Howdy; I’m Davy, and welcome to my Writeblr! I write stories about fucked up fuck ups fucking up.
I don’t have a particular WIP at the moment, nor am I striving to get published at this time. Writing is just my thing, and I’ve found a fabulous community here on Tumblr to yap about it with.
The Cliffnotes of my lore:
she/her, born in ‘89 (30+)
I share snippets of things I wrote, often with recurring characters
here’s a list of (some of) them; or you can check out the #davywrites tag!
I want to follow folks who love writing, love yappin’ about it, love original characters, and who enjoy engaging with each other on this site.
if I unfollow/don’t follow back, it’s almost certainly nothing personal. I’m just trying to keep my dashboard relevant to writerly stuff and safe to peruse in public. ♥
I hope everyone's having a happy Friday so far! I haven't been as interactive lately, but I'm still enjoying seeing you guys on the dash when I pop in and I know I have a lot of reading and catching up to do. <3
The bank robber stuck his shovel in the damp earth and swept the back of his hand across his forehead. For a while he stood looking out over the dead land, the yellow grass and black fence posts. At the edge of the still, orange cypress forest slanted the skeleton of a barn. A lonesome raven beat its wings on its perch of broken gable, then sang out dryly. It was otherwise heavy, wet, and silent, until his wife’s gentle sobbing started up again.
Potentially upsetting content under the cut.
He turned toward her, watched for a beat, then laid his hand on her little shoulder and pulled her close. Her hands clasped over her misshapen belly, but she staggered to the fresh grave and turned her face into his chest and soaked the front of his shirt with her tears and said, finally, “I feel so empty.”
This was not the first child Alice Wren had lost, but he had grown and lived in her belly for nine full months, only to go cold and grey in her arms. It was the shock of it, Ruck thought. She had all that time to anticipate a squirming, warm bundle. All that time to grow attached to the idea. It was different for women; she’d known him by the kicks of his feet and the weight of his body and the little moth wing flutter of his heart.
He wrapped her into his arms and held her for a long while. Heavy clouds rolled low across the sky. A solitary breeze rolled ash and cypress needles across the yellow grass. The raven beat its wings again then flew off. Alice Wren said, “This is your fault.”
@fortunatetragedy Tag! But with the caveat this one has a common trigger and I fully understand if you opt not to read it!
You can see the veins like frozen lightning bolts on the back of his hand, which drifts lazily under the water, swollen and puffy.
Teenager Shy has a dream.
A line about laughter:
It’s too cold for sleeping, anyhow, but your fever spikes just high enough you can dream all the same. And when you dream, you dream about runnels of blood through cracks in concrete, like it’s joined the veins of the earth. But you dream beyond pavement, too, back to home, back to the laurel slicks, draping yourself across cold stone to lean over singing creeks or to hear the shush-roar of the river. Supper on the stove, a hard, flat, biscuit in your hand. A wild west duel you lost to Ryan, when you fell clutching the blueberry stain on the front of your shirt and kicked and thrashed in your death throes on the bedroom floor. Your mother’s hands clapping clumsily, her soundless laughter.
The deserter Rideout Wren talks about himself. (If you remember Alice, this is her brother!)
A line about books:
It is my belief a man needs little else to sustain him other than for entertainment. Not that I lack the mental resources to sit in stoic silence; I can, and will, and have for long stretches. But more than my thoughts I enjoy a book, particularly an account of the American or European adventurer as he investigates wild lands overseas I will not visit outside reading on them.
Cowboy!Shy converses with old Gideon Kelly of the Hiram Kelly Gang.
A line about wood:
Gideon offered no help. “No choice,” he said. “He knows you botched that job on Brown. Ain’t too happy, I wager.”
“Yeah, well,” Shiloh said, spotting the knives on a counter by the wood burning stove, “I planted the watch he gave me.”
“Not where nobody could find it,” Gideon muttered, rocking vehemently while Shiloh began tucking knives away. “You’re lucky it’s jus’ you they’s after.”
“Of course it’s just me. What’re they gonna do with Jackson?”
“Torture ‘im into confessin’ to save your hide, I wager.”
Thank you for the tag, @sableglass! I love these.
I definitely played "find the word" rather than digging lines ABOUT these words, but I did my best!
The assignment to my taglist: Find a line about hurt, a line about disgust, a line about apathy, and a line about euphoria.
@albatris
@capnmachete
@harmonic-melodii
@illarian-rambling
@michellekarnold
@nathaniel-zellos
@sableglass (you tagged me but if you wanna go another round by all means 😈)
@saturnine-saturneight (if you're back from your hiatus! if not, pls disregard!)
Thank you for tagging me here, @kaylinalexanderbooks ! 💛✨
Rules: take this uquiz to find out if you're a soldier, a king, or a poet, then use this Picrew to make yourself as that!
