Stories - Blog Posts

mama don’t you know

Mama, don’t you know your little baby is sitting in their room? Crying their eyes out screaming for help Screaming for you to help them Begging for you to love them for who they are

Mama, can’t you see the way they're pleading? How their pleading for you to love them For you to finally tell them they're good enough For you to please noticed this once how much they need you.

Mama, do you ignore the blank stares and the emptiness? The way they wear barcodes on their body       How no matter how much they try, they can't get you to love them

Mama, do you ignore all the blood and tears? Pretending you don't hear them crying out at night Acting like you don't notice the blood and bandages.

Mama do you spend your days looking for new ways to hurt them? You filled their heart with all your spite and hatred. Poisoning your little baby before they had a chance to grow Making them believe they were a weed Never let them be able to believe in anything else.

the bathroom

Smoke flows from my cracked and bloody lips the dingy bathroom lights flicker above me a low buzz echos through the room my reflection stares back at me a sly smirk gracing its lips I can almost hear its laugh echoing in my head. The cold porcelain of the sink pulsing against the rising heat of my hands dirt and grime caked on to the counter and mirror the buzzing of the lights mixes with the pounding of my head Voices and conversations outside the door seem to grow in volume. pounding against my eardrums All the noise seems to be surrounding me. Building up and building up my reflections laughter ringing in my ears the lights buzzing and flickering The mirror starts cracking. Sounds of glass falling and shattering mix with the symphony of noise The class finally shatters falling all around me. Knocking on the door starts. The pounding and shaking of the door mixes with the calls of my name It sounds like I'm underwater. The door and the voice feeling so far away while I'm sinking farther down in my head finally, I snap back I'm in the bathroom. the mirrors still intact no longer shattered lights buzzing no longer deafening My fingers loosen their grip on the sink. The reflection no longer laughing and taunting My legs start working. Uprooting themselves from the floor the sound of my footsteps echo against the walls

side show mirrors

You call me an attention whore.  Only because my heart screams out for any type of love  something you never gave  look me in the eyes.  And tell me. "I'm always craving attention."  All I could do was Laugh.  what you call craving attention I  call a cry for help.  Haven't you noticed that?  You never taught me.  how to ask for help

my anger

my anger is a cigarette with every hit, it pulls me in the rage fills my lungs like smoke killing me a little each time disdain exhaling like smoke disgust clinging like the smell of stale  cigarette contempt lingers in my mouth and on my tongue like the bitterness of menthol repulsion circling around the air, smothering  those around me like the smoke

her cravings

The girl craved depravity. She loved it in her twisted way. Loved how it made her feel The way it felt as the darkness consumed her. How it crept through her veins stealing its way into her heart making it's self its own little home inside her heart. Whispering their tales of the demented and cursed screaming the depths of its madness into her heart. Corrupting her, molding her, stealing her Twisting her into a demented shell of her once pure self.

darling

Darling, I see your eyes sparkle with the light of a thousand stars  They shine light in my darkest night.  Darling, I see the gold in your veins  It glows with the ichor of our old gods.  Dripping down your fingertips From the gashes,  you made into them.  Darling, I see the night sky in your hair  the way it shines and moves with the utter darkness of the stars  darling, I see the sea in your mind  the way your mood changes like the tides  You rage like the sea.  And you hold your desire like the sea holds the creatures.  

Casual Life Update:

Remember that cat my grandparents stole a few months ago? His name is Dos. Because he was part of a litter of 4 kittens. So they were named Uno, Dos, Tres, and Kevin, because the neighbors couldn't remember Quatro.

Grandma calls him Do-si-do and he follows her around when she takes care of her chickens.

I've been thinking about my farmer grandparents a lot lately, about the people they knew and the lives they've lived. About how American culture has changed so much in their lifetimes. About how Grandma had to leave her schooling to help support her family after her mother died of cancer. About how teachers would often lock my Grandfather out of their classrooms when he was excused for religious services and they'd humiliate him in front of his peers before letting him back in.

About how a lot of people - especially in these Internet spaces - see them now, as old farm folk, and dismiss them as uneducated. As stereotypes and caricatures to be derided. Without a word to them, people will assume them to be of no use, to be able to contribute nothing of value by their experiences, and capable of no grand thoughts.

