I write non-fiction, fantasy, science fiction and poetry, as well as review literature. Follow me on instagram at @undertherowantree and for just writing related posts @writingwithundertherowantree.
I Am More Than My Organs
Disclaimer: This story presents an imagined future. A horror story. It discusses the implications of the WHO's report if taken too literally and enforced. That was not the intention. The stances within are not representative of the report’s actual conclusions or aims. Some topics discussed may be triggering to some readers.
The Force Within Her
Ten translucent fingers wrap around the warm leather wheel of my convertible. The sage green Triumph leisurely twists and turns with the forest road. Gnarly trees weave together above the snaking, potholed concrete. I approach Newtown, a village nestled deep in the New Forest and my home for the next few days. Curls of red hair stream behind me in the cool southern breeze. Speckles of sunlight tickle the constellation of brown freckles on my flushed cheeks. I inhale the damp, earthy scent of the untamed wilderness deep into my lungs. Phthalo green leaves rustle playfully as the car creeps down a narrow curving lane. My chestnut eyes spot the wooden sign with ‘Woodside Lodge’ carved into its flesh. I turn the wheel, pulling into the charming holiday let.
Astronauts Don't Wear Pink
Melancholic slivers of sunlight break through a heavy, moody mist to reveal the desolate city below. A capital almost lost under the layers of nuclear snow. The wind still viciously swirling the remains of eight billion souls. I could almost smell the pungent odour of burning and death. The picture on the tablet began to pixelate. The screen froze on an image of a palace reduced to rubble. Peeking out of its white coffin was a gilded bronze statue, strewn in the snow and long forgotten. All that remains visible of the goddess Victory is her extended arm, forever frozen in one final plea.