Tim Mogridge

  • Tim Mogridge

"Those words ricocheted around inside my head. Shrapnel shards ripping through flesh and thought, a bloody mess that slid down the walls of my skull into a pool at the bottom. Then silence. That was Christmas Eve, right before my tenth birthday. Time heals, but not without scars. Sometimes, whether through morbid fascination or self-chastisement, I would shake my head to disturb the words. A snowglobe of painful reminders swirling upward, softly settling upon the tiny man dressed in green inside. And now here he was. I am a little boy, and his face peers at me through the glass.”

Seed by Tim Mogridge. Image by Niklas Johansson.