I knew the end had come, so on the evening stroll I made you stumble off from the cliff.
You never cried…
I only had to make sure…
as dusk tiptoed closer to your grave among the hills so dry…
so dense the underbrush…
that where I pushed my way. The giant hush was changed
… to soft explosion of your battered body
…blood pooling into sand… the first blowfly entering your nostril.
Your hair, not yet matted, captured the last rays from the setting sun.
I waited…watched closely… closer still… as your breathing slowed
…slowed
… and ceased.
Climbing back onto the trail I worked some amount of panic before making the emergency call.
Later when your corpse had been brought out, I wore a mask of mourning that would be my new forever.
I purged the time between falling in love and your fall.
Sanaa hosts the prosery today at dVerse with the very challenging line:
“The hills so dry, so dense the underbrush, that where I pushed my way the giant hush was changed to soft explosion.” from “On a View of Pasadena from the Hills.” by Yvor Winters.
June 8, 2026
Björn Rudbergs writings 
Ooh, this is dark, Björn! I really like the lighter detail in ‘your hair, not yet matted, captured the last rays from the setting sun’.
It invited me to go dark.
I enjoyed it.
I love this – especially the continuance of “to soft explosion of your battered body …blood pooling into sand.”
A compelling prose piece, Bjorn! 💙💙
Cold and chilling
Every detail deliciously evil with its tell-tale lack of empathy. The way that once the utilitarian aspect of his victim has gone the mask drops away is the most chilling aspect of your story.
Thanks… it was that cold aspect I wanted to bring forward
You’re welcome, and you certainly did! How he watched her die gave me the goosebumps. Not sure if you ever heard Johnny Cash’s song, “Folsom Prison Blues” but your story reminded me of a line from it: “I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die.”