Prose and poetry by Leen Raats
In the dead of night, she becomes a better version of herself. Her red pumps lead her to the little table in the corner where no one bothers her except for men who smell desperation. Bloodhounds.
There's one already. A somewhat older specimen, clearly still in denial. Ironed shirt, too much aftershave. Not her type, but hunger is the best sauce.
Continue reading
I felt it when she first took me to the forest: she belonged here. Alma adored the multi-stemmed alders growing by the green water, the ivy strangling gnarled oaks, the rotten smell of decayed wood, and the compelling silence that hung like mist between the trunks.
“I love being here,” she said, that first time, when we explored every detail of each other's bodies like a complex map of a medieval city. “But I also feel that it's best not to stay here for too long.”
She was right. Every twig that cracked beneath our feet, every plant we trampled, every gulp of oxygen-rich forest air we breathed, felt like a dishonor to this place, which was so much older than us.
Continue reading
They mainly come at sundown. They emerge from the shadows of twilight, along with the roe deer and foxes. But while the animals wander quietly over the moors, stopping every few steps to graze or to look around, they set sail directly for the Solitary Man, a massive rock that rises like a peninsula from the Atlantic Ocean, surrounded by waves that crash on the jagged fingers of the mainland.
John doesn't know what draws them to this place. Cornwall's coastline has countless rock formations and sheer cliffs. So why this one? Does it have to do with its name, which some say can be traced back to the Celts?
Continue reading
My name is Treesje. I was born on the right bank of the river Scheldt. I am 29, afraid of turning 30, and even more afraid of not turning 30. I hate soccer, cava, and boring people. When I’m home alone, I dance around the living room. I am married to a Sven and mother to a Jade. My husband wants a second child. I always have a window open, even when it’s freezing. I want to feel a breeze.
Continue reading
Leen writes 