I’ve long believed that stories make up the invisible architecture of our identities, beliefs, and societies. From the myths we inherit to the ads we consume, across time narratives have dictated what we desire, who we admire, and what we think is normal. Before we even learn to read and write, we inherit countless narratives from our environments. These begin with our family’s worldviews, often influenced by our country’s dominant religious and political ideologies, and shaped by the way history is constructed and passed down. 

What happens when we examine some of the stories we swallow whole? In ‘Stories As Us,’ I’ve pulled back the curtain on some of the modern stories shaping us in surprising ways–exploring how advertising molds our desires, how Hollywood and the military collaborate to sell heroism, and how marginalized voices are rewriting history to reclaim their place in the narrative. If storytelling shapes who we are, scrutinizing our stories provides an opportunity to choose not just the ones we retain and retell, but who we ultimately become in the process.

Repetition

The stories we repeat define us, for better and for worse. Advertising operates on this basis, seeding desire via carefully-crafted tales of transformation. A perfume commercial constructs a story about allure and power, while car advertisements sell fantasies of freedom and status. These microfictions shape our self-perception by linking consumption to identity. Who doesn’t want to be hot and high status? Plenty of us before we saw these advertisements, probably. But hey, anyway, buy this perfume!

Advertising is effective because it transforms us, the would-be consumers, into characters with aspirational plots. That’s great for selling products, but it has interesting implications for our identities and values. In Stories as Therapy, I talked about the monomyth as a journey of healing and self-development. Similarly, narrative-driven advertising frameworks, like Donald Miller’s Storybrand, also take us on a journey by repurposing the monomyth to generate sales. The customer (hero) has a problem that the company (mentor) guides them through by purchasing products (trials) to guarantee success (transformation). Customers become brand advocates when they return from their trial with their newly-gained wisdom: that company is great!

Don’t get me wrong–I’m not saying this journey need always be a perilous one. Sometimes I want to be sold a solution. I am a writer. I don’t know a thing about lawnmowers, but I need one for my home. In this context, I’m more than happy to be guided towards a purchase, in fact, I need it. But when advertising narratives replace introspection with consumption–as they often do in our fast-paced society–when I ponder too long on products being jammed into the chapter of the monomyth where our personal growth occurs–I’m not gonna lie, it kinda skeeves me out.

Normalization

Over the last decade or so, cultural backlash against “woke media” has revealed many of society’s taken-for-granted assumptions about stories. Increased diversity has confronted us with assumptions about which groups of people we think should portray which roles, and why–a welcome, and much overdue confrontation, if you ask me. 

Forced diversity proponents believe stories with diverse or divergent representations are too political, opposed to the fondly-remembered, bygone era of heroic stories with predominantly white, predominantly male leads which weren’t political at all. (Sure, Jan.) The challenge with this line of thinking is that it does nothing to examine the origin of these so-called non-political stories. Why do we assume that a story is apolitical just because it’s normal? What makes a story normal? Delving into these questions can reveal a great deal about the way we make meaning from the stories we’re exposed to, and how, oftentimes, normal doesn’t mean apolitical at all.

An intriguing example of this are the Hollywood-military partnerships that have occurred for decades to influence what we see in blockbuster entertainment. It turns out ‘White Guy Saves The World, With Guns’ is not the organically-occurring narrative phenomenon we might have believed was the case growing up. Marvel’s collaboration with the U.S. military—particularly in films like Captain America: The Winter Soldier—embeds pro-military narratives into its films in exchange for production goodies. The Department of Defense’s script approvals ensure heroic portrayals of American might, while anything less than favourable gets sanitized or cut. In Winter Soldier, framing HYDRA as a corrupting foreign element within S.H.I.E.L.D preserves the U.S military’s heroic veneer despite the film’s clandestine plot. Combine that with high production budgets and action-packed entertainment, and we swallow it whole. This is normalization in action.  

Contrarily, when Ms. Marvel, the 2022 miniseries centering a Muslim heroine was released, the controversy was palpable. This contrasting reception highlights normalization at its finest, whereby we become so inundated by certain worldviews, we mistake them for the truth and struggle to swallow anything different. 

