Writing & Literature



Coming from both Irish and Polish backgrounds, culture and identity shape the questions asked about society in my works, specifically the roles they have in moulding an individual. My fiction explores the process of coming of age in a hyper-developed era. At 21 years old, I am wary of the dangers ahead in these uncharted territories, especially the consequences of an ever-expanding consumer-driven society. I have a particular interest in politics, grassroots movements and anti-capitalist theory. In my novel Times like These, the protagonist is a young runaway lost and disillusioned both by the brutality at home and the consumption that surrounds him. In the novel, his lens is muddled by frustration with the modern the world, leaving him adrift and questioning social conventions.

Excerpt from Times like These

As soon as I step foot into work, my soul begins to dissipate. The bare white landscape brings out the ugliness of capitalism in one open plan area. The endless rows of large, branded foods full of shit, slowly killing us. The only colour in the place belonging to the well-advertised packaging, making it pop and stand out. Artificial white lights running parallel to each other, lining the ceiling. Consumers in the form of zombies, stumbling down the aisles, trapped in their world of grief, shoving products into their trolley. There is no life here, not in this place. Simply a transaction of goods, built on the backs of many, to help profit few at the top. Yet they want us to be passionate about our jobs. Minimum wage, minimum effort, that’s my motto I’m afraid.
Commencing my duties of floor boy, I go straight to packing out the food. New orders are in, which means packing and unpacking. Days like this mean I can’t slack about hiding in the bathroom. The older ones never climb out of your ass. In particular Sam, who comes down to check on me every five minutes. ‘You alright with the biscuit section kev?’ he says sticking his fat head around the corner again. If looks could kill, I’m sure he would’ve exploded all over the two for one Nutella deal. With no response Sam sticks up his thumb. His way of visually asking me if I’m alright, I’m not a child. ‘Sam, I’ll stick that thumb up your arse if you’re not careful’, I say as a lady walks by me, shooting me a look. I do forget I’m in public sometimes.