Storyteller. Creativity Coach. Law grad (Bachelor of Laws/Bachelor of Intl Studies).
High chance I'm writing about Croatia & south-Eastern European history.
Synth: Chapter 1
Sometimes, two people, from opposite ends of the Earth, from drastically different lives, find themselves in the same place at the same time. There’s something that led them there. Maybe it was a niggle within them, an intuitive pull that made no sense. Or if you were Klara Kraljev, it was a need for a cosy little nook in a cafe in Copenhagen where she could read to the percussion of baristas making coffees, the scent of the fresh brews mixed with toasted sandwiches-to-go, the sight of locals coming and going. She adored observing people from behind her latest read. Their clothes, their mannerisms, their usual orders; whether they greeted the barista with a grumble, whilst on their phone, or with a boisterous hello followed by a rundown of their last twenty-four hours. Some people observe, and then forget about what they saw. Klara observed, and used what she saw as inspiration for characters in her own novels. Perhaps it was the way someone did their hair one day, or it was the conversation they had with their friend as they waited for their order to be ready, or it was the ideas these real-life characters prompted in Klara’s mind when they walked out the door and into the rest of their day. She loved to guess where they would go, what they would do, the sort of people they would meet on their travels. It baffled her that there were people who didn’t do the same, who didn’t constantly have plots, ideas, conversations between characters in her head, or spur of the moment ideas at 1am for a new novel idea. What went on in their brains instead?
The Last of a Generation
I hope to have been a part of the last Croatian generation descended from war. Whether it being born through a war or living through one, the generations dating back hundreds of years from the South-Eastern European region have bloodshed and tragedy etched into their DNA.
Those Darn Orange Dumbbells
Those orange dumbbells sitting in the plastic box on the patio. They weren’t even mine. Would you believe it? A personal trainer who didn’t have any gym equipment of her own. Maybe a lousy resistance band or two, but that was about it. Why would she need weights at home when she had a gym to go to? Didn’t people go to gyms so they didn’t have to be stuck in small, awkward places where it was easy to start the day with the intention of exercising but then spending the rest of the day trawling through hardware stores trying to find the right plaster to fix the wall with? But, I suppose, with gyms shutting down in March, 2020, those darn orange dumbbells my dad used for his shoulder rehab would have to do.
The Elusive Merlot
The soldier rubbed his hands together as he stepped out into the crisp, autumn air. The blue hour had just receded, and night had fallen. Smoke from the barrel fires wafted past him in thick clumps. Street lamps lit the path ahead of him, the path that would take him through the cracked concrete streets of Gospic. He turned left of the barracks, tucking his chin into his jacket collar, and then made his way past the football field, the crumbling apartment blocks and finally the government building that stood tall on the corner, unaware of its insignificance in the grand scheme of the world. He nodded to passing locals, parents of friends he had known since high school, relatives he actively avoided interacting with unless he was forced to at family engagements.