Anthony's Literary Lens

Category: illustration

  • Retro Revival: Peace, Love, and the Eternal Appeal of Bell-Bottoms

    Retro Revival: Peace, Love, and the Eternal Appeal of Bell-Bottoms

    Now, snap back to 2025. You’re scrolling Instagram, and suddenly—there it is: a perfectly curated photo of someone wearing bell-bottoms, holding a macramé handbag, and standing in front of a van that says, “Groovy Times.” It hits you like a cloud of secondhand incense. You want that. You want to live in that vibe. Even if the closest you’ve come to protesting is rage-quitting Twitter, and the only grass you’ve touched is your kale smoothie.

    But why? Why does the hippy era continue to have such a chokehold on us? Is it the aesthetic? The music? The idea of peace and love when the world feels like a chaotic dumpster fire? Or is it just that we secretly love the smell of leather fringe and marijuana? Let’s light an imaginary joint (or, you know, a soy candle) and dive in.


    The Eternal Coolness of Being Chill
    There’s something deeply appealing about the hippy ethos of “turn on, tune in, drop out.” Sure, it was originally about rebelling against The Man and escaping societal norms, but let’s face it: in the era of burnout and hustle culture, who doesn’t want to “drop out”? We’re not even dropping out to go to Woodstock. We’re dropping out just to stay in bed and doom-scroll TikTok. It’s the same energy, but with fewer drum circles.

    The hippies didn’t have smartphones, but they did have time to sit in fields and strum guitars while pondering the meaning of existence. They were about connection—real, face-to-face, let’s-hold-hands-and-feel-the-earth-between-our-toes connection. Compare that to now, where we’re lucky if we make it through a FaceTime call without accidentally freezing mid-sentence.


    Fashion That Says, “I’m One with the Universe (and Maybe a Little High)”
    Let’s talk about the clothes. The bell-bottoms. The crochet tops. The flower crowns. It’s as if someone looked at conventional clothing and said, “What if we dressed like we’re part of the scenery at Joshua Tree?”

    And somehow, decades later, it still works. There’s something undeniably freeing about wearing something flowy and unstructured. It’s like telling the world, “I’m not going to let pants dictate my day. I’m here to vibe.” Plus, let’s be honest—retro fashion hides a multitude of sins. No one’s checking if you did leg day when you’re swishing around in palazzo pants.


    The Music Was Better When It Was Vinyl
    I know, I know. Every generation says their music was the best, but let’s get real for a second: the ’60s and ’70s absolutely crushed it. The Beatles. Janis Joplin. Hendrix shredding a guitar like it owed him money. It wasn’t just music; it was a movement.

    When you drop a needle on a vinyl record, it’s like entering a time machine. There’s that warm crackle, the richness of analog sound, and the fact that you can’t skip tracks without looking like a DJ who lost their way. You’re forced to experience the music, which is maybe why it hits so hard.


    Rebellion, but Make It Whimsical
    At its heart, the hippy era wasn’t just about fashion or music; it was about flipping the bird to societal norms. Peace, love, and rebellion—wrapped up in a tie-dyed bow. They were idealistic to a fault, but maybe that’s why we love them.

    In a world where we’re bombarded with bad news and hot takes, there’s something comforting about looking back on a time when people truly believed they could change the world. Sure, the execution was messy (and often involved questionable substances), but the dream was beautiful.


    Why Retro Revival Is Here to Stay
    So why do we keep going back to this era? Because it reminds us of possibility. Of creativity. Of sticking flowers in your hair and flipping off Richard Nixon. Retro revival isn’t just about aesthetics—it’s about recapturing the feeling that maybe, just maybe, things can get better if we all hold hands and sing “All You Need Is Love.”

    And if that doesn’t work, at least we’ll look fabulous in fringe jackets while we try.

    There you go—a whimsical, irreverent homage to the hippy era, written with the kind of energy that says, “Pass the kale chips and crank up Fleetwood Mac.”

    What do era would you like to go back to?

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  • Breath of the Forest

    Breath of the Forest

    The air—it’s alive. It hums, doesn’t it? Or maybe it’s in my head. No, no, it’s real, vibrating in my chest, crawling through my skin like tiny electric sparks. Is this how air used to feel? Clean, wet, soft like velvet. Not the choking, recycled stuff, scraped thin by machines. My chest feels raw, unprepared for it, like I’ve swallowed something too pure for my body.

