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
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 