If you’re interested in trans fantasy, my fifteen-minute play Distaff was just produced as a radio play by the Eclectic Half Hour Radio Hour! It’s a play about two trans kids with a very different ideas of how to survive in a world whose lines cut them sneaking into a holy cave where a goddess - or a king - sleeps. It’s a play about love and despair and threads that people pull to save themselves and others in desperate moments, and it was inspired by prechristian archeological findings of spinning tools, greek mythology, and the phrase ‘distaff counterpart’. I am so honored to have my play produced, and the director and actors did a phenomenal job, so please, if you’re interested, give it a listen!
Hi friends! I'm reaching out to you today with a little donation drive for the Beyond Boston Bond and Legal Defense Fund, who are currently in dire need of funds to get people out of ICE custody. In the words of the Boston Immigration Justice Accompaniment Network:
"In the first five months of 2025, the Beyond Bond & Legal Defense Fund (BBLDF) has contributed to 50 immigration bonds– that’s 50 people getting free from the violence of ICE jail. That is roughly the same number of bonds we paid in all twelve months of 2024. And in the past 4 days alone, we have received 17 new requests for help with bond – totalling over $100,000 – for New England residents whom ICE has moved to detention centers all across the country."
My arthurian work is probably the thing that has drawn the most people to this blog, so I want to put that to good use if I can. If you make a 20+ dollar donation to the Beyond Boston Bond and Legal Defense Fund, I will write you a 500-word Arthurian ficlet of your choice - any versions of the characters, from any canon or combinations of canons. Just dm me the receipt, and I'll get to work :)
(Artwork by my dear friend @agarthanguide, used with her permission, with accompanying story by me ^^)
if you’ve enjoyed works such as these sainted bones or a sickness called fear (which is flatteringly and bafflingly featured on the tv tropes fic recommendations page for Arthuriana) you could custom order your very own navel-gazing Arthurian story while helping out a very immediate need in my community!
Hi friends! I'm reaching out to you today with a little donation drive for the Beyond Boston Bond and Legal Defense Fund, who are currently in dire need of funds to get people out of ICE custody. In the words of the Boston Immigration Justice Accompaniment Network:
"In the first five months of 2025, the Beyond Bond & Legal Defense Fund (BBLDF) has contributed to 50 immigration bonds– that’s 50 people getting free from the violence of ICE jail. That is roughly the same number of bonds we paid in all twelve months of 2024. And in the past 4 days alone, we have received 17 new requests for help with bond – totalling over $100,000 – for New England residents whom ICE has moved to detention centers all across the country."
My arthurian work is probably the thing that has drawn the most people to this blog, so I want to put that to good use if I can. If you make a 20+ dollar donation to the Beyond Boston Bond and Legal Defense Fund, I will write you a 500-word Arthurian ficlet of your choice - any versions of the characters, from any canon or combinations of canons. Just dm me the receipt, and I'll get to work :)
(Artwork by my dear friend @agarthanguide, used with her permission, with accompanying story by me ^^)
Something has come undone in Lancelot; since you first met him, the beautiful interloper, the king’s favorite, more of a stranger to the court than you and yet at its very center, he has gone untouched. There was something of his Lake about him; through wounds and fevers and years, even through exile and passions that drove him from his senses, he remained unchanged; he could be bloodied, hurt, even defeated, but where others wore those hurts for the rest of their lives, he recovered whole in flesh if not in spirit. Even age did not touch him like it touched other men.
Now it is not that he has aged, nothing so drastic; but there’s a scrape across his cheekbone, inflamed and raw, and he stands leaning on his sword as if he cannot bear the weight of his armor. His hair hangs loose about his face, silver strands catching in the breeze. He does not straighten as you approach.
“Sir Lancelot,” you say. “How is the Queen?”
“Safe,” he says, and then again, as if reassuring himself: “Safe.” His hands fumble with a lock of hair, pushing it back behind his ear.
Why is she not here? you want to say, hope slipping through your fingers. Between the three of you, you might come to some accord.
“How is Arthur?” Lancelot asks, not looking at you. Looking past you in that haughty way of his, the words somewhere between harsh and pleading.
“The king wishes the Round Table to be whole once more,” you say. “And that we set aside these disagreements.”
A tremor runs through Lancelot. “How does Arthur fare?” The name is stubborn in Lancelot’s mouth, and there’s a challenge in his eyes. None could take away his place at the right hand of the king, even the war between them. “Gawain,” he says, softly. “Tell me truly. If you ever loved me.”
If you ever loved me.
Courteous Gawain. Isn’t it your love for him that now keeps your sword from his throat?
A snippet of against the grain my fic about gawain and lancelot and the dissolution of the round table </3
Something has come undone in Lancelot; since you first met him, the beautiful interloper, the king’s favorite, more of a stranger to the court than you and yet at its very center, he has gone untouched. There was something of his Lake about him; through wounds and fevers and years, even through exile and passions that drove him from his senses, he remained unchanged; he could be bloodied, hurt, even defeated, but where others wore those hurts for the rest of their lives, he recovered whole in flesh if not in spirit. Even age did not touch him like it touched other men.
