Animal enthusiast and writing hobbyist.
After years and years of fangirling over nature documentaries, volunteering at the local wildlife sanctuaries, and a zoology degree later I realized I needed a bigger change. And that change was a trip farther than I had ever gone before, solo that is. Freshly out of undergrad, I made the best decision of my life: to go volunteer abroad on the Galápagos Islands, with none other than my favorite animal, giant tortoises.
An Unexpected Encounter
Sunbeams streamed through the window, a subtle breeze with displaying hints of sweet onion and sounds of song birds returning back home after a long, brutally chilling Pennsylvania Winter. Olivia rubbed her eyes awake as she stretched, waking her sleepy muscles out of stupor. Another glorious day to be alive, she thought to herself. Melody, her calico cat sprawled in a similar stretch, letting out a long yawn with claws fully extended.
The Sociopathic Protagonist
If you are like me, you don’t enjoy anything more than cuddling up on the couch in fuzzy pajamas, oversized fleece blanket, a full glass of bottom shelf red wine, and a new murder mystery show. Crime shows have been airing on all platforms as long as I can remember, way before I was born twenty-something years ago. They’ve got it all. True crime shows such as Forensic Files and The Ripper docuseries are basically science-based history lessons on how sociopaths came to be and the nitty gritty details of the rape and murderous rampages they went on. Fictional police-oriented shows, like my favorites Law and Order: Special Victims Unit and CSI: Miami, delve into the lives of detectives and the events they may face trying to crack the case. And lastly we were given a series starring the murderous sociopath as the main character himself. Although I find all crime cinema completely fascinating, it is quite insightful to watch the plot unfold through the eyes of a protagonistic sociopath.
That’s the thing about this city… everytime I come home, every so often, it’s the same old roads and stomping ground I remember growing up surrounded by. Since I was a baby, I lived in the same house on Bostwick Crossing. My siblings had one house before that they experienced as a home, but that place was never really a home for me; apparently they just threw the crib in my dad’s makeshift early 1990’s home office, disorganized and clearly on the precipice of a budding business venture. Anyhow, the streets in our neighborhood were new, as building projects of new homes sprung up, expanding the thriving barrio for families with kids to flock to.
Wilma slammed shut the door of her little beige Ford Focus, mentally checked-out walking up to her apartment door, being careful not to slip on the slick pavement from recently frozen over sidewalk. Fingering the correct little gold key into the lock with oversized mittens still on, sighing out a big breath closing the door behind her.