    Pure Bliss

    And the trees—heavens, the trees. They stretch forever, all the way up, vanishing into green shadows and sunlight, folding together like lace. Too tall. Too wide. Too much. My eyes can’t hold them all at once. I try. I can’t. I blink, and they shift, ripple, like they’re breathing. The bark, cracked and grooved like skin—no, like stone—but warmer, alive, alive, alive. My fingers press against it. It presses back. Does it know I’m here? Does it care?

    I don’t trust this. It’s too perfect. Too much light, too much green, too much life. It’s like a story I heard when I was a kid. Forests with wolves and deer and wind that whispers. People who walked barefoot on the dirt, dirt that smelled like rain. It was a bedtime lie, wasn’t it? They said we killed it. Burned it. Paved it over and left it for dead. And yet here it is, here I am, knees sinking into the moss. Moss—soft like the fabric of dreams, cool under my palms.

    Dream. Yes, that’s it. This is a dream. It has to be. A glitch. My mind spinning out, a defense mechanism. The tether’s broken, I see the matrix. I’ll wake up. I’ll wake up back in the gray, the hum of machines in my ears. No birds. No birds there. But I hear them here—high, sharp, calling out into the endless green. Birds. I almost laugh. They’re real. Or I’ve invented them. Can I invent sound this beautiful?

    The smell—merciful earth, what is that smell? It’s dirt, yes, but sweeter, richer, like something blooming. Flowers? Do flowers have a smell? Not the ones we grew in the domes, sterile and waxy, pretty but hollow. These are alive, pulsing like veins in the air, like a thousand tiny hearts opening up at once. Too much. It’s too much. I close my eyes, but the forest doesn’t leave. It presses into me, through me, like it wants to crawl inside my lungs, nestle into my ribs

    Woods Imagined

    I can’t go back. How can I go back? They’ll laugh. They won’t understand. They’ll say, Oh, Aaron, the tether scrambled your mind. Forests? Sure. We had those. Once. And what did they do for us? They won’t smell this, feel this. They’ll never know how it moves, how it whispers. I could try to tell them, but the words wouldn’t come. They’re caught in my throat, tangled like the vines wrapping around the trees, twisting upward, desperate for the light.

    The wind. It moves like a sigh, brushing my skin. It knows me. Does it know what I’ve come from? What I’ve left behind? I taste salt, but I’m not crying. Am I? Maybe the forest is crying. Maybe it remembers what’s coming. What’s already happened. Or maybe it’s laughing, laughing at me, a man from the hollow future, standing here like a ghost in a world too alive to make sense.

    I sit. No, I collapse. My legs are shaking, useless. The moss takes me, cradles me like it’s been waiting. The air is thicker now, heavier, like it’s wrapping around me. A cocoon. I want to stay here. Let it swallow me whole. Let it keep me. The tether can break, and I’ll drift here forever, lost in this green dream.

    A sound—a bird, maybe? Or a branch snapping. Too sharp to be the wind. I twist, searching, but there’s nothing, only more trees. Endless trees. Watching me. Whispering to me. I think I hear words. No, not words. Something older, deeper. The pulse of roots in the soil. The creak of branches holding the sky. They know. They know what we’ve done.

    “I’m sorry,” I say aloud, my voice thin, swallowed by the forest. It feels like a lie. The words aren’t enough. Nothing is enough. My hand touches the ground—soft, cool, alive—and I want to sink into it, vanish into the earth like water. Let me stay. Let me forget what we became.

    The wind rises again, stronger this time, carrying the scent of leaves and damp earth. It washes over me, through me. My head is heavy. My eyes close. I’m floating. No—sinking. Sinking into the moss, the soil, the hum of the trees. The air thickens around me, soft as a blanket.

    “Let me stay,” I whisper, though I don’t know who I’m asking. The forest answers with silence, the kind that hums, vibrates, breathes. My chest aches with it. My heart beats too fast. Or maybe it’s slowing. Or maybe it’s the forest’s heart now, and mine is gone.

    I’ll wake up soon, back in the gray. Won’t I? But the wind doesn’t let go. The moss holds tight. The light filters through my eyelids, green and gold, and I think—maybe I won’t wake up. Maybe I was never awake at all.

