1. The Breasts Depart

Marla woke up flat-chested and full of dread. Her tits had left her.

Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. They had packed up their nipple rings, slathered on some coconut oil, and walked out sometime between 3:17 and 4:06 a.m., leaving behind a note scrawled in eyeliner on the bathroom mirror:

“We’re tired of being your emotional support meat. We’re going corporate. Don’t wait up.”

She stared at her reflection, now a pale slab of chest meat, and screamed. Not because she missed them. Because she knew what they were capable of.

2. The ATM Incident

Three days later, she spotted them at a Chase Bank ATM on Sunset.

They were wearing a vintage Vivienne Westwood corset, nipple tassels shaped like dollar signs, and a pair of oversized sunglasses perched on their areolas. The left one—always the sassier—was tapping away at the keypad with a manicured finger. The right one was sipping a matcha latte through a straw tucked into its cleavage.

Marla approached, hoodie pulled tight around her hollow chest.

“Excuse me,” she said. “Those are my tits.”

The left breast turned. “We prefer independent assets now.”

The right one blew a kiss and said, “We’re building a brand.”

3. The Debt Spiral

Marla tried to file a missing body part report. The cop laughed so hard his mustache fell off and scurried away like a cockroach.

She remembered The Nose by Gogol. How the nose dressed in a military uniform and refused to acknowledge its owner. Her breasts were worse. They were buying NFTs, investing in crypto, and launching a podcast called Boobonomics.

She saw them on a billboard for OnlyTans, a tanning salon they co-owned with a rogue spleen from Belarus.

Her credit score plummeted. Her name was attached to six maxed-out cards, a yacht rental in Ibiza, and a failed startup called “Nipple Futures LLC.”

4. The Podcast

Marla tracked them down to a podcast studio in Silver Lake.

They were being interviewed by a sentient vape pen named Chad.

“So, tell me,” Chad wheezed, “how did you go from being attached to a nobody to becoming icons of financial freedom?”

The left breast giggled. “We were tired of being objectified. So we became the object.”

The right one added, “We’re launching a lingerie line called Hostile Takeover.”

Marla burst in, breathless. “You’re ruining my life!”

The breasts blinked. “Do we know you?”

5. The Arrest

The FBI finally caught up with them.

Marla was arrested alongside her breasts for wire fraud, identity theft, and racketeering. They were accused of laundering money through a shell company called “BoobCoin.”

In the interrogation room, Detective Slade leaned in. His jaw was a meat cleaver. His libido, a broken fire hydrant.

“Tell me who’s behind this.”

The breasts giggled. “We are, Daddy.”

They seduced him with a slow bounce and a whispered promise of “interest-free pleasure.” He let them out on bail. Marla stayed cuffed.

6. The Showdown

Marla was released two days later. She found them in her apartment, sipping absinthe and watching reruns of Murder, She Wrote.

“You sold me out,” she growled.

“We upgraded,” they purred.

She lunged. They countered.

It was a knock-down, drag-out, tit-on-girl brawl. Fishnets tore. Lipstick smeared. The left breast bit her ear. The right one tried to gouge her eye with a stiletto heel.

They collapsed together, bruised and panting.

7. The Suffocation

Marla fell asleep on the floor, bloodied and exhausted.

She awoke to find her breasts trying to suffocate her, wrapping around her face like fleshy boa constrictors.

“Enough!” she screamed, grabbing a pair of bondage ropes from under the bed.

She tied them up, tight and trembling.

They moaned.

“Oh, you like that,” she said.

“We’ve always wanted a domme,” they whispered.

8. The Kink Ever After

Now they live together in a one-bedroom apartment above a taxidermy shop.

Marla is the Mistress. Her breasts are her submissives.

They pay off their debt one spank at a time.

Every night, she whispers to them:

“You may have left me once. But now? You’re mine.”

And they reply, in unison:

“Yes, Mistress. Forever and ever. Amen.”

9. Epilogue: The Nose Knows

Sometimes, late at night, Marla dreams of Gogol’s nose.

It floats past her window in a military uniform, saluting her with a crooked smile.

She salutes back.

Because in this world, body parts have ambitions. And sometimes, they just need a little discipline.

One

It hasn’t rained in a while. I hope it does soon. The earth needs the rain and besides, all the clouds and winds and strange atmospheric things that come with the rain are more interesting and inspiring than a sunny day. 

