm. I had lost my aspirations. He wasn’t weird anymore by the town’s standards. He was Abdyl now.

I didn’t wave back. I moved on and let my tears flow.

“You know, I wasn’t always like this,” began the butterfly. “I used to creep on the ground instead of flying in the air. I used to have gloomy colors and obnoxiously long hair instead of these lovely colors and elegant wings.”

It was really hard for me to believe that the butterfly had ever been in the situation she was describing. I am sure the other fellows in our group were also surprised to hear this, but none of us wanted to interrupt the flow of her beautiful words.

“My situation back then troubled me, indeed. Why was I doomed to get smashed under the feet of others? Why was beauty innate to other creatures while ugliness was my fate? Dissatisfied with my situation, I wanted to change, dreamed to wake up into a new day, desired to breathe a fresh life. My creeping ugly body did not match my spirit within.”

At this point, I couldn’t hold my breath anymore, and asked: “So, what did you do about it? Was it then that you turned into this beautiful state?” The butterfly reacted most unexpectedly to my question. She neither smiled nor gave a humble answer. Without even changing the expression on her face, as if she hadn’t heard me, she continued: “I couldn’t do anything about it.” Then she stopped. You know how long intermissions like this can feel. After a few seconds the butterfly took the word again seriously, as if she had a duty to tell her story, rather than an urge to praise herself.

“In that desperation, I decided to bring all this to an end. I slowly climbed a high tree. From that height, the scene looked very different. I was able to observe things just like the birds. I had found a security that I could never find on the ground. A perfect day to initiate my change. If I wanted to be revived anew, I needed to die first.”

We weren’t expecting to hear such sentences from this unique guest in our forest. Why was she telling us all this anyway? We were all young trees looking forward to our bright futures. The gloom in her words veiled her beauty, and eclipsed our interest in listening to her. But observing the change in our facial expressions, the butterfly continued:

“And slowly, I started tying the rope that I carefully made myself, and rendered myself to the hands of the wind. And just like I had predicted, things started changing very quickly as I descended towards the ground. I realized something that I had never thought before: I belonged to someone who did not want me to perish like this. It was as if time suddenly stopped, and I had a chance to communicate with my Owner. I was ashamed of what I had done, and asked for a second chance, which was given to me. Then I came to find myself hanging from the tree.”

I was thinking that the butterfly was going to conclude with “hanging from the tree in this vibrant beauty.” Astonishingly, there was more to the story of how she gained this beauty. My interest started to build up again, and I observed the same curiosity on my friends’ faces.

“In my anguish and shame, I started covering my body. I wove a small tent around myself. As such, I was alone in my darkness, away from the insults, from the harassments, and from myself. During my retreat, I tried to re-evaluate things and thought about positive ways to change. After a while, I decided to rid myself of my cocoon and do something. But there was one hurdle: I was hanging down in the middle of the air, covered with a genuinely woven house. I had to undo the excellent job I had done, but it wasn’t easy to tear my silken prison apart.

“As small pieces of the house were torn and as I was able to glimpse the daylight, I tried even harder to free myself. When the hole I made was large enough, I squeezed myself through. It was then that I saw my new self, reflected in the puddle below me and gave the most heartfelt praise to my Owner.”

Thus concluded the butterfly’s story of change. She even gave us admonitions about positive ways of making changes in our lives and in ourselves. She also talked about how potent our bodies are in facilitating the process of change.

All this was wholeheartedly embraced in our forest by the young trees, including me at the time. Why? Because we were in the same place where we were born; so we wanted to do something about it. We were all inspired by the butterfly’s story and decided to mobilize ourselves. Even the peaceful nights that used to be filled with the rhythmic voices of crickets were now filled with the whispers of our discussions on how to enact this fundamental change.

No wonder the old trees found this activity among the young outrageous and inappropriate. They thought that we were trying to achieve something against our nature. The time spent on these efforts was regarded as a waste. The old trees first tried to warn us against our “hallucinations,” but it turned out to be a fruitless effort. Then the old trees threatened to block our sunlight by covering us from above. This, too, became a wasted effort when the old trees realized they were engaging in sanctions that would kill their young ones instead of changing their minds. In the mean time, our ideas caught the attention of the newer generations. Upon hearing the whole story regarding the butterfly and our efforts to change, they too joined us in that desire to mobilize. So eventually the old trees decided to wait and see what would happen. After all, we were simply trying to imitate the butterfly.