New Norms  

It’s precisely because we are wired for storytelling that narratives are such an effective vehicle for shaping, and reshaping our identities. Just as we can get lost chasing trends fed to us by advertisements, or imbibe political ideas we were not even cognisant of through the process normalization, new and different stories are just as powerful in pushing culture in new directions, allowing us to explore and discover new aspects of ourselves. Stories are fundamentally a place for experimentation and play, and mainstream media is no longer the only place we go to get our daily dose of fiction.

Different types of storytelling such as table-top roleplaying games (TTRPG), video games, fanfiction, cosplay, and the modern juggernaut self-publishing, all function as hubs for the constant creation of new, experimental, and collaborative stories. While many of these are enjoying their time in the spotlight, stories don’t need to make it to the mainstream to make a difference. Cultural shifts happen, and rapidly so, when stories are told through different formats and from different perspectives. It’s my belief that representation and diversity aren’t forced phenomena. Unlike our assumptions about the apoliticism of white male might, or the power fantasy of a new car, narrative diversity unfolds naturally when we are empowered to pick up the pen and given the opportunity to reflect the truth of the multifaceted world we live in by expressing ourselves. New stories reveal to us how much we’ve missed, and beckon us to explore what we can become.

‘The Power of Stories’ is a limited blog series exploring the ways stories weave themselves into the fabric of our lives. It’s an invitation to reflect on how narratives—whether passed down through generations or splashed across the big screen—shape who we are, how we connect, and the worlds we imagine. Each post peels back a new layer of storytelling. The final installment will take a deep dive into the power of storytelling as an agent for change.

Recommended Reading

• ‘Anatomical Venus at the Gynecologist’ by Jade Hurter, F(r)iction Log
• ‘Envisioning Trans Bodies in Fantasy’ by Niki Schumacher, F(r)iction Log
• ‘Waves Fall on Every Shore’ by Jaime Gill, F(r)iction Log

(downstage left) ENTERS LOUDLY: the comfort of a luxury hotel lobby

An ego reflects iridescent 
in the gilt, its body rolls laterally 
to favor high value angles. 

She is selling lips: shaved, parted,
a diastema swollen with cocaine.
Her breaths a brachycephalic dog

waking from a nightmare
of a perpetual moan heard
only by bitcoin johns.

(center) MALE INDEX FINGER: strumps across the glass of a tablet looking for Instagram

Mother of pearl veneers
hiss behind the curtain 
of an inflated labrum, generous 

with technology. Evolved 
silicon anxious to be 
found by a future archaeologist

in a potter’s field 
of swaying daisies, afflicted 
by their immortality.

(left/offstage) OPEN WINDOW: centered, a shellac glossa automaton plays Billie Eilish

A baritone bullhorn scatters Rumi’s
wisdom, asinine yet unworthy
of Pinocchio’s pleasure island.

A spirituality of scented candles 
recasts drug dealers as white shamans 
pushing gear she will not buy 

but readily use to cultivate a wit
edited into a skin tone trend
of the latest pantone standard.

(apron) NOILE SILK GRAND DRAPE: the stranded protagonist wears proscenium as tiara

A horned gait fawns a litter of
struts born with old age 
embroidered driftwood replicates

faster than shipwrecks, tik-toking
into an anachronism
as momentous as a male orgasm.

Lights dim out of charity 
to leave her later years devoid 
of reflections, veiled in a penumbra 

of hyaluronic acid. The warble of 
an extinct bird is preserved:
unknown in life, acknowledged in flesh.

A Review of Twilight of the Gods by Kurt Baumeister

In Twilight of the Gods, Kurt Baumeister strikes a fatal blow against the Norse pantheon and retools ancient mythology for our modern age of authoritarianism, mass surveillance, and failed collective civic memory. The gods (yes, even the gods) are not immune from the consequences of history. When mere mortals stop kneeling in fealty, divine power strains, weakens, and under threat of irrelevance, disappears eternally. 

Like Baumeister’s previous novel, the near-future sci-fi thriller, Pax Americana, Twilight of the Gods maintains a thrilling pace and continues his focus on socio-political themes played out in cinematic scenarios. Thankfully, he maintained his wry sense of humor; his characters deliver hilarity and vulnerability in unexpected places. The writing dances deftly between satire and sincerity, without undermining either. For example, when Loki proclaims that, “It turns out Christianity absorbed us,” it lands like a punchline while meditating on an important truth: myths don’t die, they are recycled and rebranded for new ideologies and audiences. 