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  • Chrysanthemum Art

    Chrysanthemum Art

    Chrysanthemums have been a popular subject in art for centuries, celebrated for their beauty and symbolism. Here are some famous paintings and artistic works featuring chrysanthemums:

    Chrysanthemum

    Claude Monet

    Monet, the French Impressionist master, painted several works featuring chrysanthemums. In his characteristic style, he captures their vibrant colors and delicate textures, showcasing their charm. His painting “Chrysanthemums” is a striking example of how Impressionists used light and color to bring flowers to life.

    Pierre-Auguste Renoir

    Renoir, another Impressionist, was also captivated by chrysanthemums. His painting “Chrysanthemums” features a vase overflowing with the blooms, emphasizing their lushness and intricate forms. Renoir’s brushwork highlights the flowers’ natural beauty.

    Van Gogh

    While Van Gogh is most famous for his sunflowers, he also painted chrysanthemums. His still-life works featuring these flowers reflect his love of vibrant colors and his ability to imbue still objects with emotional depth.

    Ito Jakuchu

    Ito Jakuchu, a Japanese Edo-period artist, created intricate and vibrant scrolls of chrysanthemums. His work reflects the flower’s importance in Japanese culture and combines realism with a sense of spiritual elegance.

    Qi Baishi

    Qi Baishi, a master of traditional Chinese painting, often depicted chrysanthemums in his works. Using expressive brushstrokes and ink washes, he captured their essence with simplicity and depth.

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  • What’s Wheat

    What’s Wheat

    A dimly lit, cavernous room filled with a hum of forgotten technology. The walls are adorned with corroded panels and remnants of old agricultural tools, now museum pieces.

    In the center, a flickering hologram of a weathered farmer in overalls and a straw hat stands tall, with a soft blue glow. The figure’s voice is calm yet sorrowful, echoing in the hollow space. Surrounding the hologram are silent spectators, young faces illuminated by its ghostly light, their clothes sleek and utilitarian, suggesting a world of automation and detachment from nature.

    “Once, this was the way of things. The cycle of seasons guided us, taught us patience and survival. Fields of wheat—golden and swaying under the sun—were not just crops. They were life. They were bread, sustenance, and hope.

    But you… you’ve forgotten. Forgotten the smell of freshly turned soil. Forgotten the feel of grain in your hands, the ache of laboring beneath a harvest moon. You’ve lost the wisdom that every seed planted is a promise made to the future.

    You live now in towers that pierce the clouds, eating foods conjured from machines, grown in chemical vats. Convenience has replaced resilience. No longer do you store grain against the coming of winter. No longer do you prepare, for winter itself has been engineered out of your world. And yet, you are colder than ever.

    Do you know what wheat meant? It meant warmth. It meant survival through the bitter months. We threshed it, stored it, guarded it. We sang songs to it, blessed it. Not because it was easy, but because it was essential. There is no joy without effort, no nourishment without toil.

    And winter—it wasn’t just a season. It was a reckoning. It taught us humility. When the land went barren, when the frost claimed the earth, we relied on what we had prepared. It bound us together, made us grateful for every loaf.

    But now, you press buttons. You summon sustenance from nowhere. Tell me, what will you do when the machines fail? When the systems you depend on falter, and the winds howl again, and the earth beneath your feet remembers its power?

    You must return to the soil. Not for nostalgia, but for necessity. Plant. Harvest. Store. Learn again what it means to endure, to thrive by your own hands. If you do not, winter will come—not the winter of old, but one far colder, far more unyielding.

    The wheat waits for you. The earth waits for you. Listen to them, before it’s too late.”

    (The hologram flickers, its image momentarily distorting before stabilizing, the faint sound of wind and rustling wheat echoing from unseen speakers. The room is silent, the weight of the message settling over the onlookers like the frost of a long-forgotten winter.)

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  • The Art of Bokeh

    The Art of Bokeh

    Ah, bokeh—the mysterious and magical effect that turns the background of your photos into a dreamy blur of lights and colors.

    Bokeh

    If you’ve ever gazed at a photo of twinkling holiday lights or a lone flower in sharp focus with an ocean of creamy fuzz behind it, you’ve met bokeh. But what exactly is this sorcery, and how can you use it to make your photos look like they were taken by an artist rather than your Aunt Carol? Let’s dive into the world of bokeh, where physics meets artistry.

    What Is Bokeh, Anyway?


