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The Case of Gentleman Jack When the archaeologist holds the remains of past ages, what stories pass through their fingers?The time traveller must borrow archaisms if she is to be heard at all, to prevent time from editing meaning into misread stories, so that others might hear what she heard. She took to a gambol…
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Even new methods are designed in the moment, and the many moods that come of man and their minds. Even when travelling in time, we cannot influence the mood of the city, nor ask it to. We don’t breathe the air they breathe; we are only observing in the vast existence. We turn a corner,…
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A few months ago, I wrote a paper for uni on how the same crime is punished differently by gender. Reading a recent news article about a young woman punished for using a weapon in self-defence reignited that fire. Innocence is spoken of as purity. But why do so many women’s[1] stories begin at the…
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Honestly, at this point, I’m convinced the universe is writing my life like a cosmic sitcom. Picture this: I finally get diagnosed autistic at forty-five and immediately discover I’m now both the ancient mythical sage and a small, overstimulated goblin-child who needs grape juice, quiet, and maybe a nap. The duality is outrageous. One minute…
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Every age needs a monster to chase. In medieval times, it was witches who were marked and burned, as if fear could be turned to ash. In the twentieth century, it was communists, with lists and sweeps that promised safety and delivered suspicion. And now, in the twenty-first century, the sweep is for autism. Presidents…
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The seasons pass as they do, and it flows as time moves. Not in a straight line, though we try to force it into one. Time is not singular; and some days move like a train through space, and it does so, with or without us. Only a year ago, on the equinox in September…
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When A specific burnout hits, the version of me I’ve tried to keep hidden becomes the version people see. The dark side, the bitterness, the self-pity, the sharpness of my words, escape. It isn’t who I am, but it’s what exhaustion distils me into. All the quiet work of editing myself, smoothing the edges, softening…
Notes from a Time Traveller by Elke Stevens 