It's a bitter taste to recognize, hypocrisy.

I think about how my Grandma insists that everyone should write at least one book in their lifetime. She has books of short stories, books of poems, books of essays, books of local recipes collected by the women's societies in the area. So many of them are self-published and freely given to her by her friends and family. I love that she can pick each one up and tell me about the author and how she, and I by way of her, is connected to this person whose thoughts are inked on cheap paper.

She has her own book almost ready to go. It's full of little poems and daily devotions, letters to people who are no longer around to receive them. It scares me, because she had been in my life for so very long and I do not want to trust her to my faulty, frail memory.

If you're looking for stories about adults acting responsibly and with measured calm to world-ending events and who will somehow stop the children who want to fight crime... You should probably go write that book. There's definitely an audience for it.

The rest of us are here to read stories about child heroes facing seemingly insurmountable odds and winning, even if at great cost. We're here for the drama and the crash outs and the moments of peace and the friendships forged from circumstances that none of us will likely ever understand.

They're all stories. Each character is important and exists and it's the way they are so that the story gets told. Each character is moldable and can be changed completely depending on the storyteller, because the story is the important part.

I've been in a situation somewhat like this. I have 2 older brothers and they were about to leave for a tournament so I hugged them since I wouldn't see them for a while. They were riding with some friends and one asked "where's my hug?" Frankly, I didn't even know his name, he was just one of the many guys that are on the team. I didn't want to hug him, but I didn't want to seem rude, so I made an obnoxiously rude comment that could only be taken as a joke, "No, you smell worse than that time my dog got sprayed by a skunk." He didn't smell, but everyone burst out laughing, and a few of them high fived me and they started ragging on the guy.

Now, this was a different situation and I'm pretty sure he was only saying that as a joke, but making jokes like that has always been how I respond to things like that. If you don't want to be rude, say something so rude and laugh, so it has to be taken as a joke. If you don't want to be obnoxious, be so obnoxious it's funny. Say he smells. Say you don't want cooties. Say you have a skin eating desaese that's incredibly contagious. If he STILL hasn't gotten the hint and won't leave it alone, than be a complete asshole, because at that point he's also being one.

Hope this helps!

srsly tho this is absolutely a thing that dudes do all the f***ing time

like where if he knows a girl doesn’t necessarily want to give him a hug, he will trap her in this position in front of witnesses where she has 2 options- both of which are undesirable for her, while simultaneously desirable for him

if she doesn’t want to hug him, whatever she does, it will suck for her.

she can 1. say nah and be the fucking asshole in front of other ppl or 2. forsake her corporeal boundaries and allow unwanted intimate contact

it’s a f***ing trap

“Are you the witch who turned eleven princes into swans?”

The old woman stared at the figure on the front step of her cottage and considered her options. It was the kind of question usually backed up by a mob with meaningful torches, and the kind of question she tried to avoid.

Coming from a single dusty, tired housewife, it should’ve held no terrors.

“You a cop?”

The housewife twisted the hem of her apron. “No,” she muttered. “I’m a swan.”

A raven croaked somewhere in the woods. Wind whispered in the autumn leaves.

Then: “I think I can guess,” the old woman said slowly. “Husband stole your swan skin and forced you to marry him?”

A nod.

“And you can’t turn back into a swan until you find your skin again.”

A nod.

“But I reckon he’s hidden it, or burned it, or keeps it locked up so you can’t touch it.”

A tiny, miserable nod.

“And then you hear that old Granny Rothbart who lives out in the woods is really a batty old witch whose father taught her how to turn princes into swans,” the old woman sighed. “And you think, ‘Hey, stuff the old skin, I can just turn into a swan again this way.’

“But even if that was true – which I haven’t said if it is or if it isn’t – I’d say that I can only do it to make people miserable. I’m an awful person. I can’t do it out of the goodness of my heart. I have no goodness. I can’t use magic to make you feel better. I only wish I could.”

Another pause. “If I was a witch,” she added.

The housewife chewed the inside of her cheek. Then she drew herself up and, for the first time, looked the old woman in the eyes.

“Can you do it to make my husband miserable?”

