On the Hill

We sat on the hill, on the grass. I knew this hill from my childhood and knew the view pretty well too. Your body was stretched out on the ground and I sat beside you, knees up.

“So, are we taking a break from life?” I handed you some dried peach shavings.

Sigh. “Yeah.” You nibbled.

“We’re still living. How’s that possible?”

“Enjoy the peace.” You relaxed.

“Shouldn’t we be doing something?”

“Lie down.”

“I feel dirty on grass.”

My legs slowly stretched out before me. A handful of tasteless sugar went down my throat.

“Let’s do something fun.”

“This is fun.” You spread your arms out, losing yourself to nature’s grip. I got to my feet and started walking.

“Where are you going?”

“On a walk.”

“But why, I mean?”

“Because I can.”

“We were meant to spend the whole day together, were we not?” You sat up.

“It seems you’ve got other things on your mind.”

The grass to the left was taller, so I circled around to the big tree that looked like a mushroom from afar. I would have liked being under the tree, if it weren’t for the pigeons, dogs and creepy crawlies. I spied with my little eye, your figure sat up on the hill. You remained sat up, eyes fixated on the city, when I came around. You could have been a statue, if it weren’t for the light flush in your cheeks.

“We’re so far from it, yet we are right at the centre of it.”

“I hate birds.”

“Where is life?”

“You are life.” He looked up at me.

“You can’t take a break from me, now can you?” You smiled, adorably.

“I’ll run away.” I handed you a bunch of grapes.

“Where could you run to?”

“Where could I run to?” You inched closer to me. “What about with you?”

“That’s hardly running away, now.” A smile creeped onto my lips, just as you got closer and closer and closer. Life was closing in on me.

I’d be lost without you, and that’s not me being cheesy here. I thought. I would never say that out in the open. Never to you.

“As long as we’re together.”

We often found ourselves sitting on this hill – you and I.


Hello everyone!

Here’s a prose piece I’ve been working on for submission. It’s hard to tell if it’s at the right standard at the moment because I only wrote it yesterday. With this one, I had to show evidence that I’ve been inspired by any of the things we’ve done in the workshops this term; I chose Ernest Hemingway’s ‘Hills Like White Elephants’ to be the source of inspiration. 

The tricky part about shorter prose pieces, is trying to convey a story and message through the subtext. If you just feel like you’re not understanding the piece above, then I’ve probably failed to deliver. 

Still – hope you enjoyed it and have a lovely day/week!

See you soon! x

Kale’s Cookie Jar

It was around noon when Kale realised there was something missing from his cookie jar. His cookie jar was in fact a real life replica of Pooh Bear’s honey pot; Grandmama had gifted it to him after she had gone to Disneyland and had forgotten to take him along. So there it was, Kale’s Pooh Bear honey pot, now cookie jar, in his arms, who had fallen victim to a heinous crime.

In his mind, Kale couldn’t comprehend who in their right mind would do such a thing. Kale replayed the possible scenario in his head: hushed footsteps; a head carefully tilting, checking the surroundings; a grubby hand reaches for the honey pot-cookie jar’s head; the other takes the goods from within; the head is replaced. Yes, a meticulously thought out plan was needed for such a task, Kale thought. But in the next moments Kale smiled to himself and announced, “What a grand plan, indeed!”

The minutes and hours seemed to disintegrate as he stood there, stock-still.

A thunderous thud sounded above his head. Strike back operation had commenced. And Kale seemed to finish an invisible conversation out loud, “Of course, the last one left is a bad cookie.”

Kale held onto his cookie jar, like a hand grenade, just as he did before. Five minutes had passed since he had found out about the great crime. Those five minutes had given him all he had wanted to know. 


Hi everyone!

I hope you can appreciate that this piece of prose isn’t in its final form yet – it is currently a first draft for my prose submission for later on. So there may be parts where you don’t fully understand what’s going on (especially towards the end). 

Just a quick update as well: I finally handed in my long Odyssey essay yesterday! I feel very relieved that now I don’t need to look at it anymore. I think I deserve a day of rest before proceeding with more work/reading. Also, it was my birthday on the 25th, so I’m 19 now. It feels strange to know that next year I’ll hit the big 20 and will have no choice but to be an adult.

Anyways – all the same, hope you enjoyed reading this post!

See you soon! x

Evening Rose

Your tears spell out the shape of rose petals, in the dusk. They dissolve into the crowd of other droplets inhabiting your pillow. Each one settles down quickly, as if they’ve found a home within the cotton patchwork. The drying stains of the droplets create intricate patterns in a muted language. Tears don’t need to speak much.

Your face is taut, silent, strong. But it is within the confinement of this room, you keep such composure. Because you know, outside the window, behind the door, hidden behind the walls, is the place where danger is imminent. So you hold onto yourself, the only thing you can hold and protect, as you are the protagonist of your story. You picture your perfect ending…

One day, you hope to be swallowed by the day’s beautiful death – the rays of tropical twilight touching, embracing, your soul with the taste of the sun. After this you will be unsure what follows, but if and when that day comes, you will surely not feel so secluded and alone.  

The streaks across your face, drying, fade away from the world. And you’re left with the emptiness that is only yourself.