Twilight of the Gods offers a clever narrative that evokes mythology’s core purpose, to explain through enchantment. Like the myths of old, Twilight of the Gods uses supernatural figures—gods, monsters, and mechanical Valkyries!—to make sense of uniquely human failures. In Baumeister’s telling, the gods are not metaphors for natural forces, but active agents, manipulating history. Odin (the All-Father, himself) plays a central, catastrophic role in the rise of Adolf Hitler.

Hungry for relevance and divine prestige, the pinnacle of the Norse hierarchy helps the Bastard of Austria gain power, praying fascist myth-making will resuscitate the Norse gods’ cultural dominance. Fate, the mysterious arbiter of destiny, is horrified and punishes the gods for this cosmic betrayal by stripping them of their power (mostly) and banishing them to life among mortals. The divine order collapses, and Fate vanishes. For decades, the gods are scattered, weak, and silent. As war and hatred persist in swaying modern heads of state, Odin and the power-hungry among the gods begin to claw their way into nefarious inner circles. Back to Germany, back to toying with totalitarians, back to fantasies of relevance.

Fate’s cosmic entourage, the Norns, return to Reality to tip the scales toward justice once again. They approach Loki, now living in mortal exile, with a desperate plea: help us stop your father’s new plan to empower Vekk, another rising fascist figure in modern Germany. Loki, driven by a complicated love for one of the Norns and a wary sense of justice, agrees. Baumeister expertly sets the Trickster up to be constantly beneath the Sword of Damocles and always one step ahead (or behind, whether he knows it or not).

To seduce Loki into orchestrating Odin’s downfall, Fate tempts him Odin’s throne as king of the gods. Whether Loki accepts or refuses, he understands what the Norns and Fate have long suspected: the gods’ time is over. The world no longer needs these divine overlords or their mythic scapegoats. At the heart of the narrative is a question beyond time: what happens when the old gods no longer serve us? Baumeister’s answer is as brutal as it is profound; they may kick and scream and foment chaos, but their destiny is to fade into obscurity. 

Loki’s participation in the Norns’ plan could very well trigger Ragnarök…sort of. “The End,” would not come by way of firestorms, serpents, and dragons. Instead, the pantheon’s final unraveling would be quiet and stoic; with the gods dissolving into pure myth once and for all, finally mortal, finally haunted by the coming specter of death.

Twilight of the Gods doesn’t end with an optimistic cosmic balance. The gods, for all their flamboyant meddling, are essentially irrelevant. Once fiery agents of fate, they find themselves diminished, not only in power but in relevance. Baumeister doesn’t just rewrite myth—he shows us what happens when myth is co-opted, marketed, and weaponized.

Baumeister doesn’t provide closure, he states a quiet horror: truth itself is anathema and memory is a threat. The last god standing won’t go out in a blaze of glory, but with the understanding that stories—dangerous, unkillable stories—can outlast even divine power. Loki needs the truth to survive, but he finds that truth turns out to be just as unwelcome in the Human world as it was in Odin’s kingdom.

In Baumeister’s hands, Loki is more than a trickster. He’s a storyteller, a survivor, and finally, a victim of the war against ambiguity. Even as the myth collapses inward, the novel suggests what replaces it may be far worse. The old gods may be cruel and obsolete, but the systems of belief, control, and narrative manipulation that gave rise to their power will live on in darker and darker forms.

Baumeister’s mythopoeic vision is devastatingly contemporary. We see a desperate god manipulating authoritarianism to stay relevant and we see the opposite, a mortal who has learned well from divine ambition and co-opted mythology itself to rewrite history and seize control. The hunger to control reality moves from the hands of gods into the hands of mortals. The cycle repeats because we allow it to. In exposing how gods and fascists both rely on spectacle, faith, and fear, Baumeister has written a novel that feels very timely. 

Baumeister renders the Norse gods forgotten, erased. There will be no more songs or stories, no new tales of adventure and glory. 

Only silence. 

The sound of boots. 

And the crack of gunfire in the distance.