The old woman considered her options. Then she pulled the wand out from the umbrella stand by the door. It was long, and silver, and a tiny glass swan with open wings stood perched on the tip.

“I can work with that,” said the witch.

I read Stone Butch Blues when it was first published. I was 18, just barely out, and a sophomore at a liberal arts women's college 45 minutes from my parents' house. That would've been... 1993? Yup. 1993.

The book fundamentally changed my understanding of... pretty much everything.

My great-grandparents were all working class. On my dad's side (his parents were cousins), they were farmers. On my mom's maternal side, they were European immigrants and union bricklayers. On her paternal side, Jewish immigrants. Her dad and his sister were raised by their mom, who was not, I believe, religious, and didn't raise them in the faith. She was a shopkeeper.

My grandparents' generation were college-educated (possibly except for my dad's mom). My dad's father was a math teacher and my mom's father, educated at Caltech, was a civil engineer. My mom's mother ran my grandfather's business, including a real estate office for a while.

Both my parents graduated from Stanford and taught English (my dad, who had a Ph.D., eventually went into corporate management to make more money).

So... I grew up surrounded by both the privileged world of aspirational academia and the, much more resonant for me, family stories about immigrant lives, trade unions, and beautiful craftsmanship.

I can do the academic thing, and do it well, but I have always preferred making things to studying them. I have always felt a bit out-of-sync with my family’s "evolution" towards increasingly academic pursuits. I like using my brain, but I like to keep my hands dirty while I do it.

Leslie Feinberg's writing became, for me, the first place where my own queerness and my identification with my family’s immigrant and working-class roots, made sense to me as parts of a single whole.

The summer after my junior year, I went through a directory I'd gotten my hands on of lesbians working in the arts, and sent out letters to those who seemed interesting, compatible, and far enough away from my childhood in California to let me try my hand at becoming something more than my parents' daughter. I asked for an apprenticeship.

As such things do, the end result wound up being... very different from what I'd imagined. I got a gig in New Hampshire helping a musician and her trans partner, who made their living busking on hammered dulcimer. I was meant to go live in a tent on their land, help with the straw bale house they were building, help babysit their 3 year old daughter, and join the busking on my harp. As it turns out, I have absolutely NO musical improvisation ability and had no clue what to do when there wasn't sheet music. The harp spent the summer in its case. Also turns out that my social anxiety made not having my own, completely private, space to retreat to unbearable. I wound up renting a tiny apartment in a nearby college town. And then... well, it turned out that the weather wasn't great for house building, and my girlfriend, spending the summer outside DC with her parents, was miserable, and so she came to join me, and...

Well. Before my girlfriend arrived, I did a lot of hiking and lake swimming, went to Boston Pride and cheered on my busking "bosses," joined them and their friends for a summer solstice ritual at which I was introduced to the concept of herbed butter and the back-breaking problems of invasive blackberry, and rode in their decomposing old subaru wagon (it's fascinating to warch the road go by through clusters of tiny, rusted out, salt-holes in the footwell) all the way to New York, specifically to hear Leslie Feinberg speak.

I was the most awestruck, hero-worshipping baby dyke imaginable, the youngest person in the room by at least a decade, and I still remember the sensation of blushing for *three hours.* Because. I was. In. The. Same. Room. As. Leslie. Feinberg.

That summer broke me wide open. It was the first time I ever felt like I, as an individual being, might hold power, make something that changed things, in the world.

That feeling, of urgent, hopeful agency, swells and recedes in my life, but I never experience it without thinking of Stone Butch Blues and of Leslie Feinberg. And yes, I still blush. Every damn time.

Happy (early) Nov 15th! Remember that Stone Butch Blues is free now and always to read here

Leslie was a communist, a butch lesbian, a nonbinary and transgender activist, and the person who made me who I am today. Consider checking out Stone Butch Blues if you haven’t already 😘 Do it for Leslie, and for hir surviving partner, Minnie Bruce Pratt 💕

About Me

Welcome To My Blog!

Here, I write stories, make imagines and make Dragon Age Scenarios, feel free to ask me questions! I also draw in my free time.