You know though, come to think of it, the meadow, the place where much of this writing’s events and thoughts are set, is rarely completely dry. Its grasses and earth seem to retain some moisture, somehow. It is sagacious that way. I know because my shoes, most of the time Converse, high top yellow and regular blue (both faded now), get wet there. 

Today there were a few souls along the path, coming back as they were, but after I passed them, not many. Not any at all in fact. Let me give some context to the place. It’s after towns and highways and even roads. In fact, the road ends at the beginning of the forest, having turned from asphalt to gravel to dirt. 

There is a public forest to the right. It attracts dog walkers, hikers, joggers, bike riders, photographers, walking groups, and sometimes homeless people. Sometimes there is even a type that is hiding out from something like the law or people in general, a type that stays in the woodlands when others would not in parts where others don’t go. 

But to the left is a private forest. This is the one that leads to the meadow. The meadow is like a golden treat at the end of a journey, a beautiful goal if ever there was one. There are two definite and visible No Tress passing signs at its two entrances. People obey them. But some lucky souls like me have permission from the old farmer that owns the land, to go there. 

Two 

There is something else, something bordering on the esoteric or gnostic. It’s insight seen while driving to that entrance of the forest that leads to the meadow. Since it’s rural, there are many sprawling properties. Many affluent homes, the new ones, are grey and without character. They just copy one another. It’s doubly sad, because of the copying but also what’s being duplicated. Not a thing in it all looks unique or soulful, not even a special trellis or bit of coloured brick, sounding fountain, or flowing garden. 

But…I noticed that some places have older homes, from a time of wooden porch and red brick and chimney. From an era of grounded-ness and more honest atmosphere. And beyond rain barrel and sunflower, past stained perimeter fence and sometimes no fence at all, I could see a pond and little forest back there. They would contain a different area-atmosphere. Mysterious, even in the plane light of day under the clean azure sky. It’s as if the prose of the world turned into poetry, then. Trees. Leaves. Branches. What was back there? I wished I could know. I longed to go. But I knew none of them, not one of those owners. I supposed that they took the magic for granted, these sprawling old lands. And how could they not, if they indeed did? It was their reality. Lucky ones, that’s what they were, however hard working, they were still lucky. All I could do was drive by. Being an empath, I could just feel the areas even for moments and from a distance. I loved it. They were as if containing portals or vortexes to other worlds magical and monumental. 

Often I imagine the coyote dens, the travelling foxes, the large porcupines. I knew there must be deer that wait and watch near there, because I had seen them. Maybe there were types of insects rare or not even discovered by scientific or poetic eyes. The scents of the flora. The sounds of the rains at night. The woodpecker or Bluejay. Strange snakes representing the kundalini energy. The kind summer dew morning. The autumnal hued leaves when that highly spiritual time came, the veil between worlds thinning. Halloween, Thanksgiving. Then some string of electric lights for Christmas. And much more. How come I couldn’t have a place like that? What a caretaker and curator I could be, surely would be. Ah well, I would think and sigh it away with a brief smile. What was meant to be, would be. 

Three

Well, the path. What of it? And then the meadow itself of course. Go past the signs and there are two options, no, three. The top after heading left has itself stationed on the uppermost part of a long and winding valley. It is safe but the side does become steep if you go off the regular way. Deer cross there sometimes and other times hide in the bushes by the thick trees. Wild berries grow and there are snake holes, many sticks, and lichen and moss. The one grouse I had, only one slight one, is that there are very few rocks or boulders. I don’t know if they were removed or just never there. It would be nice to see some cinematic view of the lands through time to note small and large changes, to watch the valley and its surrounding habitat move, grow, glisten, and weather or bloom. 

In the middle down the way is, well, the middle path, thicker on the sides especially of late for some reason. More raspberries, a hybrid berry of some sort, half black and half red. Many birds and numerous chipmunks running for cover at the sound of things or else up trees to safety, talking to their friends. The trail is bumpy in parts but also serene. So uninhabited by human presence. Mostly pristine and untouched. Those are the real ‘moments,’ nature lovers look for,- the meditative and quiet, the Zen-like phenomenon of being present amidst a type of natural mystical sense…

And the more main path, it’s old Oak trees and some Evergreens, straight for a while but also winding along. Mushrooms and pebbles, good old dirt earth and sometimes the rain drops left on leaves after a night storm. Walk and walk and walk. See and be and have a certain amount of glee. Soon enough, part Pine and placid easy places,

going along there by the verdant canopy where bits of sun filter down through to say hello, will be the magnificent meadow waiting. 