Now it is not that he has aged, nothing so drastic; but there’s a scrape across his cheekbone, inflamed and raw, and he stands leaning on his sword as if he cannot bear the weight of his armor. His hair hangs loose about his face, silver strands catching in the breeze. He does not straighten as you approach.
“Sir Lancelot,” you say. “How is the Queen?”
“Safe,” he says, and then again, as if reassuring himself: “Safe.” His hands fumble with a lock of hair, pushing it back behind his ear.
Why is she not here? you want to say, hope slipping through your fingers. Between the three of you, you might come to some accord.
“How is Arthur?” Lancelot asks, not looking at you. Looking past you in that haughty way of his, the words somewhere between harsh and pleading.
“The king wishes the Round Table to be whole once more,” you say. “And that we set aside these disagreements.”
A tremor runs through Lancelot. “How does Arthur fare?” The name is stubborn in Lancelot’s mouth, and there’s a challenge in his eyes. None could take away his place at the right hand of the king, even the war between them. “Gawain,” he says, softly. “Tell me truly. If you ever loved me.”
If you ever loved me.
Courteous Gawain. Isn’t it your love for him that now keeps your sword from his throat?
A snippet of against the grain my fic about gawain and lancelot and the dissolution of the round table </3
i love him for his insufferable cuntyness and transgender in all directions swag but my favorite thing about james fitzjames of amc's the terror (2018) fame has got to be his ability to find and pursue any available opportunity to die a gruesome peculiar hamsteresque death with whole-pussy commitment and fatalistic determination
talks about getting shot in the chest like it was the best thing that ever happened to him. expresses his desire to go on a trek through the uncharted arctic wilderness on the eve of a lightning storm with undisguised longing. sees his commander get his legs ripped off and thrown down a ten foot ice hole into the arctic ocean by a giant demon bear and barely restrains himself from diving in after him. marches across miles of ice in temperatures cold enough to make a grown man's heart give out in chanel boots and a little fur cape to pick a fight with his drunk coworker who has more or less made it explicitly obvious that he fantasizes about strangling him to death every time he opens his mouth. throws a party with an open bar in the middle of the polar winter. faces down an enraged eldritch horror by shooting fireworks at it. begs his suicidally depressed situationship to feed him poison and eat his flesh after he dies.
and yes it is kind of tragic and fucked up because it's very obviously a result of his need to prove his worth by any means necessary even if that means dying pointlessly "with honor" in order to eclipse the shameful circumstances of his birth but i need you to understand: modern au james fitzjames would go cave diving
This is from my thesis play, a grail quest story where Galahad is a trans girl and the world of Logres is slowly dying as a mirror of climate crisis. Me and a theater collective adapted into an immersive play in the summer of 2022, which is still one of the most amazing experiences I’ve ever had the privilege to have. This is one of my favorite pieces of the play, and one that I think can stand on its own.
Image transcript:
MORDRED
I travel three days with Sir Lancelot, which is time enough to remember why I seldom do that. Brave Sir Lancelot, honorable Sir Lancelot, obedient Sir Lancelot; the flower of chivalry, the king’s favorite knight. Arthur and Gwynefer may see no flaw in him, but I know otherwise. He keeps his mask of courtly courtesy, but I feel his eyes on me when he thinks I’m not looking. Waiting for me to show some sign of treachery. Maybe this is why he stayed at my side; every mile we go from Camelot is a mile between me and the king he so loves.
Or maybe he considers it some sort of kindness, to his former squire. Sir Lancelot thinks he will find the Grail with all haste, and return in all glory, and if I remain at his side, a little of it may be left for me.
Or maybe he was just trying to escape Sir Galahad.
On the fourth morning, I wake with a strange certainty ringing in my ears. It calls me to rise and dress as the mist creeps from up the grass and the night bleeds away; there’s something in the mist waiting for me. Lancelot tries to call me back, to warn me from leaving, but why should I pay him mind? We’re all equal on the quest, Sir Galahad said, and it’s not as if the flower of chivalry knows where he’s going. Let him chase after me for once.
Maybe this is the certainty Sir Galahad felt; maybe this is the Grail. The mist thickens as I go onward, until I reach a wide black river.
My mother always told me to mind my wits when I cross water; cross a river without heed, and you may find yourself farther than the other bank. Unlike some, she knew of what she spoke; she knew all the old magics of the land; she whispered of them to me every night, and when I left home she wove spells into my cloak, to keep her youngest son from harm. But that cloak is as tattered as my vows, so I don’t think of her advice when I am knee-deep in the black water, the rush of it all around me.
It sounds like a battle, like a cataclysm, like the crash of the sea against the isle of Orkney, it sounds like death and fate, a cold force that drives onward like the tide that sweeps a ship to the rocks, closer and closer and closer. The current pulls at my feet, at my chest, at my chin until I am like to drown.
Any death but this. Any death but this. A coward’s prayer.
I drag myself out onto the far bank, spitting water, and lie there and let my foolish certainty die. Let Sir Galahad have her quest. Let Sir Lancelot find the Grail- I’m fitted for one fate only, and it isn’t going to be found in this misty forest.
