Dustin Covey — Writing Portfolio
Writer / Illustrator | Editorial & Storytelling
Edmonton, AB · Remote
BIO:
(a very old self portrait,- 1986)
Dustin Covey is a Canadian writer and visual artist whose work centers on imagination, adaptability, and the quiet ingenuity that helps people thrive in changing worlds. Based in Edmonton, Alberta, he has spent decades as an artist and educator, creating speculative fiction that reflects his belief that flexibility and imagination are essential survival skills.
OVERVIEW
I’m a writer and content creator with experience in print journalism, creative nonfiction, illustration and long-form narrative writing. My work emphasizes clarity, editorial discipline, and respect for the reader. I write for general audiences, adapting tone and structure across platforms while maintaining accuracy, coherence, and momentum. Thank you for your interest in my work.
From my 2011 book of Cartoons, “That’s not Funny. Yet!”
SELECTED PUBLISHED WORK
PRINT JOURNALISM & CULTURAL COMMENTARY
Rat Creek Press — Independent print newspaper (North Edmonton)
I’m a published contributor to an independent print newspaper serving North Edmonton. My articles focus on local history, architecture, culture, and community memory—blending narrative storytelling with research and careful observation.
“The Gibbard Block: Five Costume Changes”
A cultural and historical reflection on a North Edmonton landmark, using architectural change as a lens for continuity and neighbourhood identity.
• The Gibbard Block: Five Costume Changes and a Ghost Story
CREATIVE NONFICTION & BOOK-LENGTH WORK
Serenity — Physically published book
A reflective nonfiction book exploring memory, interior life, and steadiness amid personal and social change. Written with an emphasis on restraint, clarity, and long-form narrative coherence.
https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Dustin_Covey_Serenity?id=4P0kEQAAQBAJ
SHORT FICTION & SPECULATIVE WRITING
“The Spacesuit of Many Colours” — Short story (speculative fiction)
A character-driven science fiction story exploring adaptability and survival through metaphor and world-building. Accepted for publication in Spaceports & Spidersilk.
https://www.hiraethsffh.com/product-page/spaceports-spidersilk-february-2026
EXCERPT FROM CHRONICLES OF BERBIA ( Current Novel Project)
Logline:
THE BERBIAN CHRONICLES
In the ruins of a dead technological age, a mysterious artifact rekindles forgotten power in the growing city of Berbia, where scavengers, scholars, and healers must decide whether the rebirth of knowledge will finally break humanity’s ancient cycle—or begin it again.
From TBC, 0108
They stepped fully into Pratchet Square, and the world seemed to widen.
The square was a sprawl of mismatched stalls and half-built lean-tos, layered smells—spiced tubers roasting over coals, old canvas warming in the sun, the sharpness of vinegar and leather, the clean iron scent of fresh water from the central pipe. The dirt beneath their feet was packed hard by years of footsteps, worn smooth in some places, cracked in others. Scar felt the way it shifted under her soles—unpredictable, alive.
Merchants shouted in overlapping voices, selling everything from dried roots to scavenged trinkets. Cloth banners flapped lazily from poles. Wind stirred up the dust, and someone cursed good-naturedly as their display toppled. A man beat a drum with a spoon, tightening its head. A woman near him adjusted the tuning on a stringed instrument made of shell, hard leather, catgut and wire; neither had started to play yet.
Adam stood by his tea stand, stirring something dark and fragrant in a battered pot. Steam rose in slow coils. He caught Bartholomew’s eye and nodded—a greeting, and maybe a promise of tea later.
Varley’s Puppetorium stood shuttered, its colourful tarps tied tight. The cheerful paint on its sign had faded to a sunbleached whisper: STORIES AND WONDERS FOR ALL AGES. Scar’s gaze lingered, but no one was there. “Back after Morning Meeting,” a sign read, as it fluttered in front of the curtain of its puppet-scale stage. Scar looked at the signs, wondering what they said. That little building looked very intriguing.
Minerva’s booth—a wedge of striped cloth held up with tension and hope—was sealed, its curtain pinned with a scrap of parchment: Closed for Council. Leave questions in silence.
Then, without warning, the square shifted.
