Welcome to my blog!! I’m SO glad to have you here visiting, be sure to stay… FOREVER! 👻 I’ll occasionally post some poetry or prose, or even posts about characters and worlds I’ve created! (When I get around to writing them) I’m always open to feedback, I want nothing more than to be a better writer! ✨Just be respectful please :)✨
Stories:
Sins of the Father: The story of a man named Drew, and how he deals with the horrors his father committed. [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12]
Zechariah 14:12-13: a novella about a bloodborne infection sweeping through the nation. This gruesome story follows a group of people working at "Eugene's Pizza" and how they deal with the incoming horde of the infected.
There Was a Hole Here…: a short story about a landlord’s inability to fill a hole in a wall, and the tenant who has to live with it.
Trophy: A horror story about a man who goes hunting in the woods, hoping for his trophy buck.
All Alone at Half-a-Dime: flash fiction about a girl named Dot being insecure.
[Hey, everyone! I haven't posted much of my writing for a while, so I decided to post the prologue of the story I'm writing! I'm about seven chapters in, and there's no end in sight, so I'm probably not gonna serialize it like I have with my other stories. Buuuttt I wanted to see what ya'll think! Hope you enjoy :) ]
Flames of Passage: Prologue
The trees were an ocean of fire.
Autumn was always such a beautiful time of year. The Sun doesn't bear down on Earth's inhabitants like the summer, and the cool breeze in the air lets people wrap up in cozy layers. School is in session, much to the dismay of every child, but there was still a sort of whimsy in the air. Halloween was just around the corner, and Grant couldn't wait to see what the school year was going to look like.
He was a janitor at the small elementary school of Passage, Michigan. An idyllic town where, as the name suggested, people mostly just passed through. Much like the inhabitants of Passage, new classes of children would come and go though the years, and Grant loved seeing them grow throughout it all. He'd see them as kindergartners, and watch them grow up to fifth-graders— and occasionally, he'd see them at the grocery store as middle or high school-aged students. Not many of them would remember him. He was just the janitor, of course. However, he was still a part of their lives in small ways. He'd help set up the decorations and various events, he would make sure everything in the school was working as intended with his limited knowledge as a handyman. Hell, he would even help plan field day activities so the kids could all have fun running around.
With a deep breath through his nose, Grant sighed. It even smelled good out. The decaying leaves let out a strangely sweet, musty scent. The ground, still wet from last night's rainfall, had a similar quality. As Grant walked to his place of work, he couldn't help but be reminded of his own time as a young boy, walking to school during a time just like this. He smiled, today was going to be a great day.
The wind blew, and Grant held his jacket tight against himself, shivering. It was a bit colder than it seemed out side. The fiery trees whipped in the wind. Grant watched the branches dance like a flickering flame— and that was when he saw it. He furrowed his brows and stopped dead in his tracks.
Somebody had gotten into a car accident, of some sort. A bright blue car sat at the bottom of a small hill, having barreled into the forest about a hundred feet before hitting a large oak tree. It looked bad, really bad. Even from where Grant stood, he could see the smashed hood of the car and air bags hanging out from the car. Immediately, Grant started towards the wreck. He was running late to work as it was, but he had to see if that person was okay. The fact that there weren't police investigating already made him worried that whoever crashed their car had been knocked unconscious— or worse, killed.
Carefully, he jogged over to the edge of the forest and walked down a small hill towards the car. Tire marks dug deep into the ground, and some water from the previous night's rain pooled up in the deeper parts of the tracks. Grant's shoes got muddy as hell, which upset him a bit. He already had to clean up after kids who track in mud and god knows what else. Those thoughts were quickly forgotten when he got to the car, though. The driver's side door was wide open, and the airbag had been deployed. Several footprints were in the wet muck outside of the car, but Grant couldn't see where they led to. He noticed flecks of scarlet red dotting the side of the car. Grant' eyes widened as they moved further into the car. He turned around and ran back up the hill and towards the school. He didn't stop until he saw the nearest intersection, when he called the police and explained what he found. His voice shook as he told them, and every time he closed his eyes he saw it again.
Sitting on the dashboard, with a small smear of blood, was a human scalp with a wad of jet black hair.
Omg guys it's Christmas time! Can you believe it? Christmas, just a few weeks away! Woohoo! I love Christmas! Yippee! Hot Chocolate! Ham! Presents! Endless consumerism! I'm drowning! Please help! Turkey! Snow and Christmas Lights! Keep buying, or you family will hate you! It's the most wonderful time of the year! Cuddle up with your loved ones, and try to stay warm! We've also raised electricity prices to power local data centers! It's a Wonderful Life! Jolly ol' St. Nick! God has abandoned us! Hope your season is jolly and bright!
writing tip they don’t tell you is that in addition to reading good books you should occasionally read one really bad one so that it inspires you to write something better out of pure rage
God, I think it was Alan Moore who said something like this. Sometimes it’s nice to read those awful books SPECIFICALLY BECAUSE it can inspire you.
Now, it’s not gonna inspire you because of its clumsy prose or nonsensical storyline— but because of its ability to show you how good of an author you can be. It lets you read something and think, “oh man, I can DEFINITELY write something better than this.” And then? You do.
I did an illustration for Trans Day of Remembrance today at work.
Our little community contains so much anger and grief, but it's because we love each other so fiercely. We remember our dead because their memory keeps us stubborn.
Man sometimes I wonder why I’m not getting ideas for my story, but it’s like… I’ve written so much in such a short time??? Of course it’s gonna need a bit of time in my brain-oven. Those ideas need to bake and percolate at least a little before I regurgitate it onto the page.
I've never written anything like the current story I'm working on, and the biggest fear of every single writer has come crawling back to haunt me-- what if I'm secretly extremely mediocre?
The only reason I actually like writing the scene is the fact that I get inspired from doing it. Sometimes it'll cause of wave of new ideas that make me think I'm a master of my craft-- a genius among us common folk.
Then, I hit a block and realize I'm just some fool who writes in her free time. Ah, the dualities of being a writer.
for real naked old women in horror movies always take me so out of it because it's like. okay the only thing separating me and any other young woman from her is time so you're just explicitly telling me that when i stop being young and fuckable you'll view me as a monstrosity. noted 📝
