I have always found my peace in nature... When you honour what moved you and honour what shaped you, you create work that feels alive. Work that carries emotional weight. Work that becomes part of someone else’s spark. Nature inspires my writings with Colonel Fitch - Flying Cat is an example and my artwork sells quite well on FAA. Its what inspires me when my stamina is low.

❄️ “THE WORLD CUP OF ICE CHECKPOINTS” Today the world comes together — flags waving, crowds roaring, stadiums shaking with hope and overpriced nachos. But somewhere, far from the pitch, ICE is also “coming together”… mostly to make sure nobody else does. While the rest of us chant “GOOOOAAAAL!” ICE prefers “Papers, please.” Sports unite nations. ICE unites… clipboards. And fluorescent vests. And a surprising number of zip‑ties. The World Cup says: One world. Many voices. One creative tribe. ICE says: One line. Many forms. One incorrect box ticked = try again. Imagine if ICE ran the opening ceremony: • Drones scanning passports mid‑fireworks • Sniffer dogs judging your enthusiasm • A referee issuing yellow cards for “suspicious joy” And yet — in the strangest twist of irony — ICE does bring people together. Just not in the way FIFA meant. Families gather. Communities gather. Lawyers gather. Entire neighbourhoods gather to say, loudly and collectively: “Mate… this is ridiculous.” And maybe that’s the real unity: not the stadiums, not the chants, not the corporate‑sponsored patriotism… …but the shared, global understanding that bureaucracy is the true final boss and ICE is the referee nobody asked for. One world. Many voices. One creative tribe. And one agency that really needs to chill.

@Nikki J Dramatic, grabs attention and simplifies complex crimes ignoring coercion, manipulation, and economic vulnerability. The sensationalised imagery is real but the exception. Breaking open a nut with a sledgehammer does more damage than the problem it solves.

Between Two Shores — a poem‑story for the prompt The shingle shifts beneath me as if the beach itself is breathing. Evening light glances off the Skatepark rails, where silhouettes arc and fall and rise again— small rebellions against gravity. Walkers drift the promenade from Langney Point to Holywell, dogs trotting ahead with the confidence of creatures who know the coastline by scent alone. Cyclists hum past in soft bursts of colour. A fishing boat noses toward Sovereign Harbour, its engine a low, familiar heartbeat. Windsurfers carve bright slashes across the water. Kite surfers lift and dip like restless birds. And behind it all, Beachy Head stands watch— white, immovable, ancient— a chalk guardian at the edge of the world. I open my journal. The page waits. The sea waits. Something in me waits too. A line forms. Then another. And suddenly the wind changes— not the English Channel wind, but a warmer, salt‑sweeter breath I haven’t felt in years. The page blurs. The horizon tilts. And when it steadies, I am somewhere else entirely. Sand replaces shingle. The Atlantic roars louder, deeper, a sound that lives in the bones. Kites bloom across the sky— red, turquoise, neon yellow— dancing above Table View’s long, pale beach. Windsurfers skim the surface with the same wild joy as their Eastbourne cousins, but the backdrop is different— vast, immovable, holy. Table Mountain rises like a memory I never quite put down. Pedestrians wander the shoreline, ankles dusted with sand. Cargo ships drift across Table Bay, slow as dreaming giants. The air tastes of kelp and sun‑warmed dunes. And I realise— these two places, these two oceans, have always spoken to each other inside me. Eastbourne with its gentle order, its chalk cliffs and tidy promenades. Cape Town with its raw pulse, its wind‑whipped freedom, its impossible mountain. Two coasts. Two versions of me. Two homes that tug at the same thread. My pen moves again. The doorway closes softly. But the echo of both shores remains on the page— a reminder that the worlds we write are often the worlds that made us.

What I See A man stands at the edge of the footpath, hands tucked into his sleeves like a bird conserving heat. His coat carries the colour of late‑season lichen, the kind that clings on long after the forest has given up. He watches the river with the stillness of someone who’s forgotten what he came here to remember. A breeze lifts the hem of his jacket, and he lets it — as if negotiation with the wind is pointless. What He Imagines If I stand here long enough, maybe the river will tell me what I misplaced. People think I come here for the view, but it’s the quiet that keeps me from unravelling. I pretend to check the time, though the herons don’t care for schedules and neither, if I’m honest, do I. Some days I wonder if the trees notice me the way I notice them — weathered, rooted, still trying.

@Jase Hearrell thanks... its the one my parents gave me! 🤪

@Jase Hearrell Awesome!