Essay & Reviews

"I look soft because it's easier to survive that way"

The Harvest Angel.

Our woodland adventure… it smelled of decaying leaves, burnt timber and wild chestnuts. All
around us, nothing but silent figures in Venetian masks. Each hid their own sinful intent, burying
a pale face beneath a dead porcelain cast. Foolish grown-ups. Could our old, proper British town
truly have staged this absurd carnival?

To be the harvest angel at the school pageant is a heavy burden, when one must conceal a
wicked, smouldering core behind straw wings, an innocent smirk and a pristine Victorian dress.
They call it malice, but I call it boredom. Oh, with what joy I shall disobey you, mummy. And I
will never, never come back.

Shall we slip away together, deep into the very heart of the woods? Do not fear, I shall not
disappoint you. Only promise me, you will tell no soul that you came to play with me. Leave
your coloured chalk behind and forget your companions from the church choir. They are all so
utterly dull and identical. From this moment on, I pass judgment here and I choose who claims
victory. Do not fret… we shall gather fallen leaves, feed hazelnuts to the squirrels and wander
about, whispering of trifles. You do like my voice, don't you?

It is overcast and drizzling. The everlasting twilight must be deepening. We might play hide-andseek once more, might we not? I promise to hide further away, into the absolute dark, and never
peek. You will have to search for me for a very long time. But tell me… who are these silent
children in animal masks and black cloaks, surrounding us? They belong to no choir of yours.
And they are looking only at me.

Evie Berman.
The Autumnal Woods, October 1888.

Dangerous Innocence: What Does the Harvest Angel Hide?

A matte, parchment-like confession. A reflection on why 'being soft' is a strategy, and 'being
bored' is the catalyst for rebellion.

In flawless Victorian society, innocence was always the paramount requirement for a young girl.
The harvest festival, a white dress, wings made of pure straw — a perfect facade constructed by
adults to lull their own fear of the unknown. But what happens when a living, smouldering heart
beats behind that porcelain cast?

I often write about how softness is merely a means of survival, a protective mimicry. My
heroine, the harvest angel, chooses rebellion not out of blind cruelty, but out of absolute,
suffocating boredom. The church choir, predictable tea parties, identical faces — there is simply
too little air in this world of righteousness.

Her flight into the autumnal woods is not merely an act of disobedience against 'mummy.' It is an
aesthetic and psychological manifesto. True gothic is born where flawless form collides with
forbidden content. When a gentle creature with an angelic smirk upon her lips whispers a verdict
upon the entire old, proper town, we come to understand: the most dangerous abysses always
hide behind the purest facades.

The carnival of pretense: straw wings and Victorian attire.

A journalistic investigation into the human soul. The click-clack of typewriter keys, exposing the
hidden truth behind social roles.

As a journalist, I am accustomed to gathering stories piece by piece and peering through the
secrets of others. And the greatest secret our old British town conceals is that everyone within it
wears a mask. The adults hide their sinful intents behind the dead porcelain of a Venetian
carnival. They call it propriety, but it is merely a way to conceal internal decay.

In this prose poetry, I wished to explore the phenomenon of shifting roles. My heroine believes
that by shedding her angel wings, she attains absolute freedom and power. She declares herself
the judge in this everlasting twilight. She plays hide-and-seek, confident that she controls the
rules.

Yet the finale upends everything. From the mist emerge other children — silent, in animal masks
and black cloaks. They do not belong to the familiar, orderly world. The forest reclaims its right
to judge. And she, who fancied herself the puppeteer, suddenly realizes that all eyes are fixed
upon her. Masks are not merely a cover. They are a trap from which there is no escape, even if
you have ventured into the deepest darkness.

A confession in the silence of the newsroom.

This story, like so many others, was born under the quiet, soothing rhythm of typewriter keys in
an empty newsroom. Journalism teaches me to seek the hidden truth, yet it is poetry that allows
this truth to breathe, demanding no proof.

My paper sanctuary is the matte, soft cover of a diary, between whose pages dried autumn
flowers and someone's dangerous secrets are forever pressed. 'Woodland Adventure' is an
invitation to play hide-and-seek with one's own shadows.

If these lines resonated within your soul, if you too can smell this scent of burnt timber and the
unceasing twilight — then you and I share one world between us. Write me a letter. Let this story
come alive and bloom for you anew under the morning edition's printing press. Leave your
coloured chalk behind, forget the church choir. Let us simply remain in this darkness together.