January 20, 2012
To me, this is perfect.Where I will always want to be. (Photo: The view from our back deck looking towards Gornje Jesenje, Bedjna, Croatia)

To me, this is perfect.Where I will always want to be.

(Photo: The view from our back deck looking towards Gornje Jesenje, Bedjna, Croatia)

3:49pm  |   URL: http://tumblr.com/ZrErNyF3Eao0
(Notes: 3)
  
Filed under: Croatia photo photography view 
December 2, 2011
When my mum first saw our house, she cried. It was abandoned, falling down, but to her it was perfect. She cried because it was 30 years of dreaming, coming to fruition. Our little house in the country, surrounded by fruit trees and grapes.To me this house is perfect. It is where I can breathe. I would sit on the deck and watch the sun pass behind the Alps. We would drink red wine. We wouldn’t talk, we’d just watch the sun disappear. (Photo: Our back deck, Zagorje, Croatia)

When my mum first saw our house, she cried. It was abandoned, falling down, but to her it was perfect. She cried because it was 30 years of dreaming, coming to fruition. Our little house in the country, surrounded by fruit trees and grapes.
To me this house is perfect. It is where I can breathe. I would sit on the deck and watch the sun pass behind the Alps. We would drink red wine. We wouldn’t talk, we’d just watch the sun disappear.

(Photo: Our back deck, Zagorje, Croatia)

2:28pm  |   URL: http://tumblr.com/ZrErNyChz5ZI
(Notes: 24)
  
Filed under: croatia portrait grief story memories 
November 14, 2011
(Photo: fly fishing lures, Munich, Germany)

(Photo: fly fishing lures, Munich, Germany)

1:53pm  |   URL: http://tumblr.com/ZrErNyBvS_Da
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: Munich Germany photography memories 
October 6, 2011
“Storks mate for life” I hadn’t spoken since I got off the plane, my dad and auntie had sat in the front seat talking in Croatian, all I could do was stare out the window. I didn’t even notice he had spoken to me at first. “what?” “They mate for life, Storks” He stopped to translate for my auntie, she nodded at me through the rearview mirror. We had only met an hour before. “every year they return to the same nest. If their partner dies they spend the rest of their life alone. If they build a nest on the roof of your house and the roof collapses the government pays for you to get a new roof. But they rebuild it with the nest still on it. You can’t break their relationships or they will spend the rest of their lives alone.” (Photo: somewhere between Zagreb and Koprivnica, Croatia)

“Storks mate for life”

I hadn’t spoken since I got off the plane, my dad and auntie had sat in the front seat talking in Croatian, all I could do was stare out the window. I didn’t even notice he had spoken to me at first.

“what?”

“They mate for life, Storks”

He stopped to translate for my auntie, she nodded at me through the rearview mirror. We had only met an hour before.

“every year they return to the same nest. If their partner dies they spend the rest of their life alone.

If they build a nest on the roof of your house and the roof collapses the government pays for you to get a new roof. But they rebuild it with the nest still on it. You can’t break their relationships or they will spend the rest of their lives alone.”

(Photo: somewhere between Zagreb and Koprivnica, Croatia)

11:56am  |   URL: http://tumblr.com/ZrErNyAKlCRs
(Notes: 17)
  
Filed under: prose micro fiction storks photography Croatia 
October 5, 2011
The boy king got bored of looking out his window. Why did he have to rule the desert? Why couldnt he rule the jungle or the mountains? He ordered the peasants to paint the hills. He wanted his kingdom to shine. They painted for days, they painted until slowly their hair became blue, their hands pink. They painted for months until the day it rained, and then they only stopped when the colour ran off the hills out to the sea. The boy king raged. His beautiful kingdom was gone, now all that was left was the brown dirt. He called the peasants to come to him. Slowly as they crossed the brown hills he saw that they were beautiful. The colour from the hills had covered them… (Photo: Bolivian/Chilean Border, South America)

