rosehips.

ett.

"Nyponbuskar, nyponbuskar
hela vägen nyponbuskar"
-Lars Winnerbäck,
Söndermarken

Rosehip shrubs edged the gravel road, pink flowers almost shining among the dark green leaves.

There wasn't a single house in sight that didn't have the characteristic red or yellow brick walls.

Bricks,

rosehips,

bricks,

rosehips.

Among the bushes walked a boy.

Some would call him cute, with his blonde locks that always seemed tangled and the slight dimple that would dig a hole in his right cheek whenever he showed his goofy slit toothed smile.

If it wasn't 2009 people would say he was the definition of a Swedish school boy, but this was the 21st century, and being Swedish had nothing to do with appearance.

Or at least that's how it should be.

The boy kicked a pine cone, hand in hand with his father.

He was about to begin in a new school, first grade as he was only seven at the time.

He had all right to be nervous, as the others had already been together for a whole year in preschool.

But his father's words calmed him down, if only just slightly.

"Everyone will want to play with you, don't worry.

A creative mind attract lost souls."

Crunching steps turned into tapping,

gravel into asphalt.

As they entered the district's richer area he couldn't help but notice that the colourful wooden houses wasn't surrounded by the wild rosehips, but by white railings or high hedges.

In these areas the neighbours would childishly fight for the greenest lawns and the newest mowers.

The ones winning were the ones with the most to hide.

Asphalt turned into gravel,

hedges into rosehips,

as they climbed higher up the hill.

To his right laid a meadow with high grass, pale under the summer sun.

To his left, the high brick buildings that held tired minds and broken homes.

But brick walls also held love and solidarity, something that green lawns and high hedges never would be able to keep.

The boy was lucky to live in this city, as it since the 13th century had held open minds and warm hearts.

But even rosehip shrubs have torns.

And even though you can cut them off,
they'll leave you with blood trailing down your arms.

And maybe you give up on the way,
your blood staining the torns,
warning others of repeating the same mistake.

The meadow was soon hidden behind rocks and ash trees.

A lush forest was thrown among the fields, stretching like paint strokes and blending in with the pines when it met the wildwood.

They lived where the city met the forest and where the forest met the city.

In between.

Just like the boy lived where reality met reality and where reality met reality.

In between.

And the ones who are in between,

are not really someone.

They're just in between.

"Martin."

The boy snapped out of his thoughts, icy eyes meeting warm.

"Do you want me to follow you in?"

Martin only now became aware of the huge old fashioned building that laid before him, yellow walls flaking slightly.

He swallowed hard before shaking his head no.

"Rock the whole school, Martis."

His dad winked at him playfully to which Martin answered with the brightest smile he could muster.

His father squeezed his hand one last time, before the small boy walked up the stone stairs and stepped in through the green wooden door.

"A creative mind attract lost souls."

And if only his father knew how right he was.

If someone recognises the city or the school or both please don't stalk me or say you live here I would probably cry and delete wattpad and move to Denmark and live on Denmark's highest point which is like 200 metres over the sea lololol with a Danish pig I saved from slaughter and steal all the lego in legoland. Thx.

(You have no idea how much I wanted to write this story in Swedish but I need to train my English and I know like 2 people on here that actually speak Swedish so rip)

(And wtf I googled rosehips for like an hour and it's such a weird name like rosehip is the berry but the name of the shrubs are just rose but it's not... Idek anymore I just wrote rosehip shrubs lmao)