Growing up in a ménage à trois wasn’t just some outlandish experience; it was the foundation of my worldview. I didn’t see it as unusual. It was my norm, my reality. My mother’s love was abundant and multi-faceted, and her partners were as much a part of our family as anyone. There was no jealousy, no animosity, no hidden resentments. Just an open space of care and understanding. To me, it seemed like the perfect kind of family.

But when my non-biological father, the one who was the more traditional figure in my life, asked her to make a choice, it was like watching the house of cards fall. And when she chose him, it was a kind of heartbreaking affirmation that the world outside didn’t understand, or maybe even accept, the way we had lived.

I was 17 at the time—old enough to understand the emotional gravity of the situation but still young enough to feel betrayed by the change. In a way, my mom’s decision represented the same pull the world outside had over me: the world was dictating what was acceptable, and now I had to learn how to adjust to that.

When I was young, someone once called me a “luck child.” I didn’t understand it at the time, and to be honest, I’m not sure I still fully do. It was one of those phrases that just stuck with me, like a little puzzle that I couldn’t quite solve. I often wondered if it was a compliment or something else entirely, but I couldn’t shake it.

As I grew older, the phrase kept circling in my mind, a strange kind of whisper that never quite faded. There were times when I felt like the universe had it out for me, but then there were these odd moments—random moments—where everything just fell into place. It wasn’t like I was living a charmed life or anything. There were struggles, plenty of them. But even in the midst of hardship, I seemed to find myself in situations that felt... well, a little too perfect.

Music has always been the soundtrack to my life. From the moment I first pressed play on a cassette player, it was like opening a door to a whole new dimension. Growing up, Nirvana was the band for me—a raw, unapologetic voice that spoke to the angsty teenager I was. So, when my parents surprised me with tickets to see Nirvana on their upcoming April 12th show in Cardiff, I was ecstatic. I remember jumping around the room, disbelief and excitement colliding in a way only a teenager can feel.

But then, life, in its cruel and ironic way, decided to intervene. On my birthday—just days before the concert—I woke up to the news that Kurt Cobain took his own life. The tickets, once a symbol of my teenage dreams, became a bitter reminder of his tragic end. What were the odds? My birthday wasn’t just ruined; it felt tainted.

I chalked it up to an eerie coincidence. Until it happened again.

At the time, Duke Nukem 3D was the game, a chaotic, over-the-top playground of action and humour. But for me, playing wasn’t enough—I wanted to create.

One day, the idea struck me: what if I turned my school into a map for Duke Nukem? I’ll admit, it was a bold and slightly mischievous idea, but the thought of navigating those familiar halls with explosions and alien mayhem was too tempting to pass up.

So, I set to work. Piece by piece, I painstakingly recreated the corridors, classrooms, and assembly halls of Brynteg Avenue with every detail I could remember. It wasn’t just a map—it was an immersive experience, a twisted reimagining of school life that turned ordinary routines into an action-packed nightmare. Hence, A Nightmare at Brynteg Avenue was born.

Before I knew it, Hostile Magazine was more than just a personal project. It became something bigger—a product. I started distributing copies around school, and before long, it wasn’t just my classmates reading it. I managed to sell advertising space to local businesses, earning a bit of cash in the process.

Looking back, it might have been my most lucrative venture to date, especially considering how naturally it all came together. I wasn’t just creating anymore—I was running a business, even if I didn’t fully realise it at the time.

One of my proudest moments was designing full-colour posters to promote the magazine. They featured a bold image of a gun and some edgy, provocative slogan. At the time, I thought it was clever—half-witty, half-menacing, exactly the kind of provocation Hostile was built on. But in hindsight, it felt careless.

By the time I was 15, everything changed—I had a computer. No more typewriters or scavenging old magazines for pictures. With a keyboard and the infinite possibilities of digital design at my fingertips, I was unstoppable.

That’s when I founded Hostile Magazine. The name wasn’t just a catchy title—it was a declaration of who I was at the time. I was hostile to the world around me, to the endless doubt and disbelief I’d faced growing up. Most of all, I was still furious that no one seemed to believe in aliens yet.

Hostile was my rebellion. It wasn’t just about aliens, though they made frequent appearances in my articles and artwork. It was a place where I could channel my anger, my creativity, and my growing discontent with a world that felt so small-minded.

When I was 15, I discovered something that would blow my creative obsession wide open: Quake. It wasn’t just a game; it was a canvas for chaos, and I had a paintbrush made of code.

I started messing around with the game, diving into its files and hacking it to bits. Before long, I’d customised everything—the characters, the levels, even the dialogue. My friends and I turned death matches into full-blown comedy routines, battling against avatars we’d created to represent ourselves, complete with all our ridiculous trademark sayings.

Imagine a grim, post-apocalyptic battlefield echoing with smack talk like, “Oi, pass me the ketchup!” or “You’re going down faster than last night’s curry!” It was absolutely hilarious. Every frag was met with roaring laughter, not just because someone lost but because the game would scream out some absurd catchphrase we’d forgotten we’d even programmed.

I was hooked. The day after The Brackla Tattler launched, I decided I couldn’t stop there. Why wait for a competition when I could make my own newspaper? I got straight to work, fuelled by the rush of creating something from nothing.

This time, the front-page story was even bigger—or at least, it felt that way to me: “Riot at Strangeways Prison!” I was 11 years old, covering prison riots like a seasoned journalist.

Back then, I didn’t even have a computer. I was using my mum’s old typewriter for the text—each clack of the keys a declaration of my ambition. For the visuals, I raided stacks of old magazines, cutting out pictures and headlines to make elaborate collages. My bedroom floor became a sea of scraps, glue sticks, and ink-stained fingers.

I was beyond addicted. There was something magical about piecing it all together, watching a blank page transform into a story people could hold, read, and react to. The process consumed me in the best way.

By the time I was 11, I was part of a global competition to create a school newspaper. And thus, The Brackla Tattler was born—a journalistic masterpiece (or so we thought) with a name that suggested the kind of scandal and intrigue we were determined to uncover.

The inaugural issue had a front-page story so wild it could’ve been straight out of a crime thriller. The headline? “Body Parts Found in Bags Across City!”

It was gruesome, sensational, and absolutely perfect for the tone we were going for—true crime meets small-town gossip. I still remember writing it, trying to balance shock value with just enough professionalism to impress the judges.

Even though we were just kids with big dreams and bigger imaginations, that story gave The Brackla Tattler its identity. We weren’t afraid to tackle the dark stuff, even if we barely understood it ourselves.

When I first woke up, I was in Bridgend, South Wales—a quiet, unassuming place where nothing out of the ordinary seemed to happen. But even as a kid, I was obsessed with two things: aliens and making magazines.

The alien obsession stemmed from my first truly traumatising memory. I was walking home from school one day with a friend, chatting about whatever kids chat about, when they casually dropped a bombshell: "Aliens are already on Earth, hiding in human bodies."

I swear on my life, I saw one shortly after that. I can still picture it—something inhuman beneath a very human façade. My stomach turned, my heart raced, and from that moment, the world didn’t feel safe anymore. I was terrified.

For months, I couldn’t sleep. Every shadow was suspicious, every sound proof of some otherworldly presence. But when I tried to tell people, nobody believed me. My classmates thought I was crazy. The more I insisted, the harder they laughed. Even my parents decided it was all in my head.