I go by Mahtama (But I'll take any nickname that's not offensive -_-) Any pronouns are fine though I prefer They/them. I will be doing poems and stories as I see fit.
Will attempt to answer any and all asks from Followers, would love to see art from you all as well.
I do have an Ao3 account, if I do decide to create a book there. DO NOT mistake Seas Unfortunate Soul as my own, it's my friend Mirhashi's (I will take no slander to their work.)
Any hateful opinions can suck it cause guess what? Commenting is an option. ANYWAY.
Have fun here and be kind to others!
Oh and for my auditory listener, I'm slowly working on reading (and uploading: Ace' Reading
You are dark,
and darkness is often misunderstood—
spoken of in whispers,
painted as a place where lost things go.
But I have stood in those shadows,
felt their quiet pulse,
heard the truths they keep
when the world grows too loud.
And when I look at you,
I don’t see fear—
I see depth,
I see the secrets stars tell
only when the sun has finally stepped aside.
You are dark,
yes—
but darkness is not an absence.
It is a cradle for soft beginnings,
a shelter where fragile things
learn the shape of their own strength.
And somehow,
in the hush of that hidden world,
I feel I can understand you—
not by dragging you into the light,
but by sitting beside you
until your night
feels safe enough to breathe.
You are the ember
That stays warm in my chest
When the night grows long.
You are the compass
That finds me
Even when I’m lost on purpose.
I save the last piece for you,
Always,
Without thinking.
Your voice is a lighthouse—
It pulls me in from storms
I never told you I was sailing. And if the stars ever fell,
I’d catch them,
Just to see how they look in your hands.
Long ago, the sky was whole,
one endless blaze, unbroken, bold.
The Sun ruled high with golden crown,
no night, no rest, no cooling down.
The Earth grew weary, rivers cried,
the flowers wilted, shadows died.
So the Moon, in silver veils of mist,
approached the Sun with a tender kiss.
“Share your throne, O burning king,
let creatures sleep, let dreamers sing.
I’ll guard the dark with softer light,
while you descend and grant them night.”
The Sun, though proud, could not deny
the pleading Earth, the Moon’s soft sigh.
So every eve he rides away,
into the sea at end of day.
And every dawn, with blazing fire,
he climbs the sky at her desire.
A promise made, a vow to keep,
the world may wake, the world may sleep.
So rises Sun, so sets again,
a dance of love that has no end.
If you are hearing this,
Me, my fellow crewmates are gone,
the ship's oxygen levels have depleted
and I’ll be dead—
I’ll be dead soon.
To whomever may find this,
I am Captain Labric.
Our objective was to—
our objective doesn’t matter.
I’m gonna die
and I just want someone to hear this:
Earth is our home.
There is no other home.
So save Earth.
Stop trying to
somewhere else.
Stop sending us to our deaths.
Just fix what we already have.
That’s all.
When the sun slips away,
the night wakes up.
It hums in the quiet creak of doors,
the soft sigh of trees in the wind,
the whisper of footsteps
you’re sure you didn’t hear.
Some find peace here —
the silver light of the moon,
the gentle songs of crickets,
the stars that seem to speak
just to them.
Others feel a shiver —
shadows moving at the edge of sight,
a sudden cold breath on the back of the neck,
a feeling that something is watching
from the dark.
The night holds both:
comfort and fear,
wonder and dread,
like a secret it will never tell.
So listen —
to the soft mysteries that come
when the world is asleep.
They belong to you,
if you are brave enough
to hear them.
In the hush between your heartbeat and the knock.
They breathe through splintered floorboards,
seep from walls your father painted white —
a color that cannot hold them back.
Their whispers gather in the corners,
soft as moth wings, sharp as broken glass.
They remember how the river took them,
how the fire licked their bones clean,
how the soil grew thick with secrets
that blossom now in your dreams.
You think you’re alone when you lie in bed,
but your name is spoken by a mouth of worms,
your window rattles with a sigh you do not own.
You asked for an empty house —
instead, they come: the mother with no eyes,
the lover with no tongue,
the child who drags a shadow twice its size.
Even the dead tell stories —
and yours is next, they say,
pressing their cold lips to your ear,
carving your future on the back of your teeth
where words fester until they must be said.
So, listen.
The door is open.
The grave is warm.
The story wants your ending.
Give it one.
The battle had been over for hours, but the wreckage still smoked under the bruised sky. Amid the twisted metal and scorched earth, the so-called villain lay half-buried in rubble, his mind fractured like the broken ground around him.
He did not remember his name — only the commands implanted in his skull, the orders that had driven him to destroy. He was The Revenant, they said. A weapon. An unstoppable force.
And yet, now, he was still.
When he woke again, he felt softness beneath him — something warm, something dry. He tried to lift his heavy eyelids and found himself staring at a ceiling made of patchwork blankets hung over sticks. The air smelled faintly of wildflowers and smoke.
A small face hovered into view, upside down. A child — maybe six years old — with tangled hair and bright, curious eyes. The child had drawn a red cross on a piece of cardboard and stuck it on their chest like a badge.
“You’re awake!” the child exclaimed, voice high and sweet. “Doctor Finny says you’re gonna be okay.”
The Revenant tried to sit up, but his body was bound by a heavy fatigue — or perhaps by the bandages that now wrapped his wounds.
"Where am I?” His voice rasped, alien to his own ears.
“In my fort!” said the child proudly, sweeping a small arm around the makeshift tent. “You were broken, so I fixed you. I’m good at fixing.”
He blinked. His mind, usually so full of static, felt oddly quiet. “Why?” he asked. He didn’t know what else to say.
The child tilted their head. “’Cause you were hurt.”
No one had ever helped him without being ordered to. No one had ever touched him without fear. Yet this tiny human pressed a cool, damp cloth to his forehead, humming a lullaby out of tune.
Days passed. He drifted in and out of sleep, waking each time to Doctor Finny’s soft chatter. They told him about the squirrels that stole their snacks, the secret hideouts in the woods, the way the stars looked like spilled sugar at night.
Each word, each giggle, each clumsy act of care peeled back a layer of his conditioning — like sunlight burning away morning mist.
One evening, as the child gently replaced a bandage, they asked, “Why did you want to hurt everyone?”
The Revenant stared at his hands, once made to crush and burn. He felt, for the first time, a flicker of something he couldn’t name — regret, maybe.
“I didn’t… want to. I just did.”
Finny’s eyes filled with a sadness too big for their tiny frame. “That’s silly,” they said at last. “Next time, if you feel all broken and angry, you come here. I’ll fix you again.”
At that moment, the final chain snapped. He was no longer The Revenant. He was just… him. A man who didn’t know his own name, but knew now what kindness felt like — raw and pure, shared by a child who had no reason to love a monster.
That night, the man lay awake under the blanket-fort roof, the child snoring softly beside him. For the first time, he wondered what the world looked like when you weren’t forced to see it through fear and rage.
And when dawn broke, he decided: he would see it through Finny’s eyes instead.
Supposed to be a One shot for writer's block but might make another part if asked enough :)
