HeyJaredFeral Folio
My writing prowls the edges of obsession, beauty, and loneliness, blending dark humor, intimate reflection, and visceral literary precision into a world that feels both seductive and unsettling. Join me, won't you?
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 6
- Latest publication
- Sep 7, 2026
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- Earliest in this view
- Jul 10, 2026
Latest issues
There is so much to want, and only one mouth with which to eat it. (opens the original)
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There is no other life.Or maybe there is.Perhaps there are a thousand or a hundred thousand next and past lives for each of us. Perhaps I have been here before and will be here again, wearing another face, loving another person, standing in another kitchen window wondering why something inside me deeply aches for a place I have never been. Today I’m yearning for a farmers life somewhere in Montana. I have never been to Montana and I have never been on a farm.<a class="image-link image2 is-viewab
to be or not to be (a mother), that is the question. (opens the original)
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I am freshly 30 years old and I have been told my biological clock is ticking. I picture a little clock inside me, nestled amongst the wet machinery of my body. A tiny brass clock of an ovary. Tick, Tick, Tick. My eggs are packing their bags and putting on their little coats while I stand in the doorway shouting, wait, I haven’t decided yet!There is science to it, obviously. Fertility changes with age, although some bodies refuse to behave in neat lines. Some women cannot conceive at all, some g
the eldest daughter to angry woman pipeline (opens the original)
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My first memory of identity wasn’t my name or my favourite colour or what I wanted to be when I grew up. It was being an eldest daughter. Long before I became someone’s friend or girlfriend or employee or writer or the family member that lives thousands of miles away, I had been assigned a position in the family hierarchy and like many older sisters, I took on the role with absolute ease (at first).<a class="image-link image2 is-viewable-img" href="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!V_cM!,f
my dad died (opens the original)
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It’s 8:35am, July 28th, 2022. I had just woken up in my north London flat. My cat was making biscuits on my belly and my boyfriend was asleep next to me. “Good morning, Sweetie” - a message from my mum. <div class="fake-bu
you're not lazy, you're fucking exhausted (opens the original)
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<img alt="" class="sizing-normal" height="594" src="https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/$s_!Pc0U!,w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2Fc87c045c-af7a-422a-a91c-505c860981bd_1068x594.png"
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