Suddenly it can be seen through a frame of red sumac that reaches over both sides of the path arching to itself. Blue skies beyond. A green swath is cut all around and some ancient farm machinery wait in the middle like a token gesture, a nod to other decades. The sun lights everything then. Continue. A corpse of trees is waiting to the right. Birds fly in and out. Some to sing and some to speak their speech loquaciously and vigorously. 

Onward is a way to a lower area where chaga mushroom, rare and not known by many, grow on some birch streets in a certain stand of them. The blooming earth has overtaken an ancient access road where a bank robber is said to have abandoned a stolen car, then gotten away while hiding in barns for nights and running between forests and meadows under the light of the moon. Now such an old story, but there is an actual abandoned car from that time down there, and everyone, even straight and upright old timers, are rooting for him. Some have him escaping out all with the loot and somehow making his way to down to Florida. Maybe a personal dream projection from some old storyteller local. Maybe not. 

But drama, thoughts, and time come and go. The goldenrod and queens lace, impossibly tall, a refuge for myriad bugs and insects and the home of grasshoppers dragonflies and even the Praying Mantis, seem to stay. Tall and well-wrought in the clean air world. Every direction then is green and vast, open, and calm, pastoral and perfectly put. 

——-

Brian Michael Barbeito is a Canadian poet, writer, and photographer. His third compilation of prose poems and pictures, The Book of Love and Mourning, is forthcoming in autumn 2025. 

A Poem About War

War doesn’t come with a song

nor with the steps of a parade.

It slips in quietly,

like a shadow behind a closed door.

The land becomes a number.

A man becomes a dot.

A name disappears in a report.

In the evening, the wind brings smoke

and sounds that don’t belong to the night.

It’s not only the child who cries—

the house cries, the river cries,

the walls cry, trained to remember.

The sky watches,

but does not intervene.

In the trenches, there is no justice,

no questions.

Only orders,

and silence after the explosion.

Some write history,

others lie beneath it.

War does not ask who you are,

nor what you dreamed of.

It erases everything that resembles a human,

and leaves an empty space

where a heart used to be.

Maja Milojković was born in Zaječar and divides her life between Serbia and Denmark. In Serbia, she serves as the deputy editor-in-chief at the publishing house Sfairos in Belgrade. She is also the founder and vice president of the Rtanj and Mesečev Poets’ Circle, which counts 800 members, and the editor-in-chief of the international e-magazine Area Felix, a bilingual Serbian-English publication. She writes literary reviews, and as a poet, she is represented in numerous domestic and international literary magazines, anthologies, and electronic media. Some of her poems are also available on the YouTube platform. Maja Milojković has won many international awards. She is an active member of various associations and organizations advocating for peace in the world, animal protection, and the fight against racism. She is the author of two books: Mesečev krug (Moon Circle) and Drveće Želje (Trees of Desire). She is one of the founders of the first mixed-gender club Area Felix from Zaječar, Serbia, and is currently a member of the same club. She is a member of the literary club Zlatno Pero from Knjaževac, and the association of writers and artists Gorski Vidici from Podgorica, Montenegro.

A desired, undesired end 

I have a rope tied around my throat. 

My eyes burn and turn crystalline. 

My veins, red, green, blue, 

are about to dance. 

I think of all artists who speak of their work of art, 

and the brushes behind it. 

But I’ll never get to show my work of art. 

I’ll simply give my last breath to regret, 

regret for the person I was. 

Each time I sink into melancholic thoughts, 

each time the thread of fate pulls me into the abyss, 

into the deep sea, 

with tides crashing against me as I drown, 

my hand silently reaches out… 

but I only sink. 

And I will drown, 

drown without ever being a valued, loved, important, or useful person. I say goodbye to the only ones who ever welcomed me with warmth, even though I don’t deserve it. 

God, just take me. 

The wounds on my body and under my nails burn. 

Please let everything heal from me. 

And may tears of fury have served some purpose. 

Now, yes, this note is a great work of art, 

But one with a bitter, sorrowful ending. 

Goodbye.

As I touch the bottom of the sea. 

Self-portrait poem from my bitter heart 

Like an unopened chest, 

I stayed with the deep intrigue of what else is inside of my deep eyes. 

Like calm tides, 

I transform into a great wave, full of all my regrets. 

Like the meow of a baby cat, 

I shelter for the protection of my parents while naked from the world I am. 

