Issue 2: City Series

CITY SERIESFor the love of where we’re from.

TRONDHEIM, NORWAY

By: Lilly Klein

I have found myself underneath the shade of the trees in the little flower garden North East of Gamle Bybro, it is sunny but my fingers are cold, the air is crisp and clement. The sound of the swifts, cavorting through the air is relaxing. The gentle noise of Nidelva’s water running towards the fjord is tranquil. I am perched on a wooden bench, swinging my legs like a child because my feet don’t quite reach the ground. Perhaps this is adding to the feeling of buoyancy I am experiencing.

Nidelva - the river’s moniker - strikes me as a mysterious name. Although the origins of it are known to me, I picture the river as an alluring woman - the soul of the city, the heartbeat, the backbone, the eyes - the windows to Trondheims’ depth, character and beauty. On the other side of Nidelva, stands my Farmors father - my Oldefars’ - childhood home. Although modest, it’s white exterior holds charm and I feel a magnetic pull towards it. I can feel my heritage here, and it is making me feel both grounded and simultaneously alive, awake, and inspired.

The grand church who’s steeple demands attention, extending far into the clouds, liesbehind the tiny home. Its bell rings twice, notifying me of the time as the European summerlight is delusive and beguiling.

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The flowers behind me are lustrous in this light and I find myself wishing I knew as muchabout blossoms as my Farmor does. But, I know they are yellow and meek and that I havenever smelt a fragrance so sweet and fresh.

My hand is dancing across the page, trying to describe the feeling of wholeness I am experiencing. Trying to fill my moleskin notebook with descriptions of the dusty grey light, trying to describe the way my cheeks flush warm against the never ending summer nights. I want to bottle up the smell of this - my favourite place; of the fresh, frangibility that surrounds me and wear it on my wrists everyday to remind me of this place, the little secret flower garden in Trondheim’s centre.

In an attempt to savour the moment, as the light gently fades, I pick a flower, one singularyellow, small, polite, unpretentious flower (whose kind I do not know), and place it upon thepage where I detailed the quietude of the early hours of summer in Trondheim.


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ECHO PARK, UNITED STATES

By: Sarah Harwell

Laying in the cool shade of the infamous park that my biological father once called his “kingdom”, I’ve come to reclaim this pristine park’s festivities, blowing smoke of nicotine he was notoriously known for, soft rock humming softly in my ears, I feel as if his presence is here. I may not be a part of his kingdom, or may never be the princess that I always longed for, but I can reclaim the throne for myself. Coming to the park on my own has made me realize how much my longing to belong to someone made no sense now, this place is my own. Brainstorming for my new magazine, reading poetry - every part of being myself has never felt better. I have grown to love myself in a way that is void of my issues of constant reassurance, watching the lake constantly spewing a strain of water into the air, the same stream that my dad gazed at; I realize that is my only connection to him. I feel as if I’m not living through him, but instead creating something that he never thought to imagine. My constant feeling broken, halffulfilled heart of not having someone to love first, has been filled with myself loving me more than anything. I feel as if I’m living la vie en rose, everything is happier, lovelier, more peaceful. I have made peace with myself in a way that I never thought would be ever possible.

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