On May 3^rd,1890, Jonathan Harker arrives in Bistritz. His fresh legal expertise has caught the attention of one Count Dracula, a Transylvanian noble looking to stake his claim on London property. A full-ride getaway to the Carpathian Mountains as his first professional task? A dream come true. But as his rendezvous with Dracula draws near, so too does a growing dread; for the townsfolk bring warnings of a great evil. A brutish, bestial, bloodthirsty evil. By the time it all sets in, he’s already at Dracula’s doorstep. So begins the harrowing events that would haunt Harker’s life forever…

It’s no secret that Bram Stoker’s Dracula is the blueprint for modern vampirism. When one thinks “vampire,” a certain picture’s usually painted: a sinister aristocrat with an equally-as-sinister castle, complete with a coffin, a cloak, and centuries of baggage. Indeed, Stoker certainly wasn’t the first to depict Romantic vampirism on paper. He had lesser-known predecessors in John Polidori, whose The Vampyre was famously written for the same contest as Frankenstein, and Carmilla author J. Sheridan Le Fanu. And though neither came close to Dracula’s cultural impact, each work convinced the world that the vampire—an immortal, immoral corruption of man—was here to stay. Why do we, as readers and storytellers, continue to revisit the Romantic vampire? What of the 19^th-century paradigm has stayed? What has changed, if anything?

Welcome to Monster of the Week, a new F(r)iction Log series exploring the origins of classical monsters and their impact on storytelling. The answers may leave you thirsty for more.

The origin of the vampire (or upir, or oupire, or vampir) is rooted in folklore. Vampire scholar Nick Groom traces its ancestry to Eastern Europe; though undead revenants have existed since time immemorial, creatures like Romanian strigoi directly inspired the vampire’s earliest incarnations. “The return of the dead is a primaeval fear,” and this is reflected in its folkloric origins. But the vampire itself is no primaeval being; it’s a creature influenced profoundly by contemporary thought.

So, what truly defines the vampire is its emergence in response to historical change—”change” being both scientific advancement and moral panic. As a living dead monster, they’re defined by their transgression of normality. They embody questions of human ambiguity; formative questions that were already being asked by thinkers of the century. Like the vampire, their hypotheses sparked confusion in a society dedicated to its principles. To quote Groom, the vampire became “a powerful tool for making sense of the human predicament”… and in the hands of the 19^th century author, they became a tool to inflict fear.

Bestial and Bloodthirsty

The rise of new-age theory played a massive part in popularizing the vampire. In a society shaped by spiritual belief, intellectual movements like the Enlightenment and Romanticism were only the beginning. Charles Darwin’s theories of natural science, for example, challenged human exceptionalism. The thought that humans were not a unique body, but instead derivative of animals, was unthinkable. Fearing an animal lineage evolved into fearing the cross-contamination of bloodlines; and once this fear bled into literature, its influence became grounds for monster stories. Vampires were, essentially, a “fantastically rational” explanation of Darwin’s human-animal body as monster.

From Harker describing Dracula as reptilian, to Carmilla appearing to Laura as a predatory beast, this fear of human-animal consanguinity pervaded the 19^th century vampire novel. It solidified vampires not just as monster, but as “Other”—a sick, sanguinary perversion of the human body.

Filthy Rich and Fanged

Vampiric aristocracy existed long before Stoker’s Count. Its roots lie in political allegory, symbolic of predatory oligarchs who leeched life from working class prey. Thinly veiled references to real-life aristocrats can naturally be found in the 19^th century vampire. Dracula’s connection to Vlad the Impaler undoubtedly comes to mind, though Polidori’s Lord Ruthven—cunning, charismatic, and stinking rich—was himself a caricature of Romantic writer and hedonist Lord Byron. Another was Elizabeth Báthory, a Hungarian countess and alleged serial killer who targeted poor young women. Legends describe her as “blood-bathing” for eternal youth, and it’s believed that these accounts partially inspired Le Fanu’s sapphic horror-tragedy Carmilla.

Jabs at the upper class weren’t exactly subtle in 19^th century horror, and drawing parallels to notorious real-world nobles underlined vampirism as the Other. In this way, vampires became both physiologically and culturally inhuman; representative of a class hungry for power, youth, and blood. In every way, they resembled parasites more than their former human selves.

Fresh Blood

Much has changed in the vamp-paradigm since Dracula. Stories such as Twilight and The Vampire Diaries reframe Romantic into romance, while others like the Castlevania games tap into the vampire’s fantastical potential. But what’s most notable is how modern writers have redefined the vampire’s original purpose as a symbol of transgression. Under its darkly comic pastiche of vampiric aristocracy, for example, FX’s What We Do in the Shadows presents an immigrant narrative—in which a coterie of multicultural characters struggle fitting into a society that rejects them. Urban fantasy TTRPG Vampire: The Masquerade explores class divide, systemic violence, and the (in)human condition through the World of Darkness’ clan system. And recently, we’ve had Ryan Coogler’s Sinners conflate racism with blood-sucking monstrosity; vampirism becomes a backdrop to exhume a repressed, bloody history.