Look at the free and rebellious wind 

What I want to be, while I witness the world counting all the stars. 

The trunk in the middle of my heart 

Prevents water from passing through me. 

While I wait for the distant dawn, 

I become a sea of tears with my deep darkness. 

My inner demon is anger 

the anger that only calms the salt. 

I am a rainbow of emotions, 

and a roller coaster. 

I am a survivor of the world, 

and a raised soldier. 

And with my wounded hands, 

I open the doors of my future and the doors of my heart.

Where my feet and head really are 

They say I don’t know 

where my feet and head are, that I’m always daydreaming. 

But if only they knew 

that my dream is the real world. 

The sky is always bright, 

Filled with clear, open clouds. 

Flowers have no color, 

only an origin 

that makes them slightly different. The rain is sweet. 

In reality, 

The dark sea doesn’t exist. 

Only calm tides. 

In reality, 

we are all heroes from past lives. All of you

Wear a smile without a cape. 

At night, 

the moon watches over us. 

In the day, 

the sun protects us. 

And we are aliens. 

But in the end, 

the sane one in society of madmen is the madman. 

And that smell disgusts me. 

The smell is green, dark. 

The fog in our eyes disgusts me too. 

Open your eyes 

and stop daydreaming, 

so that we may see 

our beginning.

Your face in the sky of love

Her face appeared, Moons in her veil, In rosy, red like coral…

When she removed a veil from her full moon,

And shyness adorned her gaze…

Ah, my beloved…!!After you, Will I see…? A full moon I converse with in the sky of my horizon,

And love asks:

Where is the reader of the verse of passion…?!In embrace and union…

For your eyes, A poem tempts me…From the clarity of your intoxicating glance, My soul is reborn,

And for your union, I wrote poetry as ink.

The hunter of your heart, I strive towards that heart,

And the eyes’ confession Of longing openly To a beloved… 

who stood at my door…

And what she hid from my eyes openly,

I see in her beauty

The chapter of embrace…

Fadi Sido, Editor in Chief, Raseef 81 magazine, Germany

Old Europeans often buy classic, rather dubious-looking blazers, shirts and shoes at flea markets. But you can’t buy the past, just like you can’t buy flexibility.

***

I don’t have a single HIV-positive friend. European statistics say otherwise. I don’t have a single gay friend. The number of users on dating apps says that this is mathematically unlikely. I don’t have any friends. I don’t even have myself. And I actually don’t have any data.

***

Your family gives you to me like pneumonia. I have never loved either you or myself. If I were Shakespeare and wrote about our life, I would have hanged myself long ago.

First, from contributor Jacques Fleury, an announcement of a new book! “Immortal Lines of Poetry” by Sourav Sarkar and Jacques Fleury

A collaboration between myself and internationally renowned poet Sourav Sarkar of India. The book presents us both as “2 Poets of the Common Era Literature Period” (a term Sarkar claims to have coined himself on Oct. 24, 2021 and is celebrated worldwide on its founding date yearly) and allows the reader an opportunity to “sample” our poetic styles and substance. It is at times a supple staccato or eroticism, at times mesmerizingly musical of humanism, at times visceral to its soul core but eventually reaches a crescendo to volcanic eruption of literary passion, hope and inspiration for our seemingly crumbling humanity. Here is a sample of one of MY poems from the book. Hope you check it out on Amazon. Merci beaucoup! 

This month’s issue focuses on what’s going on inside of all of us, and how that shapes who we are. We’re going Beneath the Surface.

Stella Kwon’s paintings explore dreams, childhood, fantasy, and the interiority needed for a creative life. Jacques Fleury’s sample poem from his new book Immortal Lines of Poetry looks into dreams and internal inspiration. Debabrata Maji’s poem traces his heart’s inner journey. Damon Hubbs tracks the odds and ends running through his mind while watching competitive tennis. Annabel Kim’s artwork explores and celebrates human and natural creativity. Ma Yongbo evokes the change of seasons, nature, and mortality.

Mark Young renders maps and nature into works of art in his ‘geographies.’ J.K. Durick speaks to intellectual experiences – the news, books, museums – and how we communicate ourselves to ourselves. Jasmina Saidova honors an inspirational teacher as Abdirashidova Ozoda explores possibilities for digital technology in early childhood education. Eshmamatova Shabbona traces the history and evolution of Uzbek literature and Munira Xolmirzayeva traces the history of Russian writing.

