Writing Dump

Rachel, 28, Australian. Creative & Critical writing student. This is just a blog for all my random writing assignments, rambles or stories.

[rachel-writes-words]

Reclaiming the “Urban Jungle”

I was always told that “nature belongs outside”. Often, I would bring plants, animals, and bugs inside as I was fascinated by every part of nature but was forced to return them outside. I felt disconnected as natural life outside continued, and I was not a part of it. As I matured, my drive to be with nature never faltered but changed. I no longer felt the desire to disrupt outdoor habitats. Instead, my interests focused more on the positives of the natural world, as opposed to the aesthetics of nature as an external “thing”. This caused me to wonder; why can we not bring nature indoors? Why do we separate ourselves from nature? If we can simulate an environment similar to the native habitats of plants and animals, then is it wrong to create an internal ecosystem? 

I discovered that a multitude of plant varieties, such as the Snake Plant (Sansevieria trifasciata) or the trailing Heartleaf Philodendron (Philodendron cordatum), for example, have been proven to absorb carbon dioxide and various other toxins from the air, and promote healthier oxygen renewal (Bounds, Johnson & Wolverton 1989). A study done by Deng and Deng (2018) found that indoor plants help to increase concentration, productivity, and general mental health in humans. In a world that is increasingly becoming disconnected from nature, the use of plants to improve mental health is ironic. 

 Health benefits aside; for me, my home is a place of life. Whether it is animals I am rehabilitating, such as orphaned hares or sick birds, or the ever-increasing abundance of plants, I am surrounded by nature. I am greeted by a plethora of varying shades of green as I walk through my home; the leaves of plants from around the world brushing against me. Vines of Devil’s Ivy (Epipremnum aurem) grow from multiple hanging pots to form a canopy of variegated green and yellow leafy vines. Their coarse aerial roots grip and spread along the twine I have tied between the plants, while another ascends the wall. Originating from Mo’orea in the Society Islands of French Polynesia, but now found wild worldwide due to irresponsible disposal of houseplant species (Encyclopaedia Britannica 2018), they thrive in the indirect sunlight similar to that of their traditional sparsely canopied rainforest habitat. Over 90 plants mix and thrive in their own artificially made eco-system. The ability to create an internal natural habitat is becoming increasingly important to me as the expansion of the concrete jungles of urbanisation continue the destruction of our outdoor natural habitats.

Unsurprisingly, with plants comes a multitude of other life in the form of what we refer to as pests - life that in an artificial eco-system is unappreciated. Fungus gnats, as an example, thrive in moist soil. Their larvae feed on the roots of plants before undergoing metamorphosis into their flying adult form and begin emerging from the soil. This is a naturally occurring life cycle that in the wild would cause minimal harm to the plants on which they feed. Unfortunately, given the smaller and confined state of indoor plants, the larvae can cause irreversible damage to root systems. Due to this damage, and a general desire for a cleaner indoor atmosphere, the lives of gnats and other pests are destroyed through the use of pesticides, or occasionally natural treatments. Gnats, Mealybugs, Scale, and Spider Mites all exist in outdoor habitats with barely any ill effect on the plants as opposed to indoor habitats requiring all life deemed unhelpful to be destroyed.    

I have come to realise, though, that we are adaptable. I recently introduced to my home a Nepenthes sanguinea, better known as a “Pitcher Plant”. It is a carnivorous plant that is native to Peninsular Malaysia and the rainforests of southern Thailand. The N. sanguinea uses a mixture of bright red colour and scented nectar to entice bugs, and even small animals, to the lip of its pitcher traps. The lip is slippery, and the nectar in the pitchers drowns its prey, that is then absorbed. I hung it closest to the plants with gnat colonies, and within a day a single pitcher had caught a significant number of flying adults. Not only did this help break the life cycle of the gnats, which, in turn, aided in allowing the roots of the plants to re-form, but it also fed essential nutrients to support the growth of the pitcher plant. All ecosystems have ways of working their imbalances out, even artificial ones. Instead of segregating ourselves away from nature, we humans need to learn to assimilate and use our knowledge to help balance our natural surroundings instead of “fixing” them. Nature is adaptive, and if we want to be a part of it, then we must be as well.

A question I ask myself, is at what point does the creation of an indoor habitat become aesthetic consumerism, or a continued form of ecological domestication? Indoor plants are bred, cultured, and altered to suit an idealised state for our consumption. This breeding of plants - as with selective animal breeding – has led to a consumerist race for “exotic” plants. Mutated variegations of common plants (Monstera deliciosa var Thai constellation for example) sell for excessively high prices due to their aesthetic appeal. These mutated plants often suffer and die in a natural habitat as they are unable to photosynthesise properly. The mutations, however, are the plants selling point and they are mass-produced from tissue culture and cloning.