Each work mentioned draws from the same vein. Whether forbidden by law or by social intolerance, characters are inclined to hide their vampiric identity. They are monster; they are animal; they are completely and unequivocally Other. Most importantly, they represent a shift in the system. Instead of the unreachable Other—bestial tyrants terrorizing those deemed beneath them—modern vampirism has now come to represent social monstrosity… or, more accurately, monstrosity in the eyes of the human ideal.

But there is refuge in this reclamation of the Other. To reframe vampirism as a foundation for solidarity fosters new understanding. It’s for this reason that vampire fiction has prevailed: it unearths the stories of those shunned by society, standards, and systemic prejudice. And it’s through representative storytelling that these bloodlines will endure and evolve, even in (un)death.

These narratives are exactly what we’re hungry for at Brink Literacy Project. From fresh blood to elder bats, our coven feasts heartily on tales from underserved and undersold talent. Through our education programs, we draw blood from Othering to empower and embrace shared storytelling. Only by working together shall our cauldron thrive in adversity. If this sounds like your kind of literary scene, then you’re cordially invited to sink your teeth into our stories. Don’t worry—we don’t bite.

Additional Reading

• “Summer Home” by Brett Riley
• “The Purpose of Monsters” by Dani Hedlund

Sources:

1. Nick Groom, The Vampire: A New History (Yale University Press, 2018), 4–5.
2. Groom, xv.
3. Matthew Gibson, “Jane Cranstoun, Countess Purgstall: A Possible Inspiration for Le Fanu’s Carmilla” (Le Fanu Studies, 2007).

My grandmother knit the ocean. Up all night with bargain-basement yarn, she watched old nature shows and knitted fish. Silver fish, red fish, pink-and-orange-polka-dot-vodka fish. She finished each with a knot and prayer-spit and set it out to sea—which was her room in my mother’s house, painted blue. She knit fish like it was her…

The Second Wave was imminent, I knew, just a matter of trepid hours and speculationto live for. And then I too would end on the seabed with no company;or drown in this hospital bed. No use breaking windows to run farther onto land when the hotelcollapsed like a house of matchsticks. My fever kicked and…

I leaned over the railing, watching dark water thrash below. Evening light refracted off the lighthouse’s windows behind me and gilded the waves. Without warning, Viola appeared at my elbow. I knew who it was, but in the space between knowing and understanding, I jumped. She grinned at me. “Good instincts, Francis. You’ve got to…

Ocean Culture Life (OCL) is dedicated to empowering a global community of ocean storytellers, advocates, and guardians to inspire, educate, and protect marine ecosystems. Aligned with the United Nations Sustainable Development Goal 14, their initiatives promote conservation and deepen public engagement with the ocean. Since becoming a registered charity in Jersey, the Channel Islands, in December 2022, OCL has hosted vibrant World Oceans Day celebrations and immersive educational workshops, fostering ocean literacy and collaboration with marine organizations. OCL also gives out over 30 storytelling grants a year, directly funding and supporting their storytelling community. By celebrating the ocean through the power of storytelling, OCL inspires a new generation of ocean storytellers, advocates, and guardians committed to preserving our coastal environments for future generations.

Battle of the Colors

by Francesca Page

Jet-black ink engulfs the emerald and marigold amphitheater as a young male Giant Cuttlefish flees, his bruised and scarred arms a testament to the battles fought for the survival of his kind. Gliding over the reef, he wears these wounds like badges of courage, marks of the relentless competition he faces to secure his legacy.

As the morning’s golden rays dance upon the frigid waters of South Australia, this underwater world stirs awake to a new day of battles, courtship, love, and heartbreak. Descending into this realm teeming with alien-like creatures, a drama as old as time, pulsing with the ocean’s heartbeat, the relentless struggle for love.

