The hill overlooks most of the world underneath the dome of the sky. The clouds, foaming and large, hang unmoving, as if held adrift in the air by invisible strings tied to the dome ceiling. They never leave.
The hill is neatly round; a mere mound of black soil blanketed by lush grass of a seemingly overly-vibrant green. In fact, the whole world within this dome is overflowing with color, deliciously feeding the eye. One will not find a lack of it, no matter where they may explore. The pallet cannot hold all of the various hues of paint with which the world was intricately decorated. It even seems that new colors, that one simply will not find on the stretch of the spectrum or elsewhere, have been forged to give this world its touch. Yes, even the sky bears this burden of beauty, most especially at the sight of dawn and dusk.
It is here that flowers will magically sprout at the feet when one is fully confident in their memory that there was not one flower there beforehand. And when they sprout, they reach out so incredibly high to touch and hold the azure themselves. Their leaves dance to the breeze and their petals sway rhythmically, as if choreographed somehow.
I sit on the hill. I’ve done it several times before, I’m aware, but I can never seem to remember how I get there. An overpowering force draws me beneath the cheery blossom tree. And when I turn my head, she is there. I recognize her at first sight. It’s impossible to forget. She changes sometimes, but she appeals to me, either way.
One time in particular, she stayed. We met eyes once. I smiled, but she did not return the heartwarming notion. I looked away, my cheeks flushed red. I would have another chance. I would return to the hill, and, whoever she was the next time, I’d try again.
by Christian Gann, 16, Seuol American High School, South Korea
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