It wasn’t a sound at first—it was the absence of others. Voices trailed off. The clatter softened. People turned, drawn by something none of them expected.
A woman, older than most, had opened a tin box at the edge of the market. Her hands moved with care. From the little box came a melody—soft, bright, impossibly delicate. Notes of silver and sadness floated into the morning air.
Scar stopped.
The tune poured out like sunlight after cloud: light and warm, but foreign. Impossible.
Inside the box, on a tiny spinning platform, stood a beautiful little doll in a lace dress. She turned slowly to the music, arms raised, face serene. Her gown shimmered faintly, dust and age woven into the fabric like memory. The doll spun, never faltering, caught in a dance older than anyone watching.
Just music, notes still hanging in the air.
The idea of music—not sung, not beaten or blown, but pulled from a box—was strange to the folk of the square. Even the buskers stood motionless. The moment held them like a breath.
They stood in a short silence, savouring that moment of ancient magic—the Before reaching out, but simply to be heard, a connection to the Before.
The melody wound down. The doll slowed. The final notes faded, trembling in the morning stillness.
Then, hesitantly, one of the buskers plucked a string—testing the air the way you test water with a toe. Another tapped a rhythm, softly at first, as if afraid to break whatever spell the little box had cast. A third joined with a cautious hum.
They weren’t imitating. They were feeling for it.
The melody had come out of the tin like something impossible, and now—piece by piece—it began to exist again in the open, rebuilt by living hands. Halting. Uneven. But unmistakably beautiful.
Greensleeves.
Witch Woman murmured, “What marvellous toys they had.”
Scar didn’t speak. The doll in the box had stopped, but her mind hadn’t. Her thoughts spun in time with the fading tune. What else had they left behind—not to use, but to make such a nice moment?
Bartholomew broke the silence gently. “Come. The Heinlein Building isn’t far.”
They walked on, through the warm hush that followed wonder.
Behind them, the buskers found their courage again. One plucked the line a little cleaner. Another caught the rhythm and held it steady. The hum returned, thin at first, then surer—an old melody learning new throats.
Greensleeves—broken, tentative, and somehow still shining.
From TBC 0202
Scar said nothing. To her, every word Witch Woman spoke carried weight; if she said the Ancients watched food for pleasure, then that was truth enough.
When Witch Woman finally looked over, Scar stood straight. “The thing in my room—it changed again. It’s glowing green now. And it’s got a ring of little white lights.”
Witch Woman’s face tightened. “You didn’t touch it, did you?”
“No, ma’am.”
Witch Woman nodded slowly. “Good girl. The Before left more traps than treasures. We’ll go and see—”
A crash echoed from down the hall.
“Scar! Witch Woman!” Hank’s voice came first, sharp with excitement. “It’s changed! Look what it’s doing!”
Jake followed close behind, breathless and panicked. “We didn’t break it! It’s doing things!”
The boys burst into the kitchen doorway, red-faced and wide-eyed.
“We went in your room to see if you were up,” Hank said, holding the transformed artifact aloft, “and look what the thing is doing!”
It glowed between them, the white dots now aligned in a sharp V that swept back and forth like a compass searching for north.
Witch Woman’s gaze went flat. “You touched it.”
The boys froze, then nodded in guilty unison.
She sighed, though a smile ghosted the corner of her mouth. “If it bites, you’ll be on latrine duty till you’re grey. Set it down.”
They placed the glowing relic gently on the table. Its core light held steady while the points swept across its surface one last time—then stopped, locking into a narrow V shape.
Pointing east.
Toward the unseen ruins beyond Berbia’s barrier, Beyond Jonno’s Gate.
SKILLS & STRENGTHS
• Editorial and content writing
• Research and fact-checking
• Editing and proofreading
• Tone and audience adaptation
• Long-form and short-form structure
• Deadline-driven, remote collaboration|
I am also a talented Illustrator working in a wide variety of media and styles.
AVAILABILITY
Freelance / Casual · Remote
Flexible hours · Fast turnaround on most projects
Additional writing samples available on request.
Image: Panda and Bamboo, Etched Steel, 2012, Dustin Covey.
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