The Story of Sarga is a scrollytelling epic for kids about the migration of the American Eel.

Live audiences watched as our hero, Sarga, swam from the Sargasso Sea through rivers and dams—cheered on every step of the way.

And then she hit a dam. The scroll—and the story—turned.

The story sees our hero, Sarga, hit a dam—her first real trial. For many eels, this is the end. What will she do?

I used VEV’s horizontal scroll right at the moment Sarga’s path was blocked.

The screen shifts. Sarga noses along the dam. You feel the tension. And when she finds a way through—so does the story.

The kids loved it. The client loved it. I loved it.

Zoom were launching new customer service tools with a sponsored article via Sifted. The brief to me? Add some scrollytelling polish - parallax, animations.

Instead of just polish, I pitched something bold - a playable moment inside the article.

Most readers had never worked in support. They couldn’t feel the pressure the tools were meant to relieve.

So I gave them a taster of the problem they're trying to solve ... a short, playable game in the middle of the article - just 10 seconds of chaos as you, the customer service agent, try to catch every incoming request.

You burn out. (Spoiler: you ALWAYS burn out).

And that's kinda the point, right?

“You anticipate needs, bring fresh ideas, and are always a few steps ahead…”

– Client feedback from Sifted

MyRoute was a touchtable timeline built for Sampad’s major community heritage project on Stratford Road, Birmingham.

Think: history-meets-interface. Like flicking through your neighbourhood’s photo album - but on a screen you could touch, explore, and share.

I wanted people to grab time. To trace their street, their landmarks, their memories - layered across decades. Not just look back, but look through.

I designed an interactive map where people could swap between decades and explore through themes like food, family, and faith.

You could even hand someone a “lens” to change the view—literally passing perspective.

I led the concept and content, collaborating with the touchtable designer to bring this multi-voiced, multi-decade story to life.

Commissioned by the University of Brighton’s ART/DATA/HEALTH project, 104 Days Later was designed to capture the UK’s lockdown experience—while we were still in it.

This wasn’t post-pandemic reflection. It was real-time meaning-making.

Data was being released. Stories were still unfolding. I was living it - and building it.

I created five immersive journeys through pandemic data, each one designed to feel like the experience it represented.

The mental health section opened with a bubble chart - ONS figures on stress, boredom, and loneliness. From there, the story frayed into coloured threads: tangled paths of overlapping issues.

Click a face, and you heard a real voice. No summary. No commentary. Just presence.

Built in VEV. Designed during lockdown.

Interaction as empathy.

Narrative capturing a unique moment in time.

As part of the ART/DATA/HEALTH commission, I was tasked with turning pandemic data into an interactive narrative.

But the real challenge?

Capturing the radically different environments we were all suddenly confined to—and making them readable, relatable, and distinct.

In 2024, I joined a week-long Instagram art challenge to reinterpret scenes from Pinocchio.

In a world where AI can churn out flawless, polished illustrations, I used this challenge to make something weird, messy, and unmistakably human.

I treated each prompt not as an illustration brief, but as a character design challenge—building surreal figures from real-world textures and symbolic objects.

The doctor? Made of pill packs, bones, and a leather bag.

The fish? Composed from a photo of the sea at sunset.

A hoard of excited people? Teasels, shadows, ... crowding-chaos

I photographed natural and household items, then layered and manipulated them in Procreate—using the materials’ textures to create semi-recognisable but emotionally uncanny forms.

I proposed 25 illustrations that felt lived-in, loud, and real—something musicians could recognise, not just read.

They loved it.

In the end, they went another way.

But this one still hums like a feedback loop in my brain.

A publisher appreoached me to illustrate a book on musician wellbeing. The content? Smart, grounded, important.

The problem? It looked like it was heading straight for textbook territory.

So I pitched a different vibe:

Handwritten setlists. Zine aesthetic. Graphic novel grit.