Scraps! This page is a collection of various small one-off writing projects of mine – poetry, flash-fiction, badly-opinionated essays, and the like. It’s an unorganized collection, but hopefully you’ll find something interesting to read. It may be titled “scraps” but that doesn’t mean garbage!
Updates randomly. I have been attempting to clear out my ‘drafts and ideas’ folder, and as I sift through my files I hope to clean up and publish the worthwhile scraps with some regularly. But no promises!
Close Encounters of the Fey Kind
I was but a wee tot when I first watched Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Less than ten, I believe. I don’t remember much of that first viewing, and what I do remember has been jumbled up and confused with a lifetime of parody and homage. I don’t think I was much taken by…
Justice Sat Beneath the Tree of Fire
Justice sat beneath the Tree of Fire and contemplated existence. Each leaf upon the tree was living tissue paper, so thin and delicate that the merest concentration or focus of the sun’s rays was enough to conflagrate the wispy leaves, turning them to brilliant ash.
Metatext and Playdead’s INSIDE
I recently played the 2016 video game INSIDE and, after finishing, immediately scoured the internet for answers. What I found was mostly disappointing. So here are my thoughts! WARNING: SPOILERS BELOW
When the moon fell to earth
When the moon fell to earth many were surprised to find it no bigger than a garbage truck. It rotated slowly over Manhattan, emitting a dull, ominous hum, occasionally pausing over Central Park, or Fifth Avenue, seemingly intent on touring the entire city.
Village Daughter: Cup of Tea
Isa Kudo stood in the medicine hut and fumed. She had been called before Otako, great Medium of the village, who spoke for Artart.
Sidd’arak Learns to Breathe
One morning, as he sunned himself on his favourite rock, occasionally snapping at the bugs as they crawled along the roots of the mangrove trees, Sidd’arak realized that he was terribly, deathly bored.
The people of the village often called Isa ‘willful’ and she took this as a mark of pride. To be willful was to be strong. But the villagers also meant it as a small jab towards Isa’s father, it was their way of suggesting he had been lax with her discipline.
“When I was a child,” the Knight began, “that is—I used to live on an island, by the shore. Whenever a storm came, the ocean would churn and crash against the seawall, and from my tower, I would stare out the window and watch the waves come in. I remember—there was this old man, a…