Ecological domestication is not an entirely negative concept, however, and it is not a new development as plants have been domesticated for thousands of years in the way of crops, such as wheat and rice (Zohary & Hopf 2000). Crop domestication has been beneficial for plant life as they grow in agricultural environments that allow for more fertile soil and are significantly protected against natural environmental changes (Garcia-Palacios et al. 2013). Comparatively, Benedetto, Galmarini, and Tognetti (2015) claim that the domestication of indoor plants reduces natural soil nutrients and constricts root growth due to their confined state, resulting in stunted growth. Fertilizers are required to replace lost nutrients, and there is a dependence on human intervention for watering.

The observations I have made of the plants that I live amongst, and further discussion with other indoor plant enthusiasts indicate general stunting in size of indoor plants comparative to plants grown in their natural habitats. However, despite my reservations and personal guilt toward ecological domestication, I find it important to continue surrounding myself with an ever-growing natural urban jungle as the ever-increasing urban lifestyle ensures we continue losing more and more contact with the outdoor world.

--

This is a piece I wrote for my nature writing course that has been marked highly and in the running for publication in the nature course anthology. There was no topic given, instead, we were simply told to create a 1000 word piece suitable for the nature writing genre. Reference list follows for further reading.

References

Benedetto, A, Galmarini, C, & Tognetti, J 2015, ‘Changes in leaf size and in the rate of leaf production contribute to cytokinin-mediated growth promotion in Epipremnum aureum L. cuttings’, Journal of Horticultural Science and Biotechnology, vol 88, no. 2 pp. 179-186, viewed 15 September 2019, <https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/abs/10.1080/14620316.2013.11512954>.

Bounds, Johnson & Wolverton 1989, Interior Landscape Plants for Indoor Air Pollution Abatemen, NASA, United States, viewed 18August 2019, <https://ntrs.nasa.gov/archive/nasa/casi.ntrs.nasa.gov/19930073077.pdf>.

Deng, L & Deng, Q 2018, ‘The basic roles of indoor plants in human health and comfort’, Environ Sci Pollut Res Int, Vol 25, DOI: 36087-36101.

Garcia-Palacios, P, Milla, R, Delgado-Baquerizo M, Martin-Robles, N, Alvaro-Sanchez, M & Wall, DH 2013, ‘Side-effects of plant domestication: ecosystem impacts of change in litter quality’, New Phytologist, vol 198, pp. 504-513.

Zohary, D & Hopf, M 2000, Domestication of Plant in the Old World. The Origin and Spread of Cultivated Plants in West Asia, Europe and Nile Valley, Oxford University Press, Oxford.

[rachel-writes-words]

Toxicity

I suppose I would call it a gift; the ability to see the physical manifestation of toxicity in a person. The best way I can describe it is as though the person is a rotting body floating through water and the more internally rotten they are, the thicker the toxicity they exude. A drunk man in a dishevelled but expensive suit yelling racial and sexist slurs at the homeless woman in the street is almost obscured by his shroud. A young child that views the world with curiosity is mostly free of the shroud – but the toxicity that flows through the child’s mother is absorbed by him when she pulls the boy away from a gay couple that walks down the street.

Arguably, people whose shrouds you can see a mile away are less dangerous than the more hidden ones. I’d heard rumours that the happy, smiling girl serving soup at the homeless shelter was so insecure and hated herself to such an extreme, that she treated her boyfriend with distrust and disdain. This in turn caused him to become a recluse to prove his loyalty to her, or so the gossips said. Her toxic shroud was smaller than the racist man’s, but much more potent.

I had always wondered what my own shroud would look like, as I harboured no resentment toward different races; I respected religious beliefs and I had no qualms about the various sexualities and gender identities. I figured that by being socially aware, polite and by contributing to society it would keep my own toxicity down. I suppose that’s why I referred to my ability as a gift. It helped me to see the traits in other people that I could control in myself. I was able to actively seek out and find healthy and good people to surround myself with and stay away from the rotten ones. I sought out people that acted without selfish instinct; who, like me, made themselves better than everyone else.

Keep reading

[rachel-writes-words]

Stream of Consciousness - Shark Attack

At the edge of the sand, I unwound the elastic bandage and waded into the surf. A boy in a wet suit looked at my leg. He asked e if a shark had done it; there were sightings of great whites along that part of the coast.