Ever since that spring when the butterfly shared her story, we all covered ourselves with as many leaves as possible, similar to the cocoon of the butterfly. We were hoping that when the winter winds blew those leaves away, our mobilized selves would come out, just like the flight of the butterfly. We persistently covered ourselves this way year after year, but neither our roots became feet, nor did our branches transform to wings. Eventually, we realized that we were only getting older and that we were wasting our time. No one was out there anymore to advise us, either, because the butterfly had died that same spring, and the older trees shunned us because of our stubborn foolishness.

Once young trees, now experienced and mature, we decided to talk about the failed plan that was supposed to lead us to change. This time, instead of reciting the misleading story of the butterfly, we were going to talk about why this had happened to us and how we should advise our young. We started by analyzing the cautions of the old trees. Although we were not fully able to understand the wisdom behind the words of the elders, we could feel that they carried some implicit good in them.

As our voices undulated in the air, one of the migrating birds heard this talk and made a swift landing near our place of discussion. She quickly started to talk: “You know, we also had a problem among our young, but it was in the opposite direction. They wanted to quit traveling and stay in one place. We even lost some of them last winter when they decided not to migrate.” The unexpected interruption by the bird evoked other questions in our branchy minds. Why was this problem always occurring with the young? And why did they fancy a nature opposite to their own?

We couldn’t come to a conclusion. But one day, a short time after the discussion with the bird, we witnessed a mobile tree and a stationary bird. The tree was being carried behind a huge animal that was making a horrible, obnoxious noise. This was an animal we had never seen. To our surprise, the two Men who were riding the animal had captured a bird and somehow made her into a stationary bird that could constantly stand on the walls surrounding their home. Neither the mobile tree nor the stationary bird induced joy in the forest.

The mobilization of the trees and the stationing of the birds continued until one day when there were hardly any trees and birds left. Something was terribly wrong because none of this brought any good to our forest. The few remaining trees wanted to stay where they were born, and the few remaining birds wanted to fly.

On a once breezy and warm, but now unusually hot spring day, a butterfly appeared in the place where our forest used to be. She carried a poetry book she had composed. As the butterfly voiced her yearning for the glorious trees in the land and the soaring birds in the skies, tears of regret filled our eyes. And her verses of nostalgia ended with a prayer:

Oh the Unchanging One despite the transients,
Oh the Eternal One in the face of all mortals,
Oh the Creator of all animals that are now only in the tales,
Resurrect nature, we implore with our silence.

Seth Mette has a PhD in Aerospace Engineering and is currently working as a postdoctoral fellow at West Virginia University. He has a special interest in psychological fiction.

For many, math is the most difficult class. Is it because of our own laziness, or is much math too abstract to comprehend? Ali Unver says, “educators who see the beauty at the center of mathematics and can make their students see it that way, are more likely to be able to get their students’ attention and teach them more effectively.” He explains in “Mathematics and the Universe” that mathematics is not only for keeping track of our checkbooks.

Mary and Jesus, peace be upon them, are the subject of a considerable amount of Islamic literature. Ahmet Cetinkaya contributes with a thesis on the question of whether Jesus had any brothers and sisters. Drawing on sources of Islamic tradition and the Bible, Cetinkaya lays out interesting information on the topic, which is also a matter of debate between some Christian denominations.

“Romania – Dar-ul Sulk” discusses how historical truths are sometimes forsaken for the sake of political interests. Victor Nitelea presents an exemplary account of the mutually beneficial centuries-long relationship between the Ottomans and Romania and how the positive image of Turks as a tolerant society was replaced by an image of barbarians. This account also explains how the school curriculum can be manipulated according to political trends at the expense of causing intolerance and conflict between East and West.

“Can I Be Your Baggage?” Barney Zwartz, a journalist from Melbourne asks Abdullah Aymaz, who spoke about the emergence of the Gulen Movement in an international conference organized by the Australian Catholic University back in July. Whose baggage did he want to be? Zwartz was referring to the educational movement started in the 1960s among a small circle of young people like Mr. Aymaz who were inspired by Fethullah Gulen. In this issue, Aymaz shares with us his observations of the conference with some flashbacks to his first encounters with Mr. Gulen and how the movement started to take shape.

from the memoirs of an inventor that lived long, long ago

I especially love when the spider webs shine with the sunrise. The little water beads on them make an extraordinary scene in the early morning. Talking about spiders, how they make their webs is also another beauty. It still blows my mind that they can make such long arches despite their tiny bodies. With the colorful designs on their bodies, spiders are the manifestation of beauty that penetrates even into the smallest holes of the earth. As I am talking about spiders, I would like to tell you a lovely memory of mine about how my admiration of them led me to the discovery of my life.