Cross a river without heed, my mother said, and you may find yourself in a kingdom of shadows and lies, a land of ghosts and fae. I don’t think of her advice when I lift my head, and for a moment I think I am back in Camelot; here is the round table, and here the king. A bone-white table, laid out beneath the mist-strung trees, and a king that is monstrous to look upon, a desiccated creature sitting alone at an empty table, with wounds that weep bubbling seafoam and eyes that burn like the bleeding sky, and a crown wrought of stone and oak.
His head hangs with the weight of it. I cannot tear my eyes away, and I know that it is this, this is the tide that pulled me here, not the grail, not the pull of glory or duty but the fate I cannot escape.
Cross a river without heed, my mother said, and you may find that you, yourself, are a shade. I don’t think of her advice when I draw my sword, and drive it into the creature’s chest.
This is from my thesis play, a grail quest story where Galahad is a trans girl and the world of Logres is slowly dying as a mirror of climate crisis. Me and a theater collective adapted into an immersive play in the summer of 2022, which is still one of the most amazing experiences I’ve ever had the privilege to have. This is one of my favorite pieces of the play, and one that I think can stand on its own.
Image transcript:
MORDRED
I travel three days with Sir Lancelot, which is time enough to remember why I seldom do that. Brave Sir Lancelot, honorable Sir Lancelot, obedient Sir Lancelot; the flower of chivalry, the king’s favorite knight. Arthur and Gwynefer may see no flaw in him, but I know otherwise. He keeps his mask of courtly courtesy, but I feel his eyes on me when he thinks I’m not looking. Waiting for me to show some sign of treachery. Maybe this is why he stayed at my side; every mile we go from Camelot is a mile between me and the king he so loves.
Or maybe he considers it some sort of kindness, to his former squire. Sir Lancelot thinks he will find the Grail with all haste, and return in all glory, and if I remain at his side, a little of it may be left for me.
Or maybe he was just trying to escape Sir Galahad.
On the fourth morning, I wake with a strange certainty ringing in my ears. It calls me to rise and dress as the mist creeps from up the grass and the night bleeds away; there’s something in the mist waiting for me. Lancelot tries to call me back, to warn me from leaving, but why should I pay him mind? We’re all equal on the quest, Sir Galahad said, and it’s not as if the flower of chivalry knows where he’s going. Let him chase after me for once.
Maybe this is the certainty Sir Galahad felt; maybe this is the Grail. The mist thickens as I go onward, until I reach a wide black river.
My mother always told me to mind my wits when I cross water; cross a river without heed, and you may find yourself farther than the other bank. Unlike some, she knew of what she spoke; she knew all the old magics of the land; she whispered of them to me every night, and when I left home she wove spells into my cloak, to keep her youngest son from harm. But that cloak is as tattered as my vows, so I don’t think of her advice when I am knee-deep in the black water, the rush of it all around me.
It sounds like a battle, like a cataclysm, like the crash of the sea against the isle of Orkney, it sounds like death and fate, a cold force that drives onward like the tide that sweeps a ship to the rocks, closer and closer and closer. The current pulls at my feet, at my chest, at my chin until I am like to drown.
Any death but this. Any death but this. A coward’s prayer.
I drag myself out onto the far bank, spitting water, and lie there and let my foolish certainty die. Let Sir Galahad have her quest. Let Sir Lancelot find the Grail- I’m fitted for one fate only, and it isn’t going to be found in this misty forest.
Cross a river without heed, my mother said, and you may find yourself in a kingdom of shadows and lies, a land of ghosts and fae. I don’t think of her advice when I lift my head, and for a moment I think I am back in Camelot; here is the round table, and here the king. A bone-white table, laid out beneath the mist-strung trees, and a king that is monstrous to look upon, a desiccated creature sitting alone at an empty table, with wounds that weep bubbling seafoam and eyes that burn like the bleeding sky, and a crown wrought of stone and oak.
His head hangs with the weight of it. I cannot tear my eyes away, and I know that it is this, this is the tide that pulled me here, not the grail, not the pull of glory or duty but the fate I cannot escape.
Cross a river without heed, my mother said, and you may find that you, yourself, are a shade. I don’t think of her advice when I draw my sword, and drive it into the creature’s chest.
I’ve gathered my arthurian shorts that all take place in the same universe in a series on ao3 - a recursive world.
the keeping of falcons - The sun of Camelot’s King has just begun to rise. Lancelot worries. Guinevere notices.
these sainted bones - Lancelot returns to court to find Arthur's duel with Accolon left its mark on the king.
open weaving - One day, the silver knight from Elaine's mirror appears on the grounds of Astolat Castle.
things that number seven - Sir Urry of the Mount, cursed with wounds that will bleed until he finds a righteous knight, does not meet that righteous knight on the road. Instead, he meets Sir Gawain.
along the grain - This is how the Round Table breaks.
They’re loosely written around the consequences of Lancelot’s actions and the toll that being in the hand of fate takes on the knights. Also featuring a healthy dose of stuff I made up - this is my personal take on the Arthurian universe where I pick up bits and bobs that I like an extrapolate a lot between