I said that, yes, a shark had done it.

I had been wading as we were now, and the shark swam to me. I should have felt scared, but it filled me with calm instead. I watched the fin circle me; moving closer but not close enough for me to touch. It would swim just out of reach – almost like it wanted to make that final stretch but was scared.

Fancy that; the greatest predator of the ocean scared to make contact with me. I ended up wading out deeper until the water was at my chest. I laid my hands flat on the surface of the water and waited. It took only two more circles before I finally felt the rough skin of the shark as it bumped up against my hand. It swum its circle again but slowed down as it brushed past my still flat hands.

As it went around again, I felt it push gently against my leg. I still wasn’t scared, and now, neither was it. I actively reached out and ran my hand along its body; feeling its strength; its ferality. This caused the shark to stop its looping and stay within reach of my hands. We had made a connection I never considered a possibility. An apex predator and its prey simply existing and enjoying each other’s presence in a vast an uncaring ocean.

I had stayed out there for hours with my shark – by that point I considered the shark to be mine. My connection with it was like no other. I laid on my back and floated as it swam underneath me; its fin brushing my back to stay in physical contact with me.

As light began to fade, I felt chills beginning to wrack my body from the cold change in the air. My shark pushed closer and closer, as if sensing my discomfort. I realised that its body was pushing me out and soon I could not reach the ocean floor.

The chills of cold soon became chills of fear. I began trying to swim back to the shore, but my shark began to circle again – often placing itself between me and my destination. Fear had turned to panic as I tried to manoeuvre myself around it. I held my hands out to pat it as I tried to move forward; hoping the affection would preoccupy it.

My shark didn’t fall for the ploy and got pushier and I soon felt the jagged edge of its teeth brush my outstretched palm; a cloud of blood filling the darkening water around us. I pulled myself forward as fast as I could to put space between us, but it wanted to be close and kept with me.

I finally felt the ocean beneath my feet and used it to try to propel myself away. My shark did not want me to go and I felt the red hot pain; stinging and burning as the shark took my leg as payment for leaving it alone in the vast, unforgiving ocean.

-

We were asked to write a stream of consciousness result to a shark attack prompt which involved no self editing, no re-reading. Just writing non-stop for a set amount of time. This was my response.

[rachel-writes-words]

Image Reference Writing

No one could quite remember when they started appearing. The children called them Geels. When we asked the children why that name, they simply said: 'Goat Eels'. The innocence of children was not lost here. They would run onto the streets when the sky darkened to watch the beasts arrive. Their horns carved wounds into the sky as if the heavens were opening, though it wasn’t angels that came through. The children couldn’t see the beings that rode the Geels, or the those that flew through the rifts. Only the women could see them. The beings were naked and feminine in form with feathered wings where arms should be. We didn’t have a fun nickname for them, but some of the others called them harpies – an ugly and monstrous mix of bird and woman that struck fear into your heart. At times they would descend and embrace random women. We would stand watching with hands over our mouths in horror as they took them away. Then, we would continue our day without sparing a thought. The Geels would circle the children, their wide eyes mesmerising them. The children didn’t notice. We noticed. I noticed. I watched with secret envy each time a woman was taken. The beings were not harpies. They were beautiful creatures, with faces that morphed and bodies that were free. The taken knew that. I saw them up there, blissful in their mutating forms. I grew with envy after each abduction. Perhaps that’s why I got left behind.

-

A micro narrative I had to write during an exam. We had to write something that drew upon the imagery attached.

[rachel-writes-words]

DnD scene

The cloud giant watched his partner stand still; his expression blank and axe limp by his side. The giant felt hot rage build in his chest and glanced at the small ones that fought his pets. His eyes darted across them; the dragon one shooting two beams into a werewolf who howled in pain and a snake latching onto another of his pets. His eyes narrowed on the purple devil creature that had shouted out strange words to his companion; her eyes were trained on him and he could see her whispering under her breath. With a sneer he tried to take a step forward but stumbled slightly as the ground around him had been destroyed and replaced with loose rubble. He let out a large growl and raised his arms as billowing mist enveloped his body. He focused his vision on the spot in front of the devil and stepped through.

Daera noticed the mist rising around the giant from the corner of her eye and felt a pit form in her stomach as the giant disappeared.

‘Shit, shit.’ She muttered under her breath, glancing to the side where Seishiro stood readying himself to run toward where the others were fighting the remaining werewolves. ‘Help, the spell!’ She managed to shout out as the giant appeared suddenly in front of her. The looming 20ft form towered above her; the bone axe raising high in the air to strike. She felt the rush of wind as Seishiro darted in and landed multiple hits up and down the giants thigh, knee and shin and she saw him twist his hand in a familiar way for the last hit causing the giants axe-wielding arm to drop beside him with a growl of pain.