At the time, there was not much to do other than hunting and picking leaves and fruit. I wanted to do something else. For example, the skins that animals had on them were so fitting, flexible, and nice. We used to take them to put on ourselves; but they did not fit us. They did not cover our bodies totally, and they were stinky. I had a desire to come up with a new way of covering our bodies. I used to sit by the spiders and reflect on this idea a lot while watching them make their webs.

Unfortunately, not everyone was appreciative of the spiders and my interest in them. Whenever my father caught me watching the spiders, he used to mock me and reprimand me for being lazy. He always told me that we needed to get going to hunt something edible, in order not to sleep with empty bellies. You can imagine what torture it was for me to hunt. Killing something of beauty is not beautiful… I knew we had to eat to survive. But maybe I was not the right person to do the killing part. I could cook, I could pick fruit…

One day, when I was watching a spider, I saw a cocoon hanging down from the tree. That was it! The cocoon’s cover was what I was looking for: a large spider web woven densely enough to cover us up. You should have seen me when the idea first came. I couldn’t help but smile so broadly. It had been a long time since I had smiled such a joyous smile. I started running and climbed the hills. To get some rest, I watched the valleys below. Then, once again I took off, and soared down from the hill running; my arms wide open like a bird’s wings.

When I came home, empty-handed to be sure, my mother was not happy at all. “If you don’t want your dad to ruin your night, go and find something before he comes,” she said. Fortunately, I knew some trees that were in fruit just then. I rushed to gather from them to make everybody happy.

Later that night, I had a very scary dream. I was running, and then I suddenly fell into a pit where there was a long snake. The snake started to wind itself around me so that I was totally covered. Then I saw that there was a scorpion in the pit, but it could not approach me because of the snake. Frightened, I woke up screaming. My parents came in to check on me. After a second’s silence, my father said, “I told you not to watch those spiders too much.”

Although I was not really bothered, my parents were getting more and more concerned about me. I was growing to the age of marriage, and they wanted me to have sound spiritual health. The next day, we went to the respected man of God in the village for him to interpret my dream and to get some advice. He said, “The snake in your dream did not harm you. So, it is to be hoped that God will bless you with a cover that is going to protect you from worldly and heavenly harms.” This interpretation was definitely unexpected both by me and by my parents.

Soon after that dream, I talked about my inspiration to my mother, and she told me something invaluable. She said that our great great-grandparents had had beautiful things to wear before they came to this world. When they were sent down here, their beautiful clothes were ripped off. Now that I was thinking about making beautiful garments, maybe this was a heavenly message. Mom wanted me to keep this secret.

I did keep my hopes and inspirations secret, but I did not stop working on them. I was finally inspired by another creature: birds. They made their nests by weaving plants and branches together. That observation brought me to the brim of the discovery of my life, but I was not aware of it at the time.

One day, mom wanted to have a private conversation with me. She said that now I was not a girl anymore but a young woman it was time that I united my life with someone else’s. She said that the guests that had come a few days earlier had come to talk about that issue. They asked my parents for me. At first, I was perplexed to hear all this. I wanted to have some time to prepare myself for the idea. Not long after, the preparations for the wedding were underway, and I was very willing because of the person asking for me.

My groom was the man of God that had interpreted my dream. To suit his status, I wanted to wear something special on the day of the wedding, something never seen before. The days were running by too fast, and bothered by my inability to come up with that special thing, I started spending more time with the spider webs by myself. Mom thought that a gloomy state had befallen on me due to my prospective wedding. She tried to reassure me, calm me, but that was not the case at all. As my state persisted, my parents’ worries grew too. They did not want any trouble in this wedding.

Then one day, I received the first gift for my wedding, before the wedding actually happened. I was inspired to weave the leaves and stems of plants to cover myself just like the winding of that snake in my dream and the cocoon of the spider. With the joy of this heavenly gift, I quickly finished making my garment. This discovery was certainly a heavenly beauty that was sent to celebrate my wedding. With the new garment on me, I was so beautiful, and with the man of my life, I was so happy.

Seth Mette has a PhD in Aerospace Engineering and is currently working as a postdoctoral fellow at West Virginia University. He has a special interest in psychological fiction.

It was around dawn, and the day was not yet fully light. Rain the night before had left a thick cloud covering the scene. The music of bugs and the chanting of birds filled the air. Against a background of a slight breeze, which provided a smooth and continuous whistle, consecutive, rhythmic thumps could be heard. These thumps were the sounds of a giant’s footsteps as he was walking to work early in the morning.