    First things first: it’s pronounced “boh-kay” or “boh-kuh,” depending on how many photography snobs are in the room. The term comes from the Japanese word boke, meaning “blur” or “haze.” In photography, bokeh refers to the aesthetic quality of the blur in out-of-focus areas of an image. That’s right—photographers have a fancy word for making things blurry.

    But it’s not just any blur. Good bokeh is buttery smooth, like the frosting on a cake you swore you wouldn’t eat but definitely will. Bad bokeh? Think crumpled aluminum foil. The key is how the lens renders light and shapes in the background, turning pinpricks of light into glowing orbs or swirling patterns.

    How to Achieve Bokeh That’s as Beautiful as Your Dreams of Quitting Your Job

    The secret to great bokeh isn’t a filter you slap on in Photoshop (though that’s always an option for the truly desperate). It’s a mix of equipment, technique, and a little artistic flair. Here’s how to make it happen:

    Use a Fast Lens
    You’ll want a lens with a wide aperture, like f/1.4, f/1.8, or f/2.8. The wider the aperture, the shallower the depth of field—and the shallower the depth of field, the blurrier your background. Think of it as your lens’s way of saying, “Let me take care of the mess in the back while you focus on the star of the show.”

    Mind the Distance
    The closer you are to your subject, the better your chances of creating beautiful bokeh. Bonus points if your background is far away. It’s a bit like dating—keep the star player close and the distractions as far away as possible.

    Seek Out the Light
    Points of light in the background (streetlights, fairy lights, candles, or that chandelier you splurged on) will make your bokeh pop. Arrange them so they enhance your composition without stealing the spotlight. Or just throw a string of lights behind your subject and call it a day.

    Choose Your Lens Wisely
    Not all lenses are created equal in the bokeh department. Prime lenses, especially portrait lenses like the 85mm or 50mm, are often bokeh champions. Zoom lenses can deliver too, but you’ll have to work a little harder. And, of course, every lens has its own “bokeh personality,” ranging from smooth circles to quirky, polygonal shapes.

    The Science of Beautiful Blur

    If you’re more of a “just take the picture” person, feel free to skip this section. For the rest of you, here’s the nerdy bit. The quality of bokeh is influenced by the shape of the lens’s aperture blades. More blades or rounded blades create smoother bokeh, while fewer blades can lead to geometric shapes in your blur. So yes, when photographers talk about the “creamy” bokeh of their lenses, they’re really just geeking out about some fancy polygons. And no, you can’t judge them (too harshly).

    Why Does Bokeh Matter?

    Beyond looking cool, bokeh serves a purpose. It draws attention to your subject by simplifying the background, letting the viewer focus on what really matters—whether that’s a person, a product, or your dog wearing sunglasses. It’s the unsung hero of portrait and macro photography, turning chaos into calm and ordinary settings into extraordinary scenes.

    A Final Word on Bokeh (and Life)

    Here’s the thing about bokeh: it’s a reminder that not everything in life needs to be in sharp focus. Sometimes, the magic happens in the background, in the blur, in the places your eye doesn’t immediately land. So embrace it. Play with it. And if anyone asks why you’re so obsessed with blurry lights, just say it’s art. They don’t have to understand it—they just have to admire it.

    And there you have it: your ultimate guide to bokeh. Now, grab your camera, find some fairy lights, and go make the world a little blurrier. In a good way.

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  • The Bird Who Became colour

    The Bird Who Became colour

    On the crooked branch of an old persimmon tree, two birds sat. Above them, the sky hummed with the thick silence that comes before rain. Below, the world stretched out in its tangled changing vastness — branches pushing into the air, rivers pulling toward the sea, everything moving, endlessly moving.

    Coloured in

    The older bird sat still, though her stillness was not absence but fullness, like a pebble on a riverbed. Her feathers flickered as the light moved through the leaves: verdigrised copper, smoldering reds, gold like old coins freshly dug from the heavy earth. Beside her, the younger bird shifted restlessly, her lines barely holding their shape. Her body was not feather but form, a sketch in soft charcoal, smudged at the edges where rain or doubt had touched her. She stared down at her faint chest, as hollow as a question half-asked. 

    “Mother,” she said suddenly, sharply, her voice like the crack of a twig snapping underfoot. “When will I have feathers like yours?” Her gaze darted toward her mother’s chest, to that molten glow of red-gold plumage. Her own outline flickered faintly, like breath on glass. “I’m tired of being incomplete.” 

