Rosie Devaney

Meanwhile, there are a few who thrive off of their labour. They pay the workers less so they can get a bigger cut, spend their days finding loopholes to screw them over even more, and try to sell their labours work back to them. They tell them it's the workers fault that the planet is in such a state and that they should be sure to recycle while they oppose politics that would help the planet and their factories produce more plastics. They throw 0.01% to a charity to help the cause, and encourage the worker class to buy, after all they're helping save the world. They sit on their thrones, counting the money they made from their lies, refusing to pay their fair share to the society they live in while their workers give up the little they have to the government to help build schools.

As for the idiot, I’m fairly certain he’s going to drive us off a cliff. I can already see the precipice. 

Open for commission! 

Death of a Star illustration based on the poetry of Dylan Phelan. Follow me on instagram @Rosieillustrate

As I lose my beauty.

A Witch’s Soul

Quiet thoughts. Long pauses. Fear the future causes. Routines disturbed, madness creeping, trying to focus but it's leaving... what was I supposed to do today? Why do I care anyway? I could lie in bed and forget about hopes and dreams, it's all more far fetched than it seems. Jobs are gone, people are scared, the government rushes out welfare. We will survive, it's true, and may be more than can be said for you. But what is to be said for daily boredom and lack of passion? To suck your soul until it's phantom. Aimlessness, it breathes in us, waiting for the shush to fall, it will make zombies of us all.

Anxiety Incorporated

A Beautiful View and Great Plumbing    The sun hid behind the clouds and the breeze was non-existent. Their boat bobbed up and down and the relator sat at the head of their little boat, navigating as she rowed. ‘This is the last out of the way property I have I’m afraid, seeing as you didn’t much like the cabin on the third asteroid and the mansion in Chernobyl. Though, I do think this is a real winner,’ she said sounding a little non-committal and mustered up a grin. The newly married Mr. and Mrs. Turner had been her hardest clients so far. They wanted to be far out of the way of anything and anyone, how they intended to do their grocery shopping the relator hadn’t the foggiest. Still, she was dead set on finding a place for the couple, if she managed this she may well make partner.     Mr. Turner rowed well, while Mrs. Turner had given up rowing long ago and was now reading a book. Mrs. Turner had a very specific look in mind, a look that may well not exist. Mr. Turner had pleaded with her to see reason, he thought the asteroid cabin had been splendid, though he did agree the health risks in Chernobyl were a bit much.     The relator blabbered on about a beautiful view and a great plumbing system. After what seemed like forever to poor Mr. Turners arms, and several chapters of Mrs. Turner's book, the tower came into view. It perched on rocks, looking haggard from the beatings the sea gave it. Seagulls had made several nests in its crevices, and the side of the tower had seaweed growing up it.     Mrs. Turner dropper her book into the water, her mouth agape looking at the old battered building. She quickly came to her senses, fished her book from the water, and stood making the boat rock horrendously and splashing water into their little wooden boat. They soon arrived, and the relator lead them up uneven steps to the peeling and rotten wooden door. It creaked open after a hard push from Mr. Turner. The bottom floor was the kitchen, grubby black and white tiles made up the floor, and the counters were made of rough stone covered in dust. A circular bent metal table sat to one side, holding a large candle the relator had lit.     They followed the relator up the spiraling stairs to the second floor, her torch leading the way. The second floor was all crumbling wooden floors, a moth-eaten sofa, a grand fireplace, and a dingy little bathroom that smelt of fish. Up and up they went, Mrs. Turner, trying her best but failing to stop herself grinning. Finally, she thought, this is what I’ve been looking for. They reached the attic, which once had been a study, now homed long-abandoned seagull nests and part of the roof had let in the rain, leading to water damage. Mrs. Turner reached for her husband's hand as she looked out of the broken window, watching as the sun came out from behind the clouds and filling the room with a dusty light.      ‘I love it!’ She grinned at her husband, squeezing his hand.     He rested his head against hers and they looked down at the quiet sea, ‘It’s perfect,’ he whispered back.      Mrs. Turner turned to the relator, who was leaning against the mottled desk, crossing her fingers at her side. ‘We’ll take it!’    Weeks passed, and Mr. and Mrs. Turner came and went from the old tower, bringing furniture and paint and truly making it their own. It was finally done, all that was left was to paint the outside. They had decided blue for the brick, and purple for the roof. They stood in the paint shop near the harbour trying to decide which shade to choose until it came about that they couldn’t decide on the shade of purple for the roof. It was an awful affair, they rowed, they fought, it even came to blows, though neither was injured. Mr. Turner was so sick of it that eventually, they split, and he began building his own house on the adjacent rocks. He slept in the spare room and avoided Mrs. Turner at all costs. For years neither of them said a word to each other. Whenever friends visited they would have to visit the pair separately and do it sneakily so as not to upset the other.     One evening Mr. Turner was on his way back home after a night out with old friends when the weather changed for the worse. He was in sight of the old place but he couldn’t control the boat. The waves jostled him and the rain started pouring down hard. He shoveled water out of the boat but it seemed as he did the same amount came back in if not more. He was hopeless, so hopeless that he began to cry out for help. Tears ran down his whiskery cheeks, and his shouts interrupted Mrs. Turners dreams. She woke and stumbled to the window, wondering what the idiot could have done with himself now. She mostly tried to pretend he didn’t exist.      She looked out at the crashing waves, and spotted a little boat not too far off, and realised that it was her ex-husband, though they had never actually divorced for that would mean speaking to one another. She wondered what to do, after all, they hadn’t spoken in years, should she continue ignoring him? But how could she? His screams were far too loud to fall back to sleep with, and if he died she would never forgive herself. She ran out to the rocks, her boat tied up at the edge. She called his name as she untied it and retied it with the longest rope they had.     She paddled out shouting for him, and soon he spotted her. For a fleeting moment, he thought to ignore her, but then looked her in the eye. She threw the shorter rope to him and he desperately paddled towards it, grasping it, the pair reeling him in. He spluttered as he jumped aboard, gasping for air as the water invaded his lungs. She paddled them back to the shore, trying to go back to ignoring him and failing. She could smell the aftershave on his skin under the stench of the sea, something that had once been quite a comfort to her.     He made to go back to his house propped up by stilts that were a danger to climb. She reached out and grabbed him, looking at her feet. ‘You may stay in the spare room, just for tonight, to ensure you are well.’ With that, she stole away, running to her room, and jumping under her covers, her heart beating fast and her bedsheets absorbing the seawater that drenched her clothes, skin, and hair.     After that night they began to acknowledge one another in passing, which turned into the odd word here and there. Their relationship slowly built up again, and eventually, Mrs. Turner woke up one morning to find a bridge leading to his house. She made two cups of tea and went to knock on the door, and that morning they shared breakfast. Weeks went on, and years, and though they each had their own home, they often shared a bed. Mrs. Turner grew and found she was pregnant, and the two homes became one.