The boy king got bored of looking out his window. Why did he have to rule the desert? Why couldnt he rule the jungle or the mountains? He ordered the peasants to paint the hills. He wanted his kingdom to shine. They painted for days, they painted until slowly their hair became blue, their hands pink. They painted for months until the day it rained, and then they only stopped when the colour ran off the hills out to the sea. The boy king raged. His beautiful kingdom was gone, now all that was left was the brown dirt. He called the peasants to come to him. Slowly as they crossed the brown hills he saw that they were beautiful. The colour from the hills had covered them…

(Photo: Bolivian/Chilean Border, South America)

12:17pm  |   URL: http://tumblr.com/ZrErNyAIQ61r
(Notes: 2)
  
Filed under: prose micro fiction southamerica photography 
October 4, 2011
The Cats lived amoungst us. They lived in our world, weaving between our legs. They lived in our world but we didn’t notice theirs. The Cat King ruled his kingdom with an iron fist. He kept a close eye on the others that skirted around the edges of his land. The foxes that snuck out of the woods, the dogs that roamed the alleys. The Cat world existed around our world. It twisted and turned with our world. We only saw what we wanted to see, not our downfall just a kitten mewing for milk.

The Cats lived amoungst us. They lived in our world, weaving between our legs. They lived in our world but we didn’t notice theirs. The Cat King ruled his kingdom with an iron fist. He kept a close eye on the others that skirted around the edges of his land. The foxes that snuck out of the woods, the dogs that roamed the alleys. The Cat world existed around our world. It twisted and turned with our world. We only saw what we wanted to see, not our downfall just a kitten mewing for milk.

1:12pm  |   URL: http://tumblr.com/ZrErNyAGBw5K
October 3, 2011
I dont really know how we keep on going. One foot in front of the other is a load of shit. We are all just stumbling around wildly in the dark. (Photo:My house, Bedjna, Croatia)

I dont really know how we keep on going. One foot in front of the other is a load of shit. We are all just stumbling around wildly in the dark.

(Photo:My house, Bedjna, Croatia)

1:37pm  |   URL: http://tumblr.com/ZrErNyADnqAG
(Notes: 23)
  
Filed under: croatia grief photography prose 
August 29, 2011
(Photo: Somewhere in Bavaria, Germany)

(Photo: Somewhere in Bavaria, Germany)

2:52pm  |   URL: http://tumblr.com/ZrErNy8uLcZw
(Notes: 3)
  
Filed under: Bavaria Horses Holiday Holidays Germany Photography 
August 29, 2011
I want to live the rest of my life on holidays… I know its an impossible idea, reality will always catch up. But escaping even for a month made me remember how to breathe, it made me forget the ache in my heart. (Spreepark, Berlin, Germany)

I want to live the rest of my life on holidays… I know its an impossible idea, reality will always catch up. But escaping even for a month made me remember how to breathe, it made me forget the ache in my heart.

(Spreepark, Berlin, Germany)

2:34pm  |   URL: http://tumblr.com/ZrErNy8uJQUG
(Notes: 7)
  
Filed under: Spreepark Dinosaur Germany Holidays Tourist 
August 10, 2011
Summer had loosened the dandilions. They drifted on the breeze, hitchhiking on the wind. Catching on my clothes. I was growing feathers, they glued themseves to my lips, stuck to the sweat that coated my skin, until summer dried me out, and they again went to drift on the breeze. (Photo: Spree Park, Berlin Germany)

Summer had loosened the dandilions. They drifted on the breeze, hitchhiking on the wind. Catching on my clothes. I was growing feathers, they glued themseves to my lips, stuck to the sweat that coated my skin, until summer dried me out, and they again went to drift on the breeze.

(Photo: Spree Park, Berlin Germany)

8:32pm  |   URL: http://tumblr.com/ZrErNy88M8FL
(Notes: 9)
  
Filed under: creative writing photography berlin germany lit fiction prose 
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