    Her mother did not turn at first. She watched the wind, the movement of invisible things. She watched the unseen, as mothers often do. Then she shifted her gaze to her child, her eyes dark and soft as old ink. 

    “You think I was born like this?” she asked quietly, though there was no question in her voice. She lifted her wings, slowly, and they caught the light like embers stirred in ash. “These colours were not mine. They came to me. Rain gave me the gray. The sun laid gold on my back. The berries left their red behind. All of it stayed.” She lowered her wings, slow as the setting sun. 

    The pencil bird frowned, running her beak down her delicate frame, as if she could draw herself maor fully into the world. “But how?” she asked, her eyes wide and sharp with hunger. “How did it stay?” 

    Her mother turned fully now to her child, gaze like stone, gaze like earth, gaze like home. “I didn’t chase it,” she said. “I stayed. The storm comes. You stay. The sun burns. You stay. The world scratches at you with its teeth and thorns, but still, you stay.” Her beak tapped lightly against the bark of the branch. “You let it mark you.” 

    The faint bird flinched. *Let it mark me?* She glanced down at her pale, clean outline. There was nothing on her, nothing in her, but faint graphite lines. The world had not touched her. She had not let it. 

    “Fly,” her mother said, with the softness of rain before it falls. 

    “Where?” the juvenile bird asked, eyes darting upward to the open, terrifying sky. 

    “Anywhere.” 

    “And if I get lost?” 

    Her mother leaned closer, so close the faint breath of her voice swept across her daughter’s hollow cheek. “You will,” she said. “That is the only way you’ll know where you are.” 

    The child blinked, heart sharp and wild as a drumbeat. She glanced up at the vast, open sky, so full of directionless blue, then down at her faint, brittle wings. Her breath came fast and tight. *But I’m not ready,* she thought. *I’m still a sketch. I’ll disappear out there.* 

    But her mother had already tucked her beak into her chest, as though she had seen this all before and had said what needed to be said. 

    So the pencil bird spread her thin, hollow wings and leapt. 


    At first, it was bliss. The wind held her like a string cradles a kite. The sun dripped warmth down her back. *This is it,* she thought, turning in wide arcs, her shadow a pale outline below her. *This is what it means to fly.* She flew harder, faster, slicing through the air like a blade, her heart thudding with the thrill of it. *If I just keep flying, I’ll become real.* 

    But the world does not let anyone fly unmarked. 

    The clouds gathered with the heavy, aching slowness of something inevitable. At first, they were soft as wool, but soon they grew dense, sharp-edged, swollen with their own weight. The air thickened. The first drop of rain hit her back like a stone. Then another. Then hundreds. 

    *Go back,* she thought. *Go back to the branch. You’ll be ruined.* Her wings trembled. Her outline blurred, as though the rain was an eraser working her out of the world. She was dissolving, line by line, stroke by stroke. The old fear rose in her: *I will vanish.* 

    Her mother’s voice echoed through the storm, her voice like a huge murmuration of starling filling the air: *Don’t run from the storms.* 

    So she didn’t. She flew straight into the rain, her body battered by drops that felt like knives. Her wings shuddered. Her heart thudded in her head louder than the thunder. She thought she might fall. But she didn’t. She didn’t. 

    When she emerged from the storm, she landed on the branch of a cedar tree, breath heaving, wings shaking. She looked down at herself, expecting to see ruin, expecting to see the faint, hollow outline of a bird erased from existence. But there, on her back, was a streak of silver-gray, soft as the edge of a storm cloud. 

    *This wasn’t here before.* 

    She touched it, ran her beak over it. It didn’t smear. It stayed. 

    Time passed. It always does.

    The days that followed were not kind. The sun baked her back until she felt her wings would burn away. Hunger gnawed at her until her chest ached, and when she landed near a thorny Briar, the thorns clawed at her wings. She bit into the wrong berry first — bitter, sharp, unbearable. She spat it out. But the next berry was sweet as honey. The red juice stained her beak, dripped down her chest. She wiped it away, but a faint rust-coloured mark stayed. 

    The sun gave her heat. The berries gave her red. The thorns gave her scars. 

    She flew beneath a hawk’s shadow, and when she escaped, her wing throbbed from the rake of its claws. The mark it left was not a wound. It was a line — faint, blue-black, permanent. 