Meanwhile, my grandpa and his friends were enjoying the water on the walkway. But a hot day was soon going to make the walkway the death bed of many of his friends. Aside from the heat of the day, the footsteps of the giants would bring to an end the lives of many others. Neither he nor his friends were aware of any of this. They were simply enjoying their water on the walkway.

That morning, the giant who was walking to work bent down towards my grandfather, grabbed a thin stick from the ground, and tried to kill him. Not ready for such an attack in the midst of his breakfast, my grandfather was stupefied, did not know what to do. He just spiraled away to escape the giant’s attack, as we always do in case of danger. But all was in vain; the giant would not give up.

Finally, the giant accomplished what he was trying to do, and thus my grandfather was saved from both the heat and the giant footsteps. It turned out that my grandpa had misunderstood the giant. Normally, other giants would walk on us, or would ignore us, and this giant was the same; or so he had thought. However, this one was trying to put the stick under my grandpa to lift him and place him onto the soil where he could be safe. My grandpa said that he appreciated this help more later when he heard his friends dying on that same walkway.

The story of a giant who was unlike others spread from the family to friends, and became known all around. The world underground rejoiced at the existence of this one giant who was not like others… Maybe there were other giants like him, too; and the underground world kept praying for those giants that they might be protected from things they were unaware of, just as that giant had saved my grandfather from things that he was unaware of.

After my grandfather’s times, his story became a nostalgic tale for the elders and a bedtime story for little ones. The world aboveground became worse than the world underground. Instead of long trees above with their roots under ground, you would see huge, tall rocks in both places. The rocks underground provided water to everyone, but the rocks aboveground only provided water to the giants. The roots of the plants and trees used the marrow of the earth to embellish it, but the long channels that the giants sank into the ground were like huge veins draining the earth to death. We ceased praying for them.

One day, we heard screaming among the giants about an asteroid heading directly towards the earth. The only thing they were worried about was the end of their own lives. We were not surprised by this selfish reaction to that event because of their selfish past on the earth. And the asteroid came…

It was foggy again, but not due to clouds; it was quite dark, but not due to dawn. The fog and the darkness were due to dust spread over the face of the earth. We were fortunate to be able to sustain our lives under such harsh conditions. As for the giants, they were not suffering much from the conditions, as they had taken shelter in special chambers built only for them. Being some of the few survivors of the impact, we were of significant use to them. After using the entire earth selfishly, now they were enslaving us. So, they still lacked our prayers for their protection. Could they ever figure out, despite their hardened hearts, why such tragedy had befallen them?

Not long after that time, we witnessed something totally incredible. One of the giants came out of the protection chambers to do something that was completely unexpected. He looked through his goggles at the sky and tried to take a deep breath. As he was coughing because of the dust in the air, he opened the nylon bag he was carrying. He sat on the ground, dug a hole with his hands, and uncovered the thing in the bag: a daisy plant. Was he going to plant it? But why? The chances of its survival were almost none. What benefit would it bring him, anyway, even if it survived for a day? He looked pleased with what he was doing. He even smiled at a worm that was escaping the hole he had dug for the flower. What was going on in his mind?

It was just at the moment he was about to plant the flower that the earth suddenly started shaking like crazy. The planet was dying because of the deep cracks caused by the impact of the asteroid. Now, neither the giant nor the flower had any chance of survival. He did not know what to do for a while; then he started shedding tears: “Oh my God! Oh my God!”

Then he saw the deep cracks forming near him, shaking and growing. It was as if the planet had started shouting at him in thousands of voices. He could not stand the quakes and fell down next to the hole, as if it were he, instead of the flower, that was going to be buried in it. At that moment, this giant was no different from us: lying on the ground, and seeking his way out of this doom. Who was there to help him? His cries were now screams: “Oh my God! Oh my God!”

All of a sudden, he stopped crying and started talking to someone, but we could not see anybody around: “Please, hold me tight. Do not leave me….” He continued, “But I can’t… I can’t….” Then, he tried to reach the flower that had rolled away from him when he fell down. He grabbed it and cradled it at his chest; but struck by a stone falling from one of the nearby rocks, he fell unconscious. As he was sinking into the growing cracks, we uttered a prayer for a giant who had planted a flower in his heart… The last prayer of worms, the last prayer for giants…

Seth Mette has a PhD in Aerospace Engineering and is currently working as a postdoctoral fellow at West Virginia University. He has a special interest in psychological fiction.