The Way Back Home

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.


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


A Letter for Him, the Unseeing Nearby

By Katelynne Davis

I know I’ll never take up space
even in your peripheral vision
Perhaps block and reflect the light,
but because of the laws of physics, and nothing more
and even those are bent by the mind

Instead I will invisibly watch,
non-existent, by your estimation,
and yet still be here
The paradox may be enough amusement to sustain me
and anyway when we both turn
I’ll be utterly unprepared for that darkness;
all the better for it

Still I’ll read your letters to her
and you’d be shocked at the intrusion, though they are silently public
on that anonymous yawp above the rooftops, drowned out by the
screams of so many others
vying to be heard
for fear of what rises from below
Whether flood or hellfire, or nothing at all; who dares look back to see

Dancing on your edges, I pause to wonder who has been on mine
It’s too late to look back, but maybe
a glimpse in my eye’s corners
was enough for them to be remembered

Every broke-off piece of a street-sung song
Every lit window I’ve ever looked through
Every wrong coffee order pushed across the counter
Every study into a staring eye
I’ll ask them

Photo by Katelynne Davis

Hidden Treasures

By Anya Pylypchuk

The world is filled with hidden treasures; some go unnoticed by passersby on the street every day. On a late August evening I was exiting Roodebeek metro station in Brussels, about to follow a long, dismally dark-grey tunnel that led outside. Often, during weekdays, its dreariness was diluted by an old man who played Mozart and Bach on his well-worn violin. While ascending the steps, I would immediately recognize his music even before seeing him – it was always so pure, subtle and full of feeling. In these moments, I’d hurriedly dip my hand into my backpack and try to fish from its bottom any spare coins I could give to the old man. He would never let me leave empty-handed either, favoring me with a pile of fruit candy and a smile. Once we had exchanged gifts he would continue his expert playing, which could be as joyful as cracking laughter, or powerful as a sonorous thunderstorm.

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The Travellers Coat

By Callum Dawson

I travelled to Ireland recently and it was there that I fell in love. I’d needed a holiday; Belgium’s studious atmosphere was becoming stifling. Boredom congealed in the libraries and the classrooms and I wanted nothing more than to escape over the horizon to some distant land. ‘I had made my song a coat,’ Yeats once proclaimed, ‘covered with embroideries, out of old mythologies from heel to throat.’ My own travellers coat had grown musty with misuse, made up of patchwork dreams stitched together with the clumsy weave of an amateur writer. But it was my coat all the same and I longed to throw it over my shoulders, feel its comforting weight upon my back, and search for creative inspiration, adventure and excitement. In my dreams I travelled frequently, and I wished to wander just as far in life. So I decided to go to Ireland with a group of good friends. And it was there that I fell in love.

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