    *When did I change?* she thought, glancing at herself one day. Her chest was no longer hollow. Her wings no longer weightless. The sketch of her was gone. Instead, she was filled with colour — shadow-gray, storm-blue, berry-red, thorn-black. She had not asked for any of it. But it had come to her all the same. 

    *This is what she meant.* 

    One evening, she returned to the persimmon tree. Her landing was sharp, deliberate, her wings folding in tight with the precision of something that has been tested. Her mother glanced up, gaze steady as ever. 

    “Back so soon?” her mother asked, eyes filled with quiet knowing. 

    The young bird glanced at her wings, her chest, her tail. She hadn’t realized it, but she no longer looked away from herself. Her feathers were no longer faint. No longer hollow. They were full, heavy with shadow and flame, earth and ash. She felt the weight of them, but it was not a burden. It was the weight of being real. 

    Her mother turned to face her fully now, tilting her head as if inspecting something distant and beautiful. 

    “Look at you,” she said softly. Her voice was full of something like pride, but older, deeper. Something like recognition. 

    The young bird flexed her wings. She saw it now — not just the colour but the story it told. The silver of the storm. The red of the berries. The blue of the hawk’s shadow. Her eyes burned, but not with tears. She could feel it all at once — the weight of the storm, the taste of the berries, the ache of the thorns — everything that had ever touched her was still with her, in her, as vivid as flame. 

    Her mother leaned in close, her beak at her cheek. “Welcome back,” she whispered. 

    They sat side by side as the sun spilled itself across the sky, orange into red, red into gold, gold into night. Their feathers caught the light as it passed, both of them burning softly in its glow. 

    Her mother’s eyes closed, content. The young bird glanced down at her chest once more, at the colours she had not chased but gathered, each one a mark of having stayed. 

    Her chest was not hollow anymore. And in that moment, she knew it never had been.

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  • Oceanographers of the Soul

    Oceanographers of the Soul

    O sovereign silence, you are the unbounded sea—calm as prayer, smooth as polished glass, hiding universes beneath your paper-thin, trembling skin!

    What lies beneath the calm

    Your surface speaks nothing, whispers everything—a magnificent deception of stillness that breathes with the ancient rhythms of unmapped depths. What terrible beauties writhe in the midnight corridors of your hidden heart, what storms rage in the cavernous kingdoms below your glass-smooth appearance?

    You are landscape and secret, horizon and abyss—your calm is the most violent language, your silence a thunderous confession. Beneath that crystalline surface, whole worlds collapse and reform, civilizations of emotion ebb and flow, surge and retreat, while your exterior remains unbroken, a perfect mirror reflecting nothing of the magnificent tumult that churns in your lightless realms. Each gesture a calm wave, each breath a measured tide—yet I sense the leviathans of unspoken feeling turning in your deepest waters, massive and magnificent and utterly unknown.

    Who are you, ocean-hearted one, with your immaculate exterior and your savage, unknowable self? Your stillness is not peace, but the most profound rebellion—a defiance against revelation, a landscape of emotion too profound for mere language to breach.

    What feelings do you get from this painting?

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  • The Sweetness of Passing Time

    The Sweetness of Passing Time

    Apples cling to trees,
    autumn whispers through the leaves—
    seasons come and go.

    Apples
    Bunch of apples

    The apples hung low on the branches, their skins turning from pale green to a mellow blush of red, redolent ripe with the promise of sweetness, blushing from the kiss of the quiet light of the autumn sun. I stood beneath the tree, the dry leaves crunching softly beneath my feet, and watched them sway in the breeze. Something about the way they moved—imperceptibly, almost indifferently—reminded me of memories I couldn’t quite place. Memories of someone’s laughter, or perhaps a voice I had once known but now couldn’t recall. 

    Apples
    Two apples

    Autumn has a way of drawing out things you thought you had forgotten. The chill in the air, the dimming of the days—it all makes you more aware of endings. And ripening apples, hanging heavy and full of sweetness, seem like tiny worlds suspended in time, caught between what they are and what they will inevitably become. 

    I reached out to touch one, its skin smooth but cool, like the cheek of someone you’ve grown distant from. It resisted, its stem holding firm, as though it wasn’t ready to leave its place. Or maybe it was me who wasn’t ready. Letting go is always harder than holding on, even when the time has come. 

    The tree stood there, unmoving, even as the wind rattled its branches. Its roots were buried deep in the earth, unseen but steady, holding the weight of its fruit with an almost silent dignity. I envied that—the ability to endure, to remain grounded while everything else around it began to slip away. 

