I am a conservation biologist, but words and creativity have always been my favourite tools. I like to integrate possibility with fiction. I hope you enjoy what I share.
Many thanks for your time in reading. Please consider sharing.
The sun was staining her skin. It’s warmth was branding her as its own, and she could almost watch the melanin pool beneath white tissue. Down her whole body this tan returned her to someone else. Like a sunflower she followed it across the sky, remembering its embrace. Someone she had known so long ago.
Is This Dystopia?
Fantasy is a fickle thing. Sugar to our minds, sweet and oh so addictive. It permeates us all in some way. From when the wheels first begin to turn and our brains start to think, fantasy fills our thoughts, allowing us to see our world and make sense of it. To understand people as characters, and why they do as they do. Fantasy is fickle, but so too is our reality.
Diary of a Misanthrope
The first time I really questioned my species was underwater. With a nasty cut seeping red blotches into a blue expanse I could feel my heart pumping, my body reacting to all that self-preservation hyped by film, television, and literature. While Homo aquaticus has never been, and isn’t yet a thing, the wilds of underwater have this capacity to make you remember some ancestral sense of vulnerability. It is, after all, not an environment suited to the spongy bags in our chest. But it is a wondrous place, and when afforded the moment to reflect on this, underwater salts the eyes into tears. Tears of both joy and mourning.
He knew he’d made a mistake even before the stone left his hand. Henry was tired. Great crevices carved his eyelids. A blackness more thorough than that perceived of him threatened his sunken features, and all of it was nothing compared to the weight that tugged his brow. That is what madness does to a person, and he must be mad. Why else would they mock him so?
It’s 1995. A five-year-old sings broken lines of Jingle Bells while his father warms him in the night air with big, bear arms. The timbre of the crowd is rich under candlelight. His dad’s oaky rasp chief amongst them. Dominic doesn’t know all the words, but the jingle bells bit is easy enough. He is enthusiastic as any child is at Christmas, his voice coarse as smoky air is sucked down with each inhale.