I Do:

Dragon Age Origins

Dragon Age 2

Dragon Age: Inquisition

And

Red Dead Redemption 2

I Do:

NSFW

Gore (Not Exaggerated )

No Incest

No Pedophilia

No Alpha/Omega Stuff

Feel Free To Ask!

Backstory! Motorcycles are hard to draw.

Click for better quality, maybe? It might be blurry sorry. My camera hates me :)

More information on it if you're interested v

Enjoy!

The two brothers are Hino Ken'ichi and Hino [REDACTED], codename: "Venus".

Venus is the older brother who used to take Ken on rides and basically raised him because their parents were pretty much non-existent.

One day at about age ten, Ken'ichi and Venus' motorcycle disappears and despite all efforts, he and the vehicle can't be found, with Venus' helmet being the only thing discovered. Ken is pronounced dead, assumably having crashed or something else while trying to escape the organization.

Almost a decade passes before one day, Venus sees a older teen sat on what is definitely his old bike with another teen sat behind him. The teen (which he recognizes as Jaxon Finch, who is a junior detective from The PAIA) calls him "Hino".

And Venus knows the voice of the teen driving, it's a little grown up but he'd know it anywhere.

His brother is alive and working with the enemy.

- Hopefully that made sense, thanks for taking the time to read this whole thing -

I don't usually talk about Exorcise The Gods on my blog because it's still in the early stages, but I'll probably start to talk about it and the characters more often now as I'm getting more confident with the plan!

I really want to share this story some day, even if nobody's interested. It's something I've been working on for five years now, I don't know if I'll wait to post it as a comic or just post the written chapters and make a comic. Whatever I do, I just want to get it out there eventually.

Anyway I just started planning Chapter 23, which is what prompted this... it's a little spontaneous. Have some sketches of the main character.

Snow White But Vampire [Full Body Design]

Power Outage #89 Snow White But Vampire

The Three Crows

There’s a cafe on campus that comes and goes called The Three Crows.  For those wanting a casual visit, it can be found in the spring when the hydrangeas bloom, on new moons, and the first sunny day after it rains.  For those wishing adventures of a more exotic variety, it can be found on clear nights with a full moon when you hear the distant sounds of hounds baying.   As you enter, you will be greeted by the sweet smell of cider and the spice of whiskey all comfortably wrapped within the warmth of coffee. The Dropkick Murphy’s always play in the background, and flowers grow from the walls and sometimes that odd table or chair.

Keep reading

Mother Mud

I saw a women who came up from the floorboards, from the soil beneath the crawl space of my old creaky home. Nude and streaked in grime she crept along the floor, her hands and feet leaving muddy prints that shone in the static television light. She crept to where a father lay sleeping on the stained lumpy couch. He was not my father, but he was a father.

Keep reading

Of the Beginning

The Queen took the stories and She ate them, chopping up poems, taking draughts from epics, swallowing vignettes whole. She was given offerings of playwright’s notes, sheets of underwater ballet choreography, links to illicit piracy websites, but it was never enough. There were whispers of Her favorite offerings, of philosophy books filled with notes, of abandoned manuscripts, of secrets whispered in the dead of night. Drop an elder with memory of unrecorded oral history from an oppressed tribe on Her doorstep at exactly 1:32 AM, and a pen that channeled untold wisdom through whatever you wrote would be gifted to you through assorted means. (Rumor has it Hozier was once sacrificed to her, but he’s probably been blessed)

Keep reading

So. It’s been an year and a half since I last posted something set in @elsewhereuniversity , but never say die!! We’ve seen how Feathers and the Crow Prince each came to elsewhere, and now whe have Not-Jenna’s story.

Summary -

Not-Jenna wasn’t always called Not-Jenna, or even Jenna. She wasn’t even always a changeling.

The fae who Feathers calls Not-Jenna used to be- well, what she used to be doesn’t matter anymore. This particular tale starts when she was small, and weak, and alone, because it was much, much better than the alternative.

And then she fell in love.

She fell in love, and made a deal. And despite what Jenna will tell you, it was not a particularly good deal.

As of right now, Here’s the stories that are in progress!

Last stand of Ayia- working on it

Inking the Bullets- working on it

Through the Doors and Eyes- Working on right on now

The reversed judgement- not working on til next year!

The twins of the carved Edge- soon!

