fiction: sump
“The cave seemed to inhale, tightening like a sphincter as he dove down from the last air pocket. The pressure was not cruel, just firm; the certainty of thousands of years of sediment settling into a new shape. He was stuck there, the passage moulding itself to his shoulders, his waist, his hips, his arms pressed tightly to his torso as if he were swimming through the rock.”
essay: the geometry of failure
“These patterns are all around us, spontaneous architecture that shares mathematical and physical principles with the finest of abstract equations. Veins will diverge into a floodplain of capillaries. Windblown sand creates an undulating sea. Microscopic crystals branch into pin-sharp order. Scales form tessellating patterns on snakeskin. Nature is geometry dressed in fur.”
essay: the house that shame built
“Writing is the only time when the papery thinness of my skin feels like an asset; when curiosity climbs over shame to burn like a guiding beacon; when the right arrangement of words feels like the gentle closing of a door.”
extract: falling animals
“The swimmer dives from the rocks into the freezing water and explodes like a depth charge. A few heartbeats later he surfaces, gasping, shaking the water from his face. There are leapers and there are creepers: those who get it over with in one go, and those that creep into the water, step by step, letting each part of their body adjust.”
fiction: harlow
“His mother had a choice between keeping the monkey or having the baby. She told the story often, in company, with a roll of her eyes and a helpless grin, as if this was the sore spot, the branching crossroads where her life had gone wrong.”