This seasonal fighter glides effortlessly over the reef, yesterday’s battles fading like a distant memory. Today brings new hopes as he stirs with quiet resolve, stretching his tentacles wide as dawn breaks through the water. Like a painter’s brushstroke on an ocean canvas, his body shimmers with purpose, pulsating in a hypnotic dance of blues, greens, and purples. He blends into his surroundings, shape-shifting with ease, his keen eyes sweeping for potential suitors. With each pulse and ripple, he prepares to captivate, conquer, and perhaps, finally meet her.

From above, a spotlight shines down on the reef, and nestled beneath the seaweed lies the female. Perfectly camouflaged in golden hues, she hovers silently, patiently waiting for him. Her beauty is unlike any other. Yet her allure has not gone unnoticed. She is surrounded by determined admirers, one, two, three… he loses count as she becomes engulfed by a kaleidoscope of pulsating colors. The heart knows what it wants, let the battle of the colors begin!

With purpose, he moves in, fixating on his beloved; the stage is set for an elaborate shape-shifting show. The largest admirer, looming like a spaceship above him, bellows a challenge, ready for battle. Like a well-rehearsed performance, these males adorn themselves in vibrant, elaborate costumes, each putting on the show of their lives and perhaps their last. The fight begins with a hypnotic dance; they whirl around each other, flaunting and stretching

their bodies to amplify their dominance and power in the water. He has waited too long to find her; this is a fight he cannot afford to lose. As the spectacle escalates, their bodies pulsate with mesmerizing swirls of white and orange, each determined to hypnotize, control, and ultimately win her.

His eyes dilate, intoxicated by love; he is transported into a trance. For a moment, he leaves his body, observing the battle from above, powerless in the face of defeat. Blinded by passion, he doesn’t see the larger male strike, driving a sharp blade into his vibrant armor. Abruptly, he awakens from his spell. With a heavy heart, he falters under the weight of his wounds. Retreating to the safety of the seaweed, he watches his love from afar. Yet, the call of love propels him forward. What he lacks in size, he makes up for in cunning; why fight when you can outsmart?

She locks eyes with him, trapped beneath a sea of unwanted males, her gaze silently beckoning him closer. It’s not size she desires, but intelligence, and he knows exactly what to do. With calculated precision, he employs a clever strategy, slipping in undetected as he masquerades as a female, altering his colorful armor and retracting his tentacles. Like a shadow, he glides beneath the larger males, evading their notice until he finally reaches her side.

Gently, he extends one of his arms to touch her, and her eyes speak a thousand words of passion. Their arms intertwine, head to head, heart to heart, an embrace that signifies the beginning of new life and the survival of their species. In this moment, the chaotic world around them fades away; all that exists is the delicate bond between two Giant Cuttlefish and the promise of their shared legacy, where intelligence wins.

Learning to Swim

by Maddy Bolt

I have learned a lot since first landing in Indonesia six years ago. I’ve learned how to ask for a nasi goreng in Bahasa, how to navigate down a dusty hill on a motorbike with a passenger and two surfboards, and how to tell if the tide will be too low to surf. However, something I took for granted was already knowing how to swim. I barely even remember learning! My faintest memory of learning how to swim, was being told to act like a starfish while attempting to float—at the tender age of five years old. This experience was something I took for granted—until I moved to Indonesia.

Despite spending almost every day in the water, I can count on one hand the number of local women I had seen surfing. Now living in Indonesia part-time and surfing almost daily, I continued to wonder about this. Were local women interested in surfing but just not participating? Or was I projecting my own “western” assumptions onto a community that might not share the same interest in the ocean?

I decided to find out the answer. I turned to Misel, a close local friend of mine. She managed one of my favorite local restaurants in town and we had gotten to know each other drinking many coffees over the years. When I asked her if she was interested in something like surfing, her eyes immediately lit up and she said, “Surfing?! That is my dream. Of course I want to surf.” At least for Misel, it was not a question of having interest.

When I probed her further and asked whether other local women felt the same way, she added exuberantly, “Many of my friends would love to surf! That is something we have only dreamt of doing!” Interesting, I thought, “So why have you not taken the leap to learn?” Misel laughed and said, “Well first we would have to learn how to swim!” This is where I had to check my privilege. I had assumed most of these women had grown up swimming since they lived on an island.

What I later realized, is that despite being in their mid-thirties and growing up in sight of the water their whole lives, many of the local women had never even been in the ocean past their knees. This was due to a myriad of reasons, from a general lack of time due to childcare responsibilities, local folklore stigmatizing the ocean as evil, and parents instilling fear in their young daughters in order to protect them. While this fear worked to keep women away from the ocean, it worked against their favor in dire situations.

