LADYKILLERS mileva anastasiadou


Last night we had sex. It was consensual and fun and all. He made all preparations for breakfast this morning: strawberry pancakes and hot vanilla-flavored coffee. We’re now walking in the park, holding hands, already a couple, although we only met last night. Alex is handsome, it’s Sunday morning, the skies clear blue above our heads. I shouldn’t be bothered by his tight grip, but I am.

He says he has plans for tonight. I realize, by the look in his eyes, I should be thrilled I’m included. He says he’s willing to introduce me to his friends. That’s an honor, I tell him. He has been expecting that answer, judging by his arrogant smile. He explains he’s into one-night stands, but this time it’s different. I’m into one-night stands too, I tell him. He thinks I’m joking, but I’m not.

I tell him this restaurant’s too expensive for me. I’d rather have lunch somewhere cheaper. Take it easy, he tells me, trying to sound comforting, yet I hear it as an order. I call Gina while he’s also taking a call. Gina tells me she’s proud of me. She thought I couldn’t get serious about relationships, that I couldn’t fall in love. He takes the phone off my hand when he sits down. I realize he’s inviting Gina at the club we’re supposed to go tonight. Gina’s thrilled. What a catch she tells me, before she hangs up. I look at him frustrated. He says I shouldn’t mind that stuff but I do.

At the club, he’s introducing me to Bruce, who’s his best friend. He then grabs me by the waist, brings me closer and kisses me for about twenty seconds. That was a breath-taking kiss. I mean literally breath-taking, as I ran out of air, while counting the seconds until he stopped. He looks me in the eye, his hand still holding my hand, while caressing my face with his free hand. I’m fixing my hair that’s all over my face, but I need my two hands to properly perform the action. So I withdraw my hand from his grip. He seems offended I chose my hair over him. In his mind, we’re already a couple. In my mind, we’ve already broken up.

We dance for a while and that’s the only time of the day I feel my body belongs to me. Gina whispers in my ear, while dancing next to me. She’s determined to make a move on Bruce. I watch her best efforts to seduce him, only Bruce doesn’t seem impressed. When she puts her arm around his neck, during a dancing move, he pushes it away, turning his back on her. He wants to be clear he doesn’t appreciate her advances, but he’s kind of rude.

When Alex approaches for another kiss, I also push him away. Isn’t it a bit too late to play hard to get? he asks, using his both hands to bring me closer and entrap me into his arms, his lips almost touching mine now, my feet unwillingly following his steps, as we go on dancing, like nothing’s happening, like he’s not forcing his body onto mine. Before his mouth reaches mine, I manage to tell him we’re through, and keep on dancing, smiling, stepping away from his embrace little by little, not to make a scene. He pulls me closer as if he hasn’t heard a thing, but I know he’s heard and I know my words don’t mean a thing to him, as he’s pushing his tongue into my mouth. I’m sick and tired of people pushing me around. My boss asking for more, magazines telling me how to dress, or walk or properly behave and it may be the drinks which make me strong enough to defend my life, or anyone’s, only now it’s about me. Mom says I should be thankful, for mom thinks she raised a monkey. Monkey see, monkey do. Only I was born human. Alex’s so certain I enjoyed his kiss that he doesn’t notice me slapping him. Before long, he touches his cheek, then walks away.

Bruce comes my way after a while, asking what happened. He’s caring, taking my side, despite his long friendship with Alex. Let me buy you a drink, he says. I see Gina dancing with Alex and I nod. He sits next to me, resting his hand on my thigh. I take it in my hands and put it on his drink. That’s where it belongs, I tell him. He grins and places it back onto my thigh. I feel like my body’s in the public domain now, like anyone can use it, however conveniently they wish, without my permission. I pour my drink onto his pants. What’s wrong with you? he asks.

Gina sits silently next to me, after Bruce and Alex leave the club. She orders another drink and sighs. A couple of sips later, she asks what went wrong. It may be the music, too loud, or the drinks, which made me dizzy, or I just wanted myself back, I tell her. She rolls her eyes, like she only hears cheap excuses. She insists I should have considered the option, like I should mute my natural inclination to freedom and appreciate the cage. Life in a cage is limited, yet all comforts are included. She considers me a mystery, a riddle, an ‘undefined’ territory, as if I’m divided by zero and don’t fit proper mathematics, or the proper world. You’ll end up alone with that attitude, she says and that’s almost a threat. A threat worse than death, only I know better; if my only chance at life is in a cage, I’ll spend it rattling the bars, for worse than loneliness or even death, is a life lived by me without my permission.



Mileva Anastasiadou is a neurologist from Athens, Greece. Her work can be found or is forthcoming in many journals, such as the Molotov Cocktail, Jellyfish Review, Sunlight Press (Best Small Fictions 2019 nominee), Ghost Parachute, Gone Lawn, Ellipsis Zine, Queen Mob's Tea House, Bending Genres, MoonPark Review, Litro and others.

