Aspiring artist and writer
The Hungry Heart
I am grateful for the thundering rain. It acts as a barrier against unsolicited thoughts, and guilt no longer inhibits the task at hand. Emptying of most sentiment, my mind instead becomes pervaded by a dull serenity. In my guise, a machine watches a mound of earth rise to the steady movement of the shovel, soil spraying in all directions. A small part of me, buried beneath layers of detachment, is aware that soon I will feel every emotion. My head a minefield. Shame conflicting with hope, jealousy smothering satisfaction. Soon, with fervent purpose, and guided by God’s own hand, self-hatred will rise victorious from the leaden recesses of my sentience.
- Top Story - September 2023
Hunter’s television-induced trance was dissolved by spirited tapping from the end of the hall. He rose slowly, leaving an indentation in the sofa and an empty can on it’s arm. Approaching the fibreglass door, he made a mental list of his firearms in order of accessibility and noted the kitchen window as his closest emergency exit. Hunter pressed a timid eye to the peep hole. Zeph Kent, a person whom he held in high regard due to the nature of their profession, waited patiently on the porch. He opened the door, and was greeted by a startlingly-hot breeze.
Some fifty years prior, in the time of my childhood, an interview such as this would have been unheard of. No breakthrough-seeking freelancer would question a farm-lady on how she cared for her crops. There is nothing remarkable about Noita, aside from her inscrutability. She looks as one would expect, tanned and overburdened. But a healthy crop had not been a rare sight fifty years ago. Earth’s average temperature had been 5 degrees lower, and reporters chased headlines detailing mass deforestation, or the construction of controversial mines.