I got The King
The King
"There will come a ruler
Whose brow is laid in thorn
Smeared with oil like David's boy"
Duty. Strength. Resignation. You were told to do things and you did them. The world is something that was put into your hands and that you must deal with - so you will.
You have a rigid back and steady hands, either metaphorically or physically. Is it nature or nurture ? You don't know.
You are tired of being steady. You dream of feeling alive. Not that you aren't, but, sometimes, it's hard to remember that there is a heart between your ribs.
Your love is where you breathe. Come on, breathe. In. Out. It starts now.
I guess this would be me as a king (Peter please don’t rob me 👀💦)
+open tag for whoever wants to do this picrew and uquiz! 💛✨
I also got the King! (I thought I was for sure getting Poet)
"There will come a ruler Whose brow is laid in thorn Smeared with oil like David's boy" Duty. Strength. Resignation. You were told to do things and you did them. The world is something that was put into your hands and that you must deal with - so you will. You have a rigid back and steady hands, either metaphorically or physically. Is it nature or nurture ? You don't know. You are tired of being steady. You dream of feeling alive. Not that you aren't, but, sometimes, it's hard to remember that there is a heart between your ribs. Your love is where you breathe. Come on, breathe. In. Out. It starts now.
BEHOLD, MY TWINKY KING
Pssst, Goldie! Does your king wanna marry my king and unite the lands!
"There will come a ruler Whose brow is laid in thorn Smeared with oil like David's boy" Duty. Strength. Resignation. You were told to do things and you did them. The world is something that was put into your hands and that you must deal with - so you will. You have a rigid back and steady hands, either metaphorically or physically. Is it nature or nurture ? You don't know. You are tired of being steady. You dream of feeling alive. Not that you aren't, but, sometimes, it's hard to remember that there is a heart between your ribs. Your love is where you breathe. Come on, breathe. In. Out. It starts now. Art : St Catherine of Alexandria, Guido Reni
Rules: take this uquiz to find out if you're a soldier, a king, or a poet, then use this Picrew to make yourself as that!
DAMN.... 😅 I have THE POET
"There will come a poet Whose weapon is His word He will slay you with His tongue" Loneliness. Strength. Joy. You are powerful, but struggle believing it. You think you're not enough. Here's the truth : you are. You sing songs and hope they carry faith, because you have run out if it, and yet you still throw your heart out to the world and hope it makes it through. You convince yourself that pain is art because at least then, you will always have something to create. You are tired of stumbling through life. You dream of a ground you can stand on. One day, you will dance. Your love is where you feel - without fear. Art : The Desperate Man, Gustave Courbet
Tag np : @fortunatetragedy @saturnine-saturneight 😁 + open tag
"There will come a soldier
Who carries a mighty sword
He will tear your city down"
Righteousness. Strength. Violence. You see a door and break through it. You wonder, sometimes, if anger is the only thing you can feel. Remember : love is passion too. You made your own rules and will follow them to death. You try and forget that there is only one rule, and that it is "FIGHT". You are tired of fighting. You try to forget that, too, and keep going. You dream of quiet. Your love is where you heal. God knows you deserve to. (Really. You deserve to.)
I see a door and I kick it, that is canonically accurate.
Tag! (sorry if you've been double tagged, that means you're double loved.)
@fortunatetragedy what an honor for our little soldiers to live beside each other on this post ⚔️
The Soldier
shocked pikachu face.
Righteousness. Strength. Violence. You see a door and break through it. You wonder, sometimes, if anger is the only thing you can feel. Remember : love is passion too. You made your own rules and will follow them to death. You try and forget that there is only one rule, and that it is "FIGHT". You are tired of fighting. You try to forget that, too, and keep going. You dream of quiet. Your love is where you heal. God knows you deserve to. (Really. You deserve to.)
Thank you for the tag, @sableglass! This is my first successful Picrew where I was actually able to figure out the interface.
I got the Poet; twinning with @gioiaalbanoart!
"There will come a poet Whose weapon is His word He will slay you with His tongue" Loneliness. Strength. Joy. You are powerful, but struggle believing it. You think you're not enough. Here's the truth : you are. You sing songs and hope they carry faith, because you have run out if it, and yet you still throw your heart out to the world and hope it makes it through. You convince yourself that pain is art because at least then, you will always have something to create. You are tired of stumbling through life. You dream of a ground you can stand on. One day, you will dance. Your love is where you feel - without fear.
HOW is this the first time I’m meeting these fellas?! I’m floored. This is delicious. Almost as delicious as out of date pretzels.
The description of shipping containers looking like a city grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me. whenever I drive over a certain bridge and look down at those vessels I always imagine walking between the containers and going on little adventures on those ships… this was so satisfying to read.
The deception when he feels blue for Buchanan, the apology, and the narrator still making the choice that he does. I would read hundreds and hundreds of pages of this.
