Writing Portfolio

Extract from Last Name No 2020 (Posted 12th May 2020 13:52)

The Locksmith can only be described as diligent; a credit when it comes to both the force and her life outside of it.

She dresses in freshly pressed pantsuits; today’s colour a deep hue of navy to offset the pinkish tones in her too-pale skin. Her silvery hair is cut to frame her pointed chin, white lashes framing lavender eyes that never miss a thing. A slip of golden jewellery is permanently clasped around her neck; the charm adorning it shaped into a simple set of hands cupped under an open eye. But regardless of the angels to whom she prays and the seemingly immaculate execution of her waking life, a demon still haunts the Locksmith’s home.

Extract from the short story: Letters from Mother Nature 2019 (Posted 19th April 2020 13:20pm)

Dearest Human,

We are trespassers you and I. Caged out from what we once owned, we watch from the wings like those cast out for riddling disease. It is distressing, is it not? The way one’s own history can be deemed unworthy of mortal notice. How some carefully placed barriers should deter us from entering. Still, there are those that seek entry nonetheless and I, in turn, have noticed them.

I watch you, human, and feel your hesitation. You’ve given in to temptation, clinging to the rough links of the fence that mark your old house as unsafe. I remember your childhood home more vividly than you can, and observe as you pull memories from this graveyard like they are flowers to be pressed. It’s difficult to see past the decay as you realise that what you knew has become this.

When you came here, you expected to see the birthplace of your youth, its pale blue painted brickwork trimmed with white awning. The roof tiles you remember are black and the chimney blacker still with another generation’s soot. You hoped to see your Mother’s herb garden overflowing with rosemary, mint and thyme; a living reminder of her fading presence. The old Yew would still wear its rope-swing, arils further decorating its branches.

All you can focus on now is the way the paint flakes away from the bricks. How most of the herbs are browning and dead, the mint overtaking it all so its sharp scent mingles with the cloying one of rain-flooded soil. You notice the tilt to the wizened Yew’s trunk and trace the line of its branches back to where they lie, puncturing the sunken roof.

I know that this is not what you longed for, yet you have neither the money nor the resources to make your vision happen; dwelling on what the house once was seems to be your only option. It is the way of your kind I suppose, to be restrained by such concepts; but it is not the way of mine. That being said, I have a proposal. Would you let go of your longing and let me embrace this building? I could revive it for you, take the burden that bows your neck and let the weight bother my body instead. I would bring life back into its gardens, make the rooms feel inhabited again.

Think it over.

Yours sincerely,


Extract from the New Nature piece 'To Those who Wait' 2019 (Posted on the 19th of April 2020 13:26pm)

I think that there’s something about us, something about humanity that is resistant to being content. We want things to be bigger and better, to be the creators of something, to make our marks on the landscape and have out names appear in textbooks. Redevelopment, or in simpler terms, change is something that is innate for us, engrained within out DNA. We mature, we grow, we age and evolve. It’s only natural that the landscapes around us do so too. Human lifespans are fleeting, each memory a snapshot within our mind. Edgelands are the same, constantly shifting between the boundaries of nature and what man has made. Such a limit has never existed on a building or plot of land before, but now the terrain on which we live seems to mimic mortality too. Existence is fine so long as it keeps up with our demand. Some places, though, are unable to do so and exist long after their original purpose has been extinguished; long after plans for their resurrection have flickered and died.

For my Market, the seasons blend together like paint under a brush and still there is nothing.