‘He has no reaction, run!’ Seishiro shouted as he leapt back out of the giant’s reach. She felt magic swell up to her arms and let out a shout and clapped her hands together with an echoing boom that filled the room. The magic burst from her hands in a rolling wave of thunder with enough force to send the giant stumbling backwards, his axe dragging along the ground. As he was swept back, Daera glanced quickly back at the other giant as she darted away toward Seishiro; who was gesturing for her to get behind him. The giant still blankly stared at the ground, swaying slightly as she continued to hold the spell.

- 

Just a random super short fight scene that happened during one of my DnD sessions. It was an intense moment I wanted to write lol

[rachel-writes-words]

I like words. A simple but powerful statement, and one that is used often by writers and academics. That very statement was used as an opening line for a screenwriting job cover letter by a now famous screenwriter by the name of Robert Pirosh (Usher 2018). Reader’s Digest Oxford Complete Wordfinder (1990, p. 1808) defines words as: “a sound or combination of sounds forming a meaningful element of speech” and denotes the importance that words have. As stated by Steve Ritch, of the American-Speech-Language-Hearing Association: “Words are one of the essential tools individuals use to communicate” (2019). Writers use words as tools to create stories, record history, and help motivate people. According to Samuel Caddick: “humans have long understood that books – or rather the information therein- can be hugely influential.” (2008). To be a writer is to take and understand the importance and impact that words can have, combine and introduce them to the world in a meaningful way and in many different forms. For this to happens, writers and authors must have a respect and a desire to use words to create their image. They must like and respect the tools that they are using to communicate with. A writer must like words.  

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This was a micro essay that I wrote for an exam that had to start with ‘I like words’ and required a minimum 3 in text references - a journal article, a book and a website.

[rachel-writes-words]

Toxicity

I suppose I would call it a gift; the ability to see the physical manifestation of toxicity in a person. The best way I can describe it is as though the person is a rotting body floating through water and the more internally rotten they are, the thicker the toxicity they exude. A drunk man in a dishevelled but expensive suit yelling racial and sexist slurs at the homeless woman in the street is almost obscured by his shroud. A young child that views the world with curiosity is mostly free of the shroud – but the toxicity that flows through the child’s mother is absorbed by him when she pulls the boy away from a gay couple that walks down the street.

Arguably, people whose shrouds you can see a mile away are less dangerous than the more hidden ones. I’d heard rumours that the happy, smiling girl serving soup at the homeless shelter was so insecure and hated herself to such an extreme, that she treated her boyfriend with distrust and disdain. This in turn caused him to become a recluse to prove his loyalty to her, or so the gossips said. Her toxic shroud was smaller than the racist man’s, but much more potent.

I had always wondered what my own shroud would look like, as I harboured no resentment toward different races; I respected religious beliefs and I had no qualms about the various sexualities and gender identities. I figured that by being socially aware, polite and by contributing to society it would keep my own toxicity down. I suppose that’s why I referred to my ability as a gift. It helped me to see the traits in other people that I could control in myself. I was able to actively seek out and find healthy and good people to surround myself with and stay away from the rotten ones. I sought out people that acted without selfish instinct; who, like me, made themselves better than everyone else.

That’s not to say I considered myself perfect; I believed true perfection could not exist in humanity. We are inherently flawed creatures by design. I had that fact drilled into me by my parents when I was young; I would never be perfect no matter what I did and once I grew up and saw humanity through this gift, that belief was confirmed. True perfection was a farce; I had convinced myself of that. Still, I had to be as perfect as I could be. I didn’t want to be shrouded like the rest of humanity; even if I was the only one who would ever know. I had to be better. I had never spoken about my gift to anyone; that would have put me straight into a psych ward. However, after I met her, the perfect self I had created was pulled into question.

It was as clichéd a meeting as you could get. An elderly woman stumbled on a curb and fell. Shroud obscured people walked by; a teenager laughed openly as his cigarette smoke mingled with his own noxiousness. I offered the woman a hand up. I had to hold my breath as her toxicity was some of the most potent I had experienced. As she stood up, I noticed another hand guiding her by her shoulders. The elderly lady ripped her hand from mine once she was stable and scowled before offering her thanks to God for sparing her hips. She pushed past me without a second glance. I wasn’t surprised. What had surprised me was the other person that had helped her to her feet.