I live for your commentary 😭 Thank you, Sable! I had to read that last line out loud at my fiance this weekend while squealin' & foot kickin'.
TBH I do the same - especially when I pass by the port of Charleston and see it from the bridge! I always wanna sneak in and explore the "halls" of the containers, lmao.
SABLE MY LOVE :> Can I ask for a fun fact (for a given definition of "fun") about the world of AMitG? If that fun fact turns into a ramble, you know me, I love rambling.
JAMIE MY LOVE ❤️🔥
I have never had a coherent thought in my life. When I say I’ve been staring at this trying to remember a single thing about this story (that I haven’t already yapped to you about) shsvshshsjshs
Ok, FUN FACT(S)/ramble
Technology!! weapons!! I haven’t talked in much detail about specs now that I think about it
Probably a snooze and a bit of alphabet soup, but it’s fun to meee. I’ll get into the weeds.
Industrial Revolution baby!!!!! We love regional imbalances!!! Electricity is not yet widespread in rural regions. It is relatively established in cities.
Liberty trucks(also known as Class-B Standardized Military Truck)! They are featured. These bad boys did a whopping 20~ mph. feats of American engineering, truly. There is one preserved at Fort Sill that I recently drooled at. These were not small trucks. With canvas, over 10 feet in height. 22 feet in length.
Any pistol I mention is an M1911, EXCEPT we see one or two Smith and Wesson(not colt, although now that I think about my reasoning behind it maybe I’ll throw a colt in there for plot purposes hehehe ) M1917 revolvers at a couple points. There’s just something sexy about a frightened person with a revolver. Pay day.
The rifles mentioned are a nod to the M1918 Browning Automatic Rifle. Thing is, I freaking love bayonets (which the BAR does not take) so why not the M1903 Springfield which was also a more accessible and mass produced weapon in the (inspired) time anyway? Because I like weapons made from more metal than wood. Im a simple woman. I love cool, greasy metal.
Thank you for asking me this l feel like I just ran a marathon thinking about machines I love you for this.
OMG ELECTRICITY DISPARITY FUCK YEAH. I'm already sat up.
This is actually the shit I live for. I could listen to people who Know Things about vehicles and guns talk about both of those things for H O U R S . Especially if I make them have to think first >:]
20mph was probably a terrifying speed when that truck was in service. That's about how fast trains typically went in the 1870s. (I think the one that yeeted Sullivan was going around 20-25mph.)
Also the words cool greasy metal are going to be rattling around in my brain all day thank you 🖤🖤🖤
I love creating a character then just letting them loose in my story with no plans. Fuck up my plot! Make me adapt everything around your unplanned existence!
So I have this fic i wrote probably ten years ago or something on ffn that I want to move over to ao3 just for archiving purposes. But it’s 28 chapters and I don’t really want to bombard my subscribers with emails for every new chapter, so does anyone know any workarounds?
when it comes to slaughter, you will do your work on water
SNP Westerhout is a thousand feet long, steely grey with a red belly. She’s been at this for almost twenty years by the time you join her skeleton crew.
One of the young seamen, Buchanan, doesn’t like you much. From the time you joined the crew he’s doubted your age out loud in front of everybody. He says shit like, “You don’t look nineteen. Do you think he looks nineteen, Cillian? He can’t be.”
You turn seventeen in a few days, but that’s besides the point. It’s right there on your fake ID: nineteen.
You’re a real pussy about it, too; prideless, cowardly, invisible. But not to Buchanan; to him you must be some threat.
You are, in the end. At his end.
🤠 PRETZELS AND VIOLENCE BELOW THE CUT 🤠
He does nothing without an audience. Passing by each other in an otherwise empty corridor, he says nothing. Won’t even look up off the floor in front of him. But when the other guys are milling around, he’s full of condescension, full of doubt about you, full of theories. You think you don’t give him anything to work with, but sometimes it feels like your shame is a long strip of magnetic reel he’s unspooling in front of everybody. The things he says, stupid as they are, cut you open and dissect you so everyone can lean over and see what’s stowed inside your skeleton.
You don’t like it, but you’re not gonna do anything about it.
The more you demure, the ballsier Buchanan gets. He starts trying to pick fights, albeit only when there’s somebody to see it. He’s a little bit shorter than you are, but bigger. (Everybody was bigger than you back then, when you were a kid pretending to be a man pretending to be human.) When he pushes, you stagger. When he shoves the heels of his hands against yours, he can push you down onto your knees, then he kicks you in the ribs. It happens about that way a couple times. It knocks the breath out of you and you can’t get back on your feet right away, so the sight of you on your hands and knees sucking for air is a nice spectacle — but it doesn’t hurt, really. Not for long. The seamen and the oilers get tired of watching you long before you’re on your feet again. It’s funny for them, but not impressive. Some of the older guys think he could stand to pick on somebody who stands a chance for a change.
