OTHER WRITING
PROSE
Blue Blood - an intro in which a werewolf boy murders his family
. Lupa was banished from his kingdom. He wasn’t wroth about it. His pits of rage were a long fall to drop, a steep price to afford. You’ve done the climb before, said his gut wrenchingly. He had. Just as he had bit the neck of his mother, and twisted the neck of his father, and had slipped poison to his little sister like it was candy, like he wished it was candy. It worked, and they died. Captain Fen took her sweet time to find his ass. The sun was already up when she barged in where he sat among his victims, their bodies shrivelling beneath the golden streams.
Last Promise - Intro snippet from a Legend of Zelda spec short story (WIP)
. Zelda sealed her fate with a click. All her lives’ efforts encased in a tiny orb, for their enemy to find and consume, a ticking bomb poised to doom her entire kingdom; finality. The world spun. The drip-drip of blood in the backdrop reverberated off her bones, shook her where she stood. When was the last time she had eaten? There was the sad-looking trash bin that had been pushed behind the counter, boasting goopy remains of soup. Hairy somethings had started corkscrewing their way out of it. It smelled awful. Surely she had eaten something since. Her stomach growled, as if to call bullshit.
Summer's End - a short story about a girl's afternoon adventure
The sound of pattering feet echoed across the sidewalk, further down toward the pond where it joined the rustling leaves that had fallen just the previous day. A breeze spoke of the coming chill—one that would be harsh on the poor villagers of Ashdale.
. Some declared it a punishment, due justice for the neglect of their Gods. Insolence inviting doom. Other voices added dissonance to the choir: Pish-posh—I’ll say—Nothing but hearsay. So entangling was such gossip that people failed to notice a small girl sneak away from her duties.
POETRY
Message (2021)
When the birds fly across the surface, quickly as to
make it home before sunrise, you will not find me as their witness. I’ll be hidden away from your lovely eyes, I’ll be donning a new armor that I grew myself from the parts of me that kept leaking until I welded them shut.
You can not scent me on the wind, for I’ve mingled with the chill of winter, announcing the advent of father frost. When the leaves are dropped for dead only to be picked up by the earth and given a home, I will be migrated along with the butterflies, wandering toward a new roosting place since your heart is no longer house. I will dip my toes in the sea so it can swallow me up and wrap me close, let the waves rock me back to sleep after a bad dream.
When the clouds disperse and I show up to drink of the sun, don’t take me in your tender arms if you don’t think to keep me. My adamant core will turn molten and drip like tears into a chalice, that you may drink of me, and see. And when the horizon takes a step closer, tentatively hopeful, you can not take my hand to meet it unless you’re willing to bargain at the gate.
слова матери - Mother's Words (2020)
once reality passes through both ears it becomes obsolete and you will find yourself grasping for a sense of self. didn’t your mother tell you not to spill any milk, unless you were ready to lock away your tears for a different time? you crave the transparency of a mother’s truth, yet balk at the frankness of your own mother’s tongue.
so learn how to hurt while this bruise lingers.
G-force (2025)
The spin-cycle on my washing machine is ruthlessly fast
And the excess water in my socks flung dizzy
down the drain
Oh but a stubborn few will stay,
cling firm to the porous fabric
They haven't been warned of the slow death on the drying rack
In Flight (2021)
A hurricane does not look back at broken homes and treasured memories.
Does not stop at the crossroad before swift promises, or to lick up sugary delights
all sticky from a glaze of wishes and wants.
If I was a hurricane, I would not leave my heart behind when whirling through delight,
nor when knocking at grief.
I would not feel remorse for choices made or unmade, would
already hurry toward my next harbor, would
not bend for the prickle of tears as I swallowed up and spit out
love.
I would be a hurricane, if
I could suffer the weight of no remorse.