The Advanced Creative Writing class offered at KSWE has grown significantly in the last years – consequently, we also have to bid goodbye to so many graduating students.
Four accomplished writers leave us this year: Imè E.; G4, Xena K.; G4, Nienke N.; G4 and Jil H.; G4. At the Swiss Creative Writing Prize competition, Imè Esenam managed to win both first and second place for her poetry in 2021. After being shortlisted for a short story in her second year, Jil Hug has won third place twice in a row for her short stories in 2022 and 2023. Nienke Nachtegaal hesitated to submit her work, but dared to do so in her last year with us and promptly made it on to the short list for poetry. We hope these students will never cease to write. Their texts, their input and their genuine interest in helping their fellow writers to improve and grow will be greatly missed in class. Featured here you find Jil Hug’s prize-winning short story, Strawberry Fields Forever, as well as Nienke Nachtegaal’s poignant poem I don’t sing.
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Strawberry Fields Forever, Jil Hug, G4
The bells were too loud, so I didn’t understand when they told me to drop the first shovel of earth onto your coffin. The earth smelled rotten and was wet and heavy when I scooped up a small amount of soil. I saw an earthworm curled up on the shovel and thought about saving it, but I guess that wasn’t an appropriate thing to do in such a situation. I think they expected me to cry, all those pitying eyes trained on me.
Martha and Peter squeezed my shoulders, I don’t know if they thought they could squeeze some of their happiness into me. They are nice. And they have a huge garden where I have already found a lot of snails. But sadly, Martha told me to leave them outside, they always like to keep the rooms neat. Their house smells different than the home the two of us used to live in. It smells cleaner, like the orange-vanilla spray Martha uses every day. Maybe we should have opened the windows more often to let in some fresh air. And maybe we should have eaten something else than our pasta feast every day. After all, Peter told me that it is important to eat a good selection of veggies and fruits every day.
I always saw it in your eyes. I could tell by you staring at an invisible point, not able to hear me when I told you I was hungry. The only thing in the fridge were those pickles you know I hated. I also smelled it when I entered our home, the scent of liquor on your breath when I tried to hug you. But I learned that you didn’t like to be hugged by me in those moments. You clung close to the alcohol and the hug it provided was probably warmer and more welcome than mine. The only problem was that it let you go so fast and so hard that you craved it even more. I would never have done that to you.
I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t have told Miss Clark about your bad days. But you know, the task was to draw a picture of our family and what we like to do together. I told them that the red wine often makes you sick and that unfortunately you don't get to feed the little duck family at the pond with me often. After the lesson, she started asking me a lot of weird questions about you and whether I felt safe at home. I told her you were a great mom.
You know, on the good days, your hug felt like the first ray of sunshine on my face after a long winter break. When I couldn’t fall asleep, and you lifted your blanket and I slipped under it, you held me so tight and told me you loved me and that you would stop drinking soon. Your hair tickled my cheek, but I tried not to move, hoping you would fall asleep, forgetting I actually wasn’t allowed to sleep in your bed. Do you remember when we visited a strawberry field? And you told me to taste as many strawberries as I could? And when the strawberry-woman yelled at us, you told her in a very serious tone, that you simply had to taste them to see if they were good enough for your strawberry cake. I think I peed my pants a little bit, I had never heard anything more hilarious. I still think of you a lot and the days when home smelled like strawberry cake and your perfume for special occasions. That’s when I knew you would listen to my stories attentively and ask me which planet, we should visit first with the rocket I built at school.
I don’t know if they ever gave it to you, but I wrote you a letter. It said something like: Dear Mom, I miss you. I hope you haven’t had one of those days in a while. I told Martha and Peter that I hope I could come back home to you soon. They told me their house would now be my new home and that they don’t think I could ever go back to you. This makes me sad. I know it wasn’t always fun. But you know, I promised I would try not to burn the eggs next time and if you could tell me how to do the laundry, I think I would even be able to wash our clothes so Mike wouldn’t tell me I stink when I sit next to him in class. Love & miss you, Ben.
I do remember the bad days quite well and I wonder if it’s actually better to live at Martha’s and Peter’s house – they prepare a not-only-pickles-lunch every day and wash my clothes regularly. And honestly, it even makes me a bit angry that you sometimes forgot to wake me up in the morning because you didn’t know which day of the week it was. But when they ask me to say something in front of the small crowd gathered around your grave, I don’t really know what to say. So, I tell them about your strawberry cake and how much I liked it. And that Martha’s chocolate cake is quite nice too, but I miss your strawberry cake.
I don’t sing, Nienke Nachtegaal, G4
I don’t sing
When you join your voices, I’d rather stay still
I don’t want to break the precious balance
For my voice, it stumbles and breaks
It shrieks when it’s supposed to be soft
It breaks when it’s supposed to be tough
It falls, it cracks, and it crumbles
no
I don’t shout or scream
I would never want to disrupt the silence
I don’t want heads turned to face me
I don’t want to be the drum that beats out of rhythm
Not the dancer stepping out of sync
And most importantly not a false note
In an angelic choir
that’s why
I don’t sing
Oh how I would love to be part of a choir
A sea of beautiful harmony
Waves crashing rhythmically on the shore
My skin set with goosebumps
A cathedral filled with light
My heart growing wings
Feathered like a bird
but it cannot fly
No, no it will never fly
Because
I don’t sing
– but sometimes, in the early mornings, I hum.