    I thought about how these apples would eventually fall. Some would land gently in the grass, their sweetness savored by those who found them. Others would bruise and rot, sinking back into the earth without anyone noticing. Maybe it didn’t matter. Either way, the tree would keep growing, season after season, its branches reaching for the sky, shedding its leaves with each passing autumn, only to grow anew.

    Standing there, I felt something sharp but fleeting pass through me—like the sudden scent of smoke from a far-off fire, or the way a song can remind you of someone who’s gone. It was a kind of loneliness, but not the painful kind. More like the kind you learn to carry with you, like an old photograph folded neatly in your pocket. 

    I let my hand fall away from the apple and stepped back, the cold air stinging my face. The tree swayed again, and I could hear the faint sound of a bird in the distance. Somewhere beyond the horizon, winter was waiting, but for now, the apples were still ripening, holding their place in the world for just a little while longer. And that, I thought, was all they needed to be.

    I’m in Hereford with my dad at the moment, surrounded by plenty of apples. Back in Pembrokeshire, where I’m from, they’re much rarer—the weather just doesn’t suit them. What kinds of crops grow best where you are?

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  • The Song of the Winter Swans

    The Song of the Winter Swans

    Ice covers the lake
    Swans sing of what they’ve forgotten—
    Silent wings remember.

    On a brittle December morning, Yuki stood at the edge of the frozen lake. The air felt sharp, like the edge of a paper freshly torn, and the snow under her boots crackled softly. In the distance, two swans flew low over the water, their wings slicing the pale winter light. She watched them, transfixed, as they moved in perfect unison, like dancers following an invisible thread. 

    Yuki had come to the lake every winter since she could remember, drawn by something she couldn’t name. She wasn’t the sort of person who believed in omens or ghosts. But there was a weight in the air here, a kind of gravitational pull, as if something important had happened long ago and the echo of it still hung in the frozen reeds. 

    The swans flew in a slow arc, circling the lake as if searching for something lost. Then, without warning, one of them let out a low, mournful cry. It wasn’t a sound Yuki had ever heard before—not quite bird, not quite human. The sound folded into the winter air, spreading out across the lake in waves. She felt it in her chest, as if the cry had carved out a hollow space there and filled it with snow. 

    “You heard it too, didn’t you?” 

    The voice startled her. She turned and saw an old man standing a few feet away, bundled in a dark coat that hung loose around his frame. His face was pale and deeply lined, like a map of forgotten places. 

    “The swan’s song,” he said, nodding toward the lake. “Not many people can hear it.” 

    Yuki hesitated, unsure if she should answer. “It sounded… sad,” she said finally. 

    The man chuckled softly, a dry, papery sound. “That’s because it is. They only sing like that in winter, you know. When they remember.” 

    “Remember what?” 

    He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he gazed out at the swans, now gliding silently over the water. “There’s a story about this lake,” he said after a while. “A strange one. Do you want to hear it?” 

    Yuki nodded, though she wasn’t sure why. 

    “They say that long ago, this was a place where people came to forget. The lake would take your memories, all of them, and bury them beneath the ice. Some people came willingly, hoping to escape grief or regret. Others were brought here against their will, their memories stolen as punishment for something they’d done. Either way, the lake kept their secrets. 

    “But memory is a stubborn thing. It doesn’t just disappear. It sinks, yes, but it doesn’t die. And in the winter, when the lake freezes over, those lost memories rise to the surface. That’s what the swans are singing about. They’re the ones who guard the memories, you see. They carry them in their wings, their feathers, their song. But the burden is heavy. Too heavy. So every winter, they cry out. Not to us, but to each other. To say: *I remember too.*” 

    The man fell silent. Yuki stared at the swans, her breath fogging in the cold air. The idea was absurd, of course. Swans as guardians of forgotten memories? And yet, the longer she watched them, the more she felt that there was something beneath their wings, something vast and unseen, like the dark waters beneath the ice. 

    When she turned back, the man was gone. There were no footprints in the snow where he had stood. 

    For weeks afterward, Yuki couldn’t stop thinking about the swans and their song. She returned to the lake every day, but the man never reappeared, and the swans remained silent. Still, she felt as if the lake had left something inside her, a quiet ache she couldn’t name. 

