By Fabiano Soares
I was born in 1929 in Dresden,
As I grew older, my parents were rebuilding the country
Next to millions of others survivors and migrants
Skins of all shades, religions of all liturgies…
And we use to hear on the radio:
– We need to save our nation – they said.
– We need to clean our nation. – And that sounded so right.
By Amedeus Somirs
Watching the yellow-orange bangs sweep past me overhead, all along walking away from the fire in the sky.
Ahead….lay paths and ways yet to be unveiled, the further I go the darker it gets, as the sun sinks beneath the horizon.
Still curious,…I decide to go on.
Fields on the right of me and vineyards on the left of me, and up ahead hang overhead wires between metal monsters. As I pass underneath them, I pause for a moment and hear a loud buzzing sound, as if …to warn me to move along and not stay for too long…and so I go on.
What I was looking for was a sign or a street to tell me where I was and how far I had gone. On top a hill, just a bit further down the country road, I could see in the distance, lights from a distant village. Intrigued of what may lay there I went on into the ever darker path ahead. Finally I came to a crossroads and on the sign it said the name of the village.
Satisfied.
I turned back and to my amazement there was still light in the sky. With my two faithful companions at hand we went back,…direction home. Daytime grew smaller and smaller as I stood watching the last of the daylight drain from the sky. Meanwhile, behind me more and more twinkling gems where unveiling themselves from the darkening heavens. Almost home, and the only light now that shines down from above is that of a sliver of moon,…
just bright enough to give me a shadow.
Photo by Alexandria Somirs
by Katelynne Davis
A layer of fog, worthy of London
though the city wasn’t.
I walked into it, hoping to be swallowed.
Though the night was set for horror,
street light slashed by tree branches
and every glow only making it harder to see
I was not scared.
There was nothing lurking in that darkness that could make my life more ordinary
and that was what I truly feared.
I am almost twenty-six
and I would rather face a dragon
than a life narrowed by envelopes with numbers
arriving in installments.
I followed the will-o-the-wisps
and willed they not be streetlamps
Thinking how Irish legends moved between worlds
I splashed in the puddles; no avail.
Last night an owl landed in my path and looked at me
its kill – a young hawk – in its talons.
I wanted it so much to be a sign
of – anything.
As invisible as I try to melt
I still pass a cafe, face a glimpse –
and my life twists up in my stomach, reminding me
I can’t escape that way for long.
Photo by Katelynne Davis
By Alexandria Somirs
Feathering softly as a whisper
Ticking ling strongly shades of fire
Drinking in morning hour
Escaping pillows of nighttime slumber
Time is yellow to blue windy dreams
The rippling PAST, flowers into daylight
Photo by Alexandria Somirs
By Sebastian Temlett
Do you mind if I dance with her?
A casual shrug and muttered reply
I take her hand and draw her in
Stealing glances which she gives freely
I miss a step Read More
By Multi-Verse Poet
The mornings that weep,
The shades that creep,
The breeze that bites,
The Spring that might…
Photo by Alexandria Somirs
‘Urban Mythology’ is officially open for all creative submissions!!
All submissions are welcome to our inbox at pwl.wordpress@gmail.com
Deadline: 31st of May 2016
Details of our anthology can be found below!
By Sara Rich
‘Once upon a time…” and so one of the many classical stories by the Brothers Grimm begins. The damsel in distress, the witch, the evil sorcerer, the white knight on his white steed, the hero, and the predictable happy ending – all these elements make for a dependable story for those young children who haven’t had enough experience in the world to find them boring. However, in our ‘Urban Mythology’ anthology we are looking for something outside the realms of a predictable dark, wood and the classical climax of a children’s story. We are looking for short stories, poetry, prose, scripts, illustrations and photos that capture our modern, urban society of today. The trolls that lurk on our Facebook pages, the evil sorcerers of high street society, the dark illusions of make-shift mirrors and cheap fashionable stores, philosophies of a Utopian society are examples of elements you can take into our theme of urban mythologies. Moreover local urban legends may also play an inspirational role in creating your new found myth. We’re looking for stories in fairytale, myth, legend or folklore fashion to capture your story into an urban setting – based on your hometown, a fictional or nonfictional city.
Requirements
Take an urban setting real or fictional and create a short-story, poem, prose, script, film – video or an illustration based on a fairytale, myth, legend or fable that you’ve created. All genres are welcome!
Deadline
31st of May 2016
Featured photo by Sofia Nikitaki
By Katelynne Davis
There are two patron saints for lovers.
The more popular, Saint Valentine, covers
the letter-writers
the lovers of daughters
the incarcerated, the hearts behind bars, the glass walls, the phones pressed to ears
the lovers in a dangerous time
the names that were erased
the arch of summer and winter
forgotten birthdays and who-is-who
the worthy, strong, and powerful
the love that is blind
the inconstant moon
the hearts counting beats on death row
the notes signed yours
Chaucerian literature
flower-crowned skulls
the mating rituals of birds
epileptics, keys, and men in love, with whomever
His counterpart, the lesser-known Welsh Dwynwen, protects
the women in place-names
the rejecters
the heartbroken, sore, battered, beaten and raped
the calls for help
those unable to marry, and
those who remain unmarried
those who drink to forget
the frozen
those who need three chances
the forgiving
the well-meaning
the runners in forests
the hermits
the ruined churches
sandstorms
places of reservation
the foolish nicknames and mispronunciations
both the recollections and the misremembered
sick animals
sweethearts
my soreness that he doesn’t nor ever will want me
and all women, even who send out love that does not return
Photo by Katelynne Davis
Proper Writes Leuven 