@happymil_
https://www.facebook.com/milevaanastasiadou/

FELT TIP PEN kyla houbolt


I've got a felt tip pen
I've got a vacuum hose
I've got two hundred men
I've got old fashioned clothes
I've got a sick dog here
I've got medicine
I've got a mind disease
I've got a lucky seven
I've got a felt tip pen
I've got some sidewalk chalk
I've got a turkey hen
I've got a felt tip pen
I've got a felt tip pen

I've got the inside scoop
I've got the best deal going
I've got some chocolate sauce
I've got these muscle twitches
I've got the inside scoop
I've got five merit badges
I've got blue cheese dressing
I've got magic bullets
I've got the white bread blues
I've got the inside scoop
I've got a fondue pan
I've got the inside scoop
I've got the inside scoop

I bought a chevrolet
I bought the whole shebang
I bought everything they say
I bought the one with pockets
I bought your diamond ring
I bought a house in France
I bought a chevrolet
I bought some gasoline
I bought these magazines
I bought this hot new item
I bought a chevrolet
I bought a big ass bomb
I bought a chevrolet
I bought a chevrolet



Kyla Houbolt writes, mostly poetry, though she is old enough to know better. You can find all her published work on her Link Tree, here: @luaz_poet | Linktree. She is on Twitter @luaz_poet.

CANTORUM aqeel parvez

he had a blue straw
hat on that said 
'brugal' over a small 
french flag.

he was playing some 
cello music, I asked 
him what it was 
and he said to picture
'a marauder 
walking through the 
city in a trench coat,
rain lashing down, 
venom from the sky'

I thought of the 
bladerunner rain,
the tears of crying children.
'so you're listening to this 
classical stuff now?'
'yeah man, it's good' 

and now he was on the
bed in his boxers
in that trilby straw hat 
with French connections
listening to this cello music. 
again I asked him
what it was.

'penguin cafe mate'
he went over to the window 
and stared at a couple of 
melting penguins, 
he was rare in

his flight towards inescapable 
ambition, he had little fear 
and more to give than 
just words. but he was
also a real odd cat,
off kilter, not all there.



Aqeel Parvez writes and makes art. He lives in Leeds, UK. He is the author of the chapbook The Streetlights Are Beckoning Nirvana (Analog Submission Press). His work has been published by Horror Sleaze Trash, Back Patio Press, Sunday Night Bombers, Expat Press, 16 Pages Press & Sludge Lit. Find him on instagram @ap.writer & twitter @aqeelparvez

NORTHERN SOUL aqeel parvez

I am a northern. I sit at the edge. I love watching the people walk by. I saw a girl in a black overcoat, black jeans, black boots. All black. I liked that. She screamed of youth. But her eyes were old age. She stopped to look at me once while smoking a cigarette. It wasn't my best day. My branches were creaking. My branches were failing. I tried to stand straight but the wind failed me. Again. This motherfuckin northern wind. I sat as only I could sit. I fluttered my leaves. 

She was intrigued by my broken posture. I sat before her. She stood before me. I thought she should come back in summer. See me in my glory. She would be wearing a flowing summer dress and sandals. I thought she should see me at my best. I thought. I thought. I kept thinking. She just stared. She was intrigued. Humbled by my stature. I thought so anyway. 

She rocked back and forth like I rocked back and forth. We are one and the same. Her eyelashes were long and fluttered like my leaves. Like my best leaves.

Then she started to dance. An effortless dance. So beautiful and easy. Swaying her hips with the wind. With a command of the seasons. With a passion of nature. She understood what I could not understand. The wind. The motherfucking wind. 

Now I sit as still as a fallen feather. And the wind blows me every direction. I have been here 30 years. Sometimes she comes back and strokes my bark. My glorious bark. I quiver then. Quiver of wind. Quiver of emotion. Only she cannot see my soul. My soul is separate to hers. I heard her whispers. Her voice was like a cello cry. It was like a needle I cannot let go. 

Heavy and still I stand. Lumbering through the seasons. She does not believe me when in the winter.  I am bare and sparse and frankly rotten. She does not visit much anymore. 

She does not visit much anymore. And I wait until summer. My leaves will flutter brilliance. I am northern. I've got that Northern soul. You better believe what you see. I've got that groove. Sometimes the wind plays up and I can dance. Many people stand and watch as I glimmer in the sweltering lollipop they call a sun. My leaves like a flamingos. 

They watch me. The young girls watch me. In their crafty glare. Oh they watch my posture like a peacock. I stand on the ground. I have been standing for years. It feels like millennia. I have seen them all. None like the girl in the black overcoat. So simple and elegant. 

Now I watch her in my sleep. Or what they call sleep. When all is dead. Midnight she came and touched me. My overcoat. I've got that northern soul don't you see. Girl in all black, what you see. I've got style. I am unconquerable. I'll be here after she's gone.

She should sit with me. My northern soul. We will say nothing and it will be everything. Those blades of grass. My heart is nature. The wind is my mood. My roots go deep. I've got that northern soul. We will say nothing. We will speak everything. All the languages under the sun. I am northern. With that soul. With that style. She will see. All of them will see. This is my last stand. All I do is stand. I have no words.




Aqeel Parvez writes and makes art. He lives in Leeds, UK. He is the author of the chapbook The Streetlights Are Beckoning Nirvana (Analog Submission Press). His work has been published by Horror Sleaze Trash, Back Patio Press, Sunday Night Bombers, Expat Press, 16 Pages Press & Sludge Lit. Find him on instagram @ap.writer & twitter @aqeelparvez