Drowning is the third leading cause of unintentional injury death in the world, and one of the leading causes of accidental death in Indonesia. Children are especially at risk, since women, who are the primary caregivers to their families, are unable to swim and save those that have been swept away by currents or rogue waves.

This is where the idea for OceanFolx began. In partnership with Misel and a few other local femme leaders in the community, we spent the next year building and starting a swimming, ocean safety, and surfing program. We aim to prevent drowning through a ripple effect. We empower local women by teaching them essential swimming skills, ocean safety, and life-saving techniques. For those who want to go further, we have started an introductory surf program once they’ve mastered adequate swimming and water safety skills. Our program goes beyond basic training by including a leadership component, which equips these women with the tools and confidence to pass these skills on to their children, families, and communities. This approach not only amplifies their impact but also fosters a broader culture of safety and knowledge.

Through our initiative, we empower women, inspire local leadership, and promote environmental stewardship. By encouraging more time spent in and around the ocean, we help transform their relationship with the environment from one of fear to one of positive engagement and respect. Our program brings women together, creating a supportive community where they can empower each other and interact with the ocean in a safe and meaningful way.

In 2025, we will be running our second year of programming. Misel has come a long way and is now working as our local program coordinator. She recruits new students to our non-profit program and is working to become a swim teacher with us. We are committed to empowering more women through our comprehensive swim training program, guiding them all the way to becoming certified swim teachers. Our vision extends beyond our current reach; we aspire to expand our impact by introducing our programs to the neighboring island of Sumbawa and by launching exciting, new at-sea sailing programs. By donating, you can help us provide life-changing opportunities and build a brighter future for the women in our community.

Throughout this journey, I continue to be humbled and inspired every day by Misel and each and every one of our students. It has been incredibly rewarding to share my knowledge and watch our local women step up as leaders, ready to become the next OceanFolx teachers as I transition into a supportive role. Watching them float and telling each other to act like a “bintang-laut,” starfish in Bahasa, brings the biggest smile to my face—and all the hard work feels worth it.

The Sea Inside Ourselves Is Showing

by Jillian Nettels

Does the darkness hold light in abeyance? 
How waves pulse between blurred edges defy. 
Emboldened by revealing raw moments, 
Glisten as we listen to the sky.
Our gazing is a tether in vast spaces,
Radiate a secret silent knowing,
As reflections on rippling places,
That the sea inside ourselves is showing. 
Waters linger in a lonely abyss,
In the dark depths we share suffused longing 
for our promised presence of Neptune’s bliss. 
In remembrance of Day’s vanishing
the Night has taken form from holding breath, 
That Life is a reckoning with Death.
The sea inside ourselves is knowing.
The sea inside ourselves is showing.

Ancient Waters, Modern Warnings: A Scientist’s Love Letter to the Mediterranean

by Arzucan “Zuzu” Askin

The Mediterranean Sea, with its startlingly blue depths and storied coastline, has a unique claim on my heart. As a child, I spent endless summer days diving into these fabled waters, searching for ancient treasures that seemed to whisper through the currents. My quarry wasn’t only shells and smooth stones; I was entranced by the seagrass meadows and the centuries-old amphoras hidden beneath the waves. Each dive was an act of discovery, a glimpse into the world of sailors and merchants from millennia past. I learned early on that the Mediterranean was no mere sea, but a bridge between human history and the wild mystery of the ocean.

From my very first encounter with those seagrass meadows—fields of Posidonia stretching across the seafloor like vast, verdant carpets—I was struck by the way these delicate green strands seemed to breathe life into the water. Posidonia meadows are among the most productive ecosystems on Earth, sequestering carbon, nurturing young marine life, and filtering water. These fields of seagrass became sacred places for me, sites of personal pilgrimage and discovery. They felt as much a part of Greek mythology as the stories of Odysseus and the sea gods.

Diving down after hearing my mother’s tales of the sea, I would imagine I was in the lair of Poseidon himself. The seagrass swayed like dancers in tune with his trident’s rhythms, and around me, I felt the presence of forgotten legends: ancient gods, sirens, and the creatures of maritime folklore. For thousands of years, the Mediterranean has held sway over human imagination. This was a sea that demanded respect, a wild place of tempestuous tides and lurking mysteries—a gateway between the known world and realms beyond.