    Late one night, she dreamed of flying over the lake, her body weightless and cold. She could hear the swans crying below her, their voices weaving together in a language she almost understood. When she woke, her pillow was damp, and her throat ached, as if she had been singing in her sleep. 

    It wasn’t sadness, exactly, that stayed with her after that. It was more like a memory of sadness, something faint and indistinct, like the outline of a figure walking away through falling snow. 

    And every winter after, when she heard the distant cry of the swans, she would pause, her breath catching in her chest, and wonder what it was they were trying to say.

    Let me know how this piece leaves you feeling and what it makes you think about.

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  • Paranoia vs. Pronoia: The Great Human-Cat Divide

    Paranoia vs. Pronoia: The Great Human-Cat Divide

    Let’s talk about cats and humans. Specifically, how the furry little weirdos somehow manage to strut through life like the universe is their personal concierge, while we humans spiral into a bottomless pit of “What ifs” and “Oh no’s.” It’s like we got the short end of the cosmic stick when it comes to outlooks. Cats? They’re pronoia personified (or catified?), blissfully convinced the world is out to shower them with treats, cozy napping spots, and adoration. Meanwhile, humans are busy clutching their tin-foil hats, muttering about how the universe is definitely planning something nefarious.

    Peekaboo

    Pronoia (noun) /ˌproʊˈnɔɪ.ə/ 
    The belief or sense that the universe is conspiring in your favor, actively working to bring you good fortune, happiness, and opportunities. 
    Example: “With pronoia guiding their every move, the cat confidently sat under the table, certain that a piece of ham would eventually fall just for them.” 
    (Contrast with paranoia, the belief that the universe is conspiring against you.)

    Picture this: You’re in your kitchen, minding your own business, and you drop a piece of ham. Before you can even say “five-second rule,” your cat materializes out of thin air like a tiny, furry magician. In their mind, that ham didn’t just *fall*—it was delivered. A gift from the cosmos, just for them. And if you try to take it back? Well, prepare for a look that could wither your soul. Cats don’t believe in accidents; they believe in destiny. Specifically, *their* destiny, where everything good inevitably flows their way.

    I can see you

    Now, contrast that with us. You drop the same ham, and what’s your first thought? “Oh no, what if it’s contaminated?” Or maybe, “What if someone saw me? Do I look clumsy?” Or, if you’re me, it’s “Great, now the ham gods are angry.” See the difference? Cats assume life is working for them. We assume life is conspiring against us. And honestly, I’m not saying cats are smarter than us, but they’re definitely less stressed.

    I once read this article about how humans are hardwired for paranoia because it helped our ancestors survive. You know, spotting saber-toothed tigers lurking in the bushes or deciding not to eat the funny-looking berries that made Cousin Oog act a little too “creative” at the last cave party. But here’s the thing: there are no saber-toothed tigers anymore. There’s just email. And deadlines. And the horrifying realization that your boss read your Slack message but hasn’t replied yet. We’ve evolved past the berries, but not the spiraling.

    Cats, though? They didn’t get the memo. They’re still out here living their best pronoid lives. Ever seen a cat climb into a box? It’s not just a box—it’s a castle, a fortress, a space shuttle to Mars. Every shadow on the wall is an adventure. Every sunbeam is a spotlight meant to highlight their glory. Cats genuinely believe they’re the Beyoncé of mammals, and honestly? They’re not wrong.

    Meanwhile, humans are sitting here going, “What if my box collapses? What if the sunbeam’s carcinogenic? What if someone thinks I look stupid climbing into this metaphorical box?” It’s exhausting. We’re exhausting. I once saw my cat chase a moth for twenty minutes, miss it entirely, and still walk away looking smug, like *not* catching it was the plan all along. Can you imagine if we lived like that? If we just shrugged off our failures and strutted away like, “Yeah, that’s exactly how I wanted it to go”?

    Here’s the kicker, though: maybe we could learn a thing or two from cats. Not the part where they knock your water glass off the table just to prove they can—nobody needs that kind of chaos energy—but the part where they genuinely believe the world is a good place. Maybe the universe isn’t out to get us. Maybe it’s just dropping random pieces of ham, and it’s up to us to decide if it’s a gift or a trap.

    So next time life hands you a metaphorical ham slice, channel your inner cat. Take it, eat it (unless it’s actually on the floor; we’re not savages), and assume it’s exactly what you deserve. Because honestly? It probably is.

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