Oxygen - check. Safety line - check. Seadoo - check.

Everything was in place. I knew she would be down there somewhere. The diamond butterfly - the fabled ‘jewel in the crown’ of deep water fishing. Only a handful had ever witnessed her beauty. I was lucky enough to be a part of that select. A few years ago, off this very same Chilean coast, I caught a glimpse of 'the Butterfly'. A mosaic of blues and greens, shimmering sweetly in the salty sea. Her long, fanned tail should have made her an easy target for predators - but none would dare. She was the definitive ‘One That Got Away’, but today, she would be mine.

I dropped backwards off the side of my trusted vessel, ‘One Man’s Hope’, and prepared to allow the Seadoo to propel me down to lower, darker depths. I let the water-filtered sunlight reflect against the huge yellow tank on my back one last time, and then pressed the button on the Seadoo.

I shot through a world of squid and octopuses - as well as various other types of cephalopods - leaving a jet-stream of clear bubbles in my wake. As I got a little deeper, and started to feel the increasing pressure on my rib-cage, nature’s aquarium provided me with even prettier delights - the famous shrimpoluminescence, emitted by the strong claws of the snapping shrimp.

Finally, I reached the spot. I could feel her presence, her grace. I searched all around me with my diver’s lamp, like an Alcatraz guard, hoping to see the shimmer of her scales. Eventually I caught a glimpse. Our eyes met, for the second time ever. As I tried to manoeuvre closer, the line tugged sharply on my back.

She stared…

…and then got away. Again.







As Odin and Quetzacoatl battled high in the sky above the Castillo de San Juan de Ulúa, the entire city of Aguascalientes was illuminated by electric forks of light. The mortals stood in awe at the perfectly choreographed conquistadors, watching the great gods dance the Tlacoloreros to the rhythm of the drumming thunder . The battle raged on for hours. At the mighty crescendo the gods exchanged blows like a pair of dueling knights. When peace and silence was finally restored to the land - except for the crackle of the lingering static - all that remained was The Waste Land.



As I stepped out the rear door and onto the back path I could feel the pull of the electromagnetism on my damp hair. The dog kennel at the bottom of the garden was still intact. I let out a sigh of relief. The trauma of spending six months in quarantine would have been nothing for Bruno compared with the deafening apocalypse of the violent storm. As I unfastened the catch on the small wooden dog-house the canine sheepishly manoeuvred towards me, a look of fear still present in his large brown eyes.

“Hey boy, what’s the matter?”

As I crouched onto my knees to comfort the Labrador I noticed a small red book on the wet grass. The Diary of Jupiter Reese. It couldn’t be. How was this possible? My wife. She was dead. Lost at sea during a horrendous thunderstorm back in the United Kingdom. I opened the journal and read the most recent entry. It was yesterday. How could it have been? I couldn’t believe my eyes as I read the words written in the sharp black lettering that I instantly recognised as her handwriting….

Be at peace. We’ll meet again……Jupiter.






“Come on son, just a little bit further.”

“Are you sure anyone won’t see us dad?”

“Don‘t worry, I packed the tent up, and we’ll be high enough before it gets light.”

The camping trip to Rio had been John senior’s latest attempt to make amends for walking out on John junior and his mother ten years ago. The bustle of the Rio street carnival allowed them to slip unnoticed into the Tijuca National Park, and to pitch their modest two-man tent at the foot of the famous hunchback mountain. The plan was to find the best vantage point to watch the sun rise over Rio De Janeiro; before descending to enjoy the culmination of the festival. Little did they know, the previous day’s sunrise was the very last one that Corcovado mountain would ever see.



"Hello citizens of the world. It is my duty to report to you that earlier today, 3rd June 2006, the world ceased to spin on its axis. This was caused by an extreme and instantaneous natural phenomenon. I regret to inform you that as a planet, we are doomed. Our satellite - the moon - has been lost into space like a slingshot. The result of this is that our tides and gravitational balance have been compromised. Our scientists are unable to predict the exact consequences, but the effects are guaranteed to be catastrophic. May your gods be with you."



In Rio De Janeiro, Brazil, on what would forever be the dark side of the world, thousands of people became frozen figurines in a matter of hours. Flights and all other forms of transport were suspended indefinitely. There was no escape. Up on Corcovado mountain, overlooking the carnival of mannequins there stood three stiff statues: the father, the son, and Christ The Redeemer.






The children of Cashapampa played care-free in the sandy streets of the remote village. The large, rusty gate to the schoolhouse had remained closed today. That’s because today was Saturday - a day for playing, and for experiencing the joy of being young. The children frolicked onwards, to the hills surrounding the village, playing chase and calling names. It was summer, and the harsh biting winds of the North Chilean winter were long forgotten. A breeze of innocence floated through the warm sunrays that illuminated the air in the Chilean Valleys.



Old Ignacio smoked his tobacco pipe and wandered the fields surrounding his small farm. For him, innocence was a train which had long departed. He had no time to play, or rejoice. Ignacio spent most of his living hours tending after his crops, his small aviary of birds, and his dear wife. Hands weathered by a lifetime of manual labour tightly gripped the smooth Mahogany of the pipe. He felt something in the air. It wasn’t the innocence emanating from the children further round the valley. It was a familiar feeling. Foreboding. Despair. Destitution. He had felt this way before; much earlier in his lifetime.



Nevados Ojos del Salado reigned high above Northern Chile. The highest volcano in the world, and the most potent active volcano in the lower Andean range. Deep inside its fiery bowels, something evil was in motion. A monstrous ocean of magma, boiling over, ready to erupt at any second. A jack-in-the box of red, hot rocks, destined to cause devastating death and destruction. The pandemonium of molten rock, red rivers, and thick ash would annihilate everything within 50 miles of the range. As soon as Nevados erupted, all the others in the range would follow. Choreographed by nature - the perfect orchestra of destruction.