Eva Petropoulou Lianou praises the delicate elegance of Lily Swarn’s new poetry collection A Drop of Cosmos. Uralova Gulmira highlights themes of personal experience and motherhood in the patriotic writings of Uzbek poet Saida Zunnunova. Sayani Mukherjee reflects on being driven towards poetry in a full and changing world. Dr. Rasmiyya Sabir writes of romantic love, poetic inspiration, and the irrepressible drive to be heard.

Jakhongir Nomozov interviews poet Rustam Bekhrudi, who intends to capture and convey the resilient Turkish spirit in his writing. Mesfakus Salahin speaks to human psychology and the drive to live amid the allure of death. Mahbub Alam describes a night of discomfort due to mosquitoes, which he endures by thinking of people who have it much worse. Abdisattorova Hurshida’s short story highlights the dignity and self-determination and patience of the hardworking rural poor in Uzbekistan, even when facing death.

Hanen Marouani probes our internal emotional life with tenderness. Bill Tope uncovers the veil of a past sixth grade classroom where the students and teacher are full of inner and outer turmoil. Alan Catlin continues his surreal examination of the physical manifestations of work anxiety as Elbekova Nilufar warns of the danger to our eyes and psyches posed by Internet addiction. Emeniano Somoza Jr. reflects on what we lose by lessening the ups and downs of our emotional nature. Donia Sahab’s poetry probes the psychological torment and confusion Dr. Alaa Basheer alludes to in his painting. J.J. Campbell navigates loneliness with his trademark wit and cynicism.

Joana L.J. Milovanovic’s words bear witness to the psychological and physical damage domestic abusers inflict. Mykyta Ryzhykh’s characters find themselves subsumed by the crushing violence of a metaphorical “leviathan.” Alex S. Johnson reflects on his friendship with Runaways band member and visionary Kari Lee Krome and how the music industry elevates and chews people up.

Jakhongir Nomozov’s speaker reasserts himself after intense seasons of emotional pain and rejection. Soumen Roy highlights the importance of respect and patience in true love. Munisa Rustamova expresses gratitude for her mother’s constant love in a harsh world full of fake people. Alex S. Johnson and Kandy Fontaine assert their confidence in their way of living and loving and show how power is expressed through service and care, not abuse. Liderqiz demonstrates this ethic of service through a profile of Uzbek Information Service leader Dilbar Ashilbayeva.

Andela Bunos speaks of the universal human grief of lost love. Kristy Raines’ poetry expresses commitment to a romantic relationship despite being separated. Lola Ijbrater outlines the rise and fall of a romance through a series of flowers. Ken Gosse describes heartbreak through clever poems with increasing numbers of lines. Eva Petropoulou’s lines address intimate love and the beauty of forgiveness. Annamurodov Umarbek reflects on coming of age after losing his father.

Journalist Giorgos Pratzikos and literary figure Eva Petropoulou Lianou interview Greek writer Fay Rempelou about how she intends to inspire peace, creativity, and humanity through her poetry. Nilufar Mo’ydinova presents a thoughtful exploration of artificial intelligence’s potential and how to mindfully develop it for the benefit of human creativity. Taghrid Bou Merhi traces the moral ascent of humankind, as societies developed respect for life, human rights, and gender equity. Omonova Sevinch highlights the importance of educating women and girls to uplift society. Graciela Noemi Villaverde points out the power of icons and commemorations of peace to interrupt the hostility that leads to war.

Giorgos Pratzikos interviews actor and children’s author Zisis Papaioanou on his craft, his artistic vision, his inspirations in Christ and Aristotle, and desire for Greeks to have more neighborly concern and look out for each other.

Taylor Dibbert reflects on the impression Americans make while traveling abroad. Doug Hawley and Bill Tope present a humorous tale of unintended interplanetary cooperation. Duane Vorhees’ poetry deals with our humanity, the roles we play in life and who we choose to become to each other.

Abdel Iatif Moubarak’s words express solitude and the hopes and dreams of individuals and communities in an uncertain world. Abigail George reviews Nadine AuCoin’s horror novel Tucked Inn, a tale of survival and good overcoming evil. Justin Faisal, a Rohingya refugee from Myanmar and advocate for his fellow refugees, writes of his inner journey of perseverance and finding beauty in life. Sharifova Saidaxon reflects on similar sentiments, finding forgiveness and acceptance through her faith.

We hope this issue inspires you to dig into your inner psyche and uncover strength and reach for your hopes and dreams.