You do start to wonder if you ought to take offense. You catch sight of the bruises he leaves and wonder if they shouldn’t go deeper than they do. If your pride shouldn’t feel bruised and soft like overripe fruit. It doesn’t, though — it feels more like watching some character you don’t care much about get the shit kicked out of him on TV.
Westerhout is headed for the Strait of Malacca when you finally talk to him. Everyone’s nervous because some smaller vessel got hijacked a couple weeks back. One of the pirates had a grenade-launcher, Cillian tells everyone at lunch-time. You listen, but only because you like the look of him. (This is something you grapple with from time to time, but mostly you accept it. It’s far from the worst thing about you.) If pirates want to try and steal forty-foot containers loaded with mysterious contents, they could just kick you about it, too. They can blow you up — what choice does anybody have?
But Buchanan is real nervous about it. He doesn’t say anything at lunch; just wears this chary look on his face. Part of you wants to feel smug about that, but looking at him just makes you blue. He can’t sleep that night. It’s strange that you even notice — but you’re fresh off your shift, and the sky is a cold, cold shade of grey. It blazes silvery behind the ovular windows leading from your room, which you share with a guy called Lopez, to the snack machines. They’re bubbly with condensation, and the bright primary shades of the containers out on the deck blur like a surreal, preschool dream.
You pause and look out over the deck from the doors to the emergency escape. Your hand clears water from the glass and you squint at the dark shape leaned over the deck rail. The stacked containers look like a city built around him, like Buchanan’s standing at the edge of the world.
Spotlights on the deck light the way to him. You’re forgoing a bag of out-of-date pretzels for this, and don’t quite know why. By the time you see him through a narrow frame of corrugated steel boxes stacked forty feet high on either side, you’re sure what you want to do. (It was iffy, at first, because your mind kept snapping to the little utility knife in your back pocket on your way here. Must’ve been self-preservation, though, because Buchanan’s kicked you so many times.) When you reach him he doesn’t turn around, so you lay your hand briefly on his shoulder then lean over the rail next to him and you both watch foam lap out of the black ocean.
Buchanan mutters something like an apology, which you don’t answer. The follow-up is excuses: he guesses he’s a little bit homesick. He was in the foster system for most of his childhood; his adopted father recently passed away. Can you be homesick, he wonders, if you never had a home?
You’re barely listening, but you understand doubt and confusion and lonesomeness so intimately it comes as a shock that anyone else could be acquainted with them without you hearing about it. It shouldn’t surprise you, though, because these things don’t talk. (That’s kind of the hell of it, isn’t it?)
You look over at him, finally, and he looks at you like it’s the first time he’s ever seen you. Like he didn’t know who it was he was talking to all this time, or knocking down, and you realize he’s not the age he says he is, either. He looks heartbroken for a beat and his mouth works around a “Why,” but it’s eaten up by waves rushing against Westerhout’s belly and he abandons whatever it is he’s gonna say. Reaches out instead and holds onto to the back of your neck while he looks in your eyes like he’s sorry, then all of a sudden he’s coming closer and closer and you can’t begin to imagine what it is he’ll do
and you never find out, because you slip the knife from your pocket and spring it and jam it down to the hilt between his ribs.
He clenches up and grabs at your skinny wrist. His eyes drop down and his mouth moves — probably another one of those why questions but only blood comes out — and you don’t know, exactly, but you think to him, you know why. It occurs to you to yank your knife out of him and drive it in a dozen more times, but it also occurs that his blood would paint an abstract expressionist work of evidence against you, so you shove him at the railing instead. He’s heavy and you can’t seem to lift him over. The light’s leaving his eyes the whole time and his body starts to list and sag. He drapes his spine over the metal and you grab his pants and haul him the rest of the way, then let go. Your knife slips out of your grip and falls with him. He hits the water and you imagine he bobs back to the surface in the dark gloom, but the knife sinks.
You step back and look at the rail. It’s clean. There’s a glob of blood on the deck, which you wash away with a styrofoam cup and sludgy rainwater you dug out of one of the garbage cans fixed to the outer deck. You do the same with the blood crusted at the corner of your thumb nail, then buy your pretzels and take a long shower and you’re in bed eating when Lopez comes into the room.
It’s a few hours before they start looking for Buchanan. You can’t sleep, but pretend to wake up, then help look for him at one in the morning. Knowing you won’t find him doesn’t diminish your effort. It takes thirteen men a long time to scour a ship that size. Hours after you dropped him over the railing, they call in a search and rescue.
This "chapter" needs more editing than others, and may or may not ever make it to the official chronicle of yote lore. Posting it anyway! 💃
Taggin':
@fortunatetragedy
@saturnine-saturneight
@cowboybrunch