She was a young woman around my age. It wasn’t her physicality that took my breath away; it would be a waste to describe something so meaningless. No, it was the simple fact that she was pure. Never had I seen anyone other than an infant without a hint of a shroud. I remember cracking a rude joke at the expense of the old lady; it was against my rules, but I had wanted a reaction. She laughed and defended the lady. Not even the slightest wisp of toxicity. I was instantly enamoured, and I asked her to have coffee with me.

We became a couple not long after. We talked; we laughed; we shared our life stories. She claimed I was exactly the type of person she had always looked for and I said the same. We never fought; she didn’t like fighting. The sex we had was indescribable. The sex I had had with other people was always tainted. Just imagine fucking someone while getting enveloped with shrouds of toxins and seeing it get thicker with every degrading thought in their head. No, sex with her was pure. There was no depravity, no inequitable expectations, or demeaning thoughts. It was everything I wanted from my partner. She was everything I wanted.

I’m not sure when I began to question her perfection or my own perceived state of her perfection. I thought at the time that it was perhaps the envy we all feel, or the insecurity in comparison to others. I began to question myself. If she was this perfect; to the point of having no shroud of toxicity and she claimed to love me, did that in turn make me perfect? I started to obsess over that idea. I craved more and more to see my own shroud. I wanted to know. Was I on her level of perfection? If I wasn’t perfect then what was it that made her so much better than me? I did exactly what she wanted; I WAS exactly what she wanted, and she was supposed to be my perfect partner.

I began to resent her pure nature. I dreaded walking down the street with her; I breathed in the toxic shrouds of other people while she walked unphased and unchanged. I watched as she dropped money into the homeless woman’s cup at the same time as a sickly man. She was unaffected; still pure and flawless but his shroud instantly increased. I remember thinking; did he place the money there to make himself feel better? Was she so perfect that not a single selfish thought crossed her mind?

It frustrated me more and more as time went on. I began trying to push her buttons, to get some sort of reaction. I needed to see her toxicity; it had to be there. If I wasn’t perfect, then she couldn’t be. Everyone else spewed shrouds everyday so why didn’t she? No matter how much I tried nothing happened. Her perfection was ruining our relationship. I soon realised I couldn’t be with someone who made me feel like I was as toxic as the other people. I was better than them, but she was making me the worst version of myself.

She suggested that work was stressing me out and took me on a surprise holiday. Typical of her to always notice and attempt to fix other’s problems. On our last night there I took her to the end of an empty pier, and I told her about my gift. It was my final test. Surely, she would walk away and call me crazy. She would judge me; even I would judge someone who told me that, but she just regarded me for a moment with an unreadable expression, before she kissed me.

It was a strange feeling to bury a knife into a body. There was much less resistance than I expected. I could never describe the look on her face; but I will never forget it. I pushed her backward off the pier and as her body sunk below the water; the light of the moon illuminated what I had been seeking. There was her shroud. Blood red and billowing around her in the water. It spread out further and further from her body; it was so dense that I could barely see her through it. She was no more perfect than me. I finally saw her shroud, and I realised that it was just for me. If I couldn’t have perfection, then no one could. If I couldn’t be perfect, then no one could.

*

‘You claim that to be the truth?’ The psychiatrist finally asked, leaning forward as he subconsciously stroked at his moustache. He had been doing that the entire time I had been talking. It irritated me.

‘You don’t believe me?’ I asked. He tapped his pen against his clipboard.

‘I believe you suffer from severe delusions, and that may impact on your ability to give us the truth.’ He said slowly before looking at the investigator seated beside him. ‘You came here of your own free will and confessed to an alleged murder. We need to know the real story.’

‘Isn’t that a sign of a good storyteller though?’ I rebutted and began tapping my finger on my leg in the same rhythm as his pen against the board. ‘That’s the fun part of a story. Trying to figure out what is fact and what is fiction.’

The investigator visibly ground her teeth and let out a sigh. The psychiatrist stopped the tapping of his pen. I steadied my tapping finger. Payback for irritating me with the beard.

‘We have yet to find a woman by the name that you previously gave, and your descriptions of her physical details have been inadequate to profile her.’ The investigator said.

‘I told you where I left her body.’

‘We have checked that stretch of beach multiple times and deep-sea crews have searched the surrounding ocean. There is still no sign of a body.’

‘The fish must have eaten well then.’ I said, giving the investigator a sardonic smile as she shifted uncomfortably. The clink of the cuffs around my wrists echoed in the tense room as I spread my hands. ‘Toxin free.’