Love making book covers☺️ Josh❤️

Josh Flek is a 15 year old baby faced boy with brains to burn. He's super smart but that's not exactly a good thing... Josh doesn't fit in, even with the other smart people. On top of that his parents are struggling to cope with money problems and he lies awake at night, worrying about it. However when Josh's friend Ronan suggests that they form a band along with their 2 other friends, Zeke and Caolan, things change big time. At first Josh isn't keen but after he finds out some hidden talents, the band and the amazing journey that Josh will have to go on begins...

Links to my other socials:

Twitter/X - EtherTrance

Bluesky - etherealtrance

AO3 - EtherealWalker

Different Stories Resonate with Different People

"So, wait," said the thief, topping off the detective's wine glass. "You're saying that your stressful case is catching that hot shot cat burglar that everyone's talking about?"

The detective grimaced, but didn't change the subject. "Yep," they muttered into their Pinot and took a swig. "The celebrity criminal."

This was a triumph. This was their third date and the thief had spent the prior two carefully laying the emotional groundwork leading up to this moment. The detective, as a social partner, was affable and considerate - surprisingly funny even, in a dry, deadpan way - but rigidly guarded about their line of work. The thief had asked the normal questions about jobs and had been expertly deflected with self-deprecating jokes about spreadsheets and paperwork. The thief had been content to wait. The detective was a fundamentally honest person, and the thief trusted the truth would work its way to the surface soon enough.

"But that sounds exciting!" the thief prompted brightly. "I mean, daring heists executed by moonlight! It must be such a nice change from your run-of-the-mill crimes."

"Mostly it's just exhausting," sighed the detective, rubbing their temples. "This perp is such an asshole."

The thief blinked. "Excuse me?"

The detective shook their head, tried to force a smile. "I'm sorry. I've had too much wine. You were saying about your invitation to audition for the Bolshoi -?"

"Oh, forget about me," the thief said quickly. "Please, go on. You're clearly stressed about -"

"Do you know," the detective went on as if they'd never stopped, "the morning guy on Channel Seven had the nerve to call this a victimless crime?"

"Well, the insurance will pay for it," the thief started.

The detective slapped the table. The thief jumped. "What about the people?" the detective exclaimed. A few nearby heads turned in their direction. "Are people supposed to walk into museums and look at what, framed checks on the wall from Lloyds? And meanwhile, these masterworks disappear into the vaults of gangsters and petty criminals, never to be seen again. Because you can be sure," they added, jabbing a finger at the thief, "crooks that steal art have no love for it. They'll destroy it, every lick of paint, if there's the slightest risk to their own skins."

The detective took another deep swallow of red wine. They looked close to tears. The thief awkwardly patted their hand across the table. This was not at all what they'd expected on this little reconnaissance side mission. The detective caught their hand and squeezed it with a grateful look that wrenched something in the thief's upper chest area.

"Now those guys," the detective said thoughtfully. "The criminals with the vaults. Now that seems like a worthy target."

"I... huh?" The thief stared across the table. The detective looked back with those guileless, honest eyes. 

"I'm just saying," they said, with the slightest drunken slur on their words. "Walking the art out of some budget-strapped public facility is one thing. But emptying out of one of those vaults, liberating all those works of art and returning them to their rightful place before the public..." The detective sighed dreamily. "Now that actually sounds like a daring, hot shot kind of heist."

There was a moment where neither moved, gazing at each other like the lovers they were pretending to be. Then the detective tugged their hand free, stood up with an apologetic smile. "But I'm definitely tipsy," they said. "Let me go splash some water on my face."

When the detective returned from the restroom, the thief was still at the table, watching the waiter clear the plates. By unspoken agreement, they didn't speak until she was well clear.

"So, hypothetically speaking," the thief said finally, running a finger theough a puddle on the tabletop. "How would one go about this vault heist of yours?"

The detective smiled again, nothing drunk or vague about it at all.

some excerpts from the zombie story I’ve been way too obsessed with writing

basically the local highschool‘s football-team accidentally turn themselves into a bunch of zombies and it’s up to B, the protagonist, and his friends (plus a depressed gas-station-attendant they run into on the way) to save their curious little town from descending into chaos :P