As a writer that is curious to a fault, I have many different forms of writing, the shorter forms of which you will find on this blog. To order at least some of it for those a little less comfortable with chaos, I have created rough categories to organise what you will find, listed in order of what you will see most often on this site.
Rippled Reflections: Journal entries. These are stream of consciousness style prose where I write down realisations and discoveries as they come to me. They are the bulk of the posts on this website, thoughts that run amok in my head, tangling into each other until I straighten them out with ink and a blank page.
I come across a pond, one that reflects my visage upon its’ calm surface. I stare at my face. It is familiar, something I am used to seeing.
Then, something happens-a gust of wind blowing over the surface, a fish shifting below the water, or perhaps even myself, dipping my fingers in and trailing them across the breadth. The water wrinkles, folding and rippling, spreading outwards, before calming down once more.
I peer down again, meet my own eyes in the mirrored surface.
There I am-exactly the same, and yet totally different.
Criatura of the Forest: Poetry. There is a focus on intentionality, on the shape and sound of the words, the feelings they evoke. An idea emerges from the back of my mind, and refuses to leave me alone till I give it substance. One a lighthearted bluejay, another a hesitant fawn that reminds you of the innocence of youth, the third a tiger crouched within the shadows. All of them birthed by me, but to be interacted with and experienced as their own.
There are flurries of movement, quick flashes of russet fur, swoops of glossy blue feathers. As I walk, I hear branches creak, an echoing tread that I can’t quite place over the burgeoning croak of the toads.
I turn around. Large trees stand guard, sentinels over the eons. The ground is soft and rich beneath my feet. Then, within the recesses of the shadows, I see two jewelled-yellow eyes with slitted pupils, staring straight at me. They shift, step closer, the shadows drawing back like a blanket to reveal an expanse of warm orange fur, broken only by arches of black.
The tiger and I stare at each other, the tip of it’s tail twitching slightly. A low rumble starts from it’s chest, and I feel it travel through the ground. It comes closer soundlessly, and for a moment I think to run. But then, it pads past me, disappearing into the shadows on the other side.
My fingers twitch, the heat of it still warming my hand.
Stonefruit: Reviews. Think book or media reviews, recounts of sports and adventures I’ve tried, places I’ve visited. These are less about the central truths and realisations I’ve discovered, and a sharing about the things I’ve experienced.
Occasionally, I come across trees laden with fruit, their branches bowed under the weight of their own bounty. The fruits are an assortment of colours-vibrant red, dark purple, verdant green, sometimes even a blushing pink. Feeling peckish, I reach for one, and the stem snaps, the reverberations causing a light drizzle of the morning’s dew to rain down upon me, cold droplets pattering upon my skin.
My teeth break the taut surface of the fruit, the juice spurting out under the pressure, coating my cheeks and fingers and making them sticky. The flavour is complex, sweetness with a tart tang that pulls at the edges of the lips. The seed is large and I toss it unto the ground after the flesh is gone, where it hits the root of the tree I plucked it from with a muted ‘thunk’, before rolling away in the soil. I wonder if there will be another tree bearing the same fruit in a few years.
Letters from the Wood: My newsletter, written from me to you, planned for every 6 months in June and December. Fashioned as a mix between an update on my writing, a review of the past six months, a check-in on my present, and a hope for the future.
The old hut is made of old, sturdy wood, the garden filled with different herbs and spices, though they grow voraciously, tangling into each other. There is a fireplace stocked with wood, some fruit and a bed to rest in for the night. My footsteps echo, my fingers brushing the surface of the table and coming away with a layer of dust.
I have a bite and a shower, before I settle under the covers. After a night’s rest and a morning’s leisure, I dust the furniture, sweep the floors, make a cup of tea. When the morning daylight strengthens into the vigour of the afternoon sun, I pull out a chair. Curling my fingers round the ceramic cup, I revel in the warmth and find myself in a melancholic mood. I mull over the travels, the people I’ve had the pleasure of meeting and befriending, pulling them apart between sips of my tea.
Wistfully, I pull out a sheaf of paper and a pen. The pen clinks gently against my ink pot as I ready it, making me grimace. Sometimes, practice does not make perfect. “Well met, fellow traveler,” I start writing, watching the ink curl and seep into the beige parchment, “Where should I begin?”
Fever Dream: Short stories that came to me in a dream and lingered till I wrote them down. I’ve added names and added context for narrative continuity, but I have prioritised the feelings and sensations that travelled with me from gauzy dreams to physical reality. A man does not turn into a crowd in this waking world, just as I do not suddenly gain the ability to levitate. The betrayal felt, however, and the lessons learned… Those I do not forget.
I wake up, body sweating and heart racing. The room around me is familiar, the one I went to sleep in. Still, the world feels off-kilter, my body too big for the bed I rest in. There is no cause for concern. It is still dark, and I reposition my blanket, trying to gain a few more hours of rest before daybreak.
In the darkness, a fox screams.
I close my eyes and drift off to sleep, haunted by the taste of something on my tongue. Lost to reality, the once forgotten messages grow clear once more, the monsters resuming their revelry under the eternally shifting moon.