The Mediterranean shaped me as a scientist, teaching me to observe, to ask questions, and to see the world as an intricate puzzle of ecosystems and cultural histories. It has shaped the way I approach conservation today— interdisciplinary, grounded in tradition yet open to innovation, and inclusive of multiple perspectives. As someone who grew up between cultures, I found that the Mediterranean offered a unique bridge between worlds: East and West, ancient and modern, wild and human. Its diversity, both ecological and cultural, reflects how deeply connected the ocean is to human identity. This sea instilled in me the importance of understanding not just the science of ecosystems, but the people, practices, and stories intertwined with them.

In many ways, the Mediterranean sharks I now study serve as symbols of this delicate balance between the wild and the human. Ancient Greeks feared and revered these apex predators, folding them into myths and maritime tales, from the great white to the angelshark. Yet today, many of the sharks of the Mediterranean are critically endangered, their numbers dwindling to a fraction of what they once were. Driven by overfishing, habitat loss, and the pressures of a warming sea, the decline of Mediterranean sharks is a devastating loss—not only of biodiversity but of living history. We are watching the unraveling of a story that has been unfolding for millions of years, and with it, a part of our collective human heritage.

Today, however, the Mediterranean is also a frontline for climate change. Rising sea temperatures, invasive species, and acidification are reshaping the delicate balance that has persisted here for thousands of years. The Mediterranean is warming 20% faster than the global average, putting ancient Posidonia meadows, the lungs of the sea, under grave threat. For those of us who see the Mediterranean as both a living ecosystem and a cultural cornerstone, the stakes are heartbreaking. It has always been a body of water that mirrored the ebbs and flows of human civilization, from trade routes to warfare, and now it has become an early warning system for the entire planet.

The changes sweeping through the Mediterranean Sea are not isolated—they’re ripples, harbingers of transformations reaching far beyond its shores. Invasive species from warmer waters have already begun to push out native species, with entire food webs restructured in ways we are only beginning to understand. For me, the Mediterranean’s transformations have always felt deeply personal, as though the very threads of my own connection to this sea are fraying, one species or seagrass meadow at a time.

As the Mediterranean changes, so do the traditional ways of life it has supported for centuries. Artisanal fishers, once in harmony with the seasons and the migrations of fish, now grapple with empty nets and foreign species disrupting their catch. The loss of biodiversity is not just about numbers; it is the erosion of a relationship, a rhythm of life that has evolved over thousands of years. We are losing not only wildlife but our traditional ways of being, our connection to place and to the ancient wisdom of those who lived in harmony with the sea long before us.

In global conversations about ocean conservation, the Mediterranean often finds itself overlooked. Perhaps it is due to its proximity to bustling civilizations, or maybe it’s because its compact size contrasts with the vastness of the Pacific or the Atlantic. Yet the Mediterranean remains one of the most biodiverse seas in the world. Here, species adapted to the rugged conditions of a semi-enclosed sea flourish, from seahorses hiding in meadows to groupers and tuna patrolling rocky reefs. This sea has borne witness to everything from massive migrations of bluefin tuna to the tiny nudibranchs that cloak its rocky shores in vibrant hues. The Mediterranean has long been a paradox: a relatively small, seemingly tame sea, yet brimming with an almost mythical intensity.

The Mediterranean taught me to look at the ocean as a tapestry, woven of both natural and cultural threads. As an interdisciplinary scientist, I now work to bridge the gap between these worlds, to merge science with storytelling and tradition with technology. The Mediterranean’s deep past, where sharks swam freely, where seagrass meadows grew untouched, continues to guide me as I navigate today’s conservation challenges across cultures and disciplines. This sea, this teacher, is not just a reminder of the beauty we stand to lose but of the resilience we can find—if we learn to listen to the stories that have always flowed through its waters.

The Mediterranean’s history is written not only into the marble walls of temples, or into folklore, but into its ecosystems, from the green seagrass meadows to the large whales. We are at a crossroads, and over the next decade we must decide what we want the Mediterranean’s story to become. This body of water has been humanity’s compass for thousands of years; by protecting its biodiversity, we are also protecting the cultures that call it home. In saving the Mediterranean, we are saving a piece of ourselves—our history, our future, and our enduring connection to the ocean.

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