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"In a way, there are more mysteries than tragedies"

Kofi | Wattpad | AO3 | Writing Master List | Pillowfort | Bluesky

(Profile art by @floofyboi57)

Hi hi! I'm an aroace trans man in a system that loves to write horror mysteries. Though I dabble in other genres depending on what a story needs. My works typically include morally gray characters, strangely cute monsters, and dark content, so make sure you read the content warnings before engaging with them. Some themes you can expect are light in the deepest darkness, heroes being worse than the villain, weirdcore settings, humans as the true evil, religious trauma, finding queer acceptance, and so on. I also litter my works with trans, plural, and aroace themes.

Important notes:

Why did I make a new blog, outside of wanting a fresh start? To be honest, my notifications were so broken that it made the decision easy. I do recognize that, one day, I'll have to accept having an account for a long time just means things will break, but this is not that day!

Taglist and Tags

@aweirdshipp

If you like our work, please consider asking to be added to the taglist! This shows us people are interested in our writing, and can help ensure you're notified about writing updates. Feel free to clarify if you want to be tagged for things like a specific WIP, writing ramblings, snippets, or if you want to be notified when I need beta readers.

#ourwriting, #writingrambles, #writingsnippet, #wipupdates, #essiehobbies

Disclaimer

I will not follow you if you do not properly warn about or tag triggering content. I'd love to be moots with others, but I can not comfortably follow you if you are not properly tagging your posts. I am a strong pusher for properly tagging content so people can curate their own space.

An Optional BYF For Those Who Want It

This is a Litmus Test

Yep, let's talk about the whole "fiction effects reality" thing. When I use this phrase, what I am not saying is that violent media will make you violent, or that all stories should be squeaky clean with the purpose of teaching a moral. It's a recognition of how harmful feeding into stereotypes can be, and how certain framing contributes to the spread of harmful ideas. For example, a work that glorifies violence done by the military via painting the other side of a conflict as "pure evil". And let me be clear, a character glorifying their own actions is not the same as the creator glorifying their actions, nor are stories where everyone is evil or sucks encouraging bad behavior.

The takes, "writing about horrific things does not make you a bad person", and, "a creator framing a character's horrific behavior as justifiable, and others negative reactions towards it as unjustifiable, could be a red flag", in my opinion, can and should coexist. (Ex: B being painted as in the wrong for not seeing a trans individual as crazy, while A is painted as justified for doing so). I am against censorship and harassment, but I am not against thoughtful critiques or discussions about how we present certain ideas within our writing. Discouraging this makes it more difficult to discuss when harm is intended or accidentally done, and can be used to silence minorities when they ask for better representation. It also makes it harder to blow the whistle on bigots. Both the extremes that everyone who writes dark things condones them, and that no one who writes dark things ever condones them are not helpful. Which brings me to my main point.

TDLR: Framing is everything, and just because fiction isn't going to turn us into murder hobos, that doesn't mean it can't contribute to the spread of harmful ideas. Being against censorship does not have to mean being against thoughtful discussion or critique.

Your reaction to these paragraphs will let you know whether or not my writing is for you. I'm a neurodivergent who's addicted to nuance, and this shows in not only my stories, but also how I approach them. As I write them, I twist the struggles, perspectives, and experiences of the characters to end up with a complex web of considerations. There's nothing wrong with a story full of horrible people being horrible just for the sake of it, or a story full of violence just because, but those aren't the type of things I tend to write. I also often cover the perspectives of trauma victims and plural individuals to put out the representation I as one want to see.

If you dislike horror that takes an interest in examining and criticizing human behavior, this is definitely not the blog for you. But, if you think tackling questions such as how far the heroes can go before they become just as bad, or even worse, than the villain, themes of characters overcoming evil, characters like oddly soft demons, and settings like weirdcore societies meant to comment on American society, are interesting, then I think you'll enjoy my works.

TDLR: I write horror with a gushy center and with representation that is important to me.

Oooo this was beautiful!

Here is the first lesson we can learn from the wandering druids: every grove is a sacred grove.

It does not matter if it is an ancient copse nestled in the heart of the forest, or a handful of shrubs sprouting anaemic from the oil-clogged veins of a city.

A garden that springs up on the rooftop of a building by mistake is still needful and worthy of our veneration. It will also need a little more help, since its connection to wider nature is much more tenuous.

An ecosystem cannot exist in isolation after all, so it is the work of those mortals who fractured it to kintsugi the fragments together. It is the work of the leafwalker to *show* the grove how to be sacred.

We see this in the roadside orchards planted by the druid Richmond Crabapple. Turning the highways into snaking green creatures, her trees offer shade to travellers and fruit to the needy. It is easy to remember a thing is sacred, after all, when it so obviously gives you life.

Here is the second lesson: everyone and everything is nature.

We are animals. Our towns and cities are animal habitats. The separation of the urban and the rural is as much a mental one as a physical. It is a mind game we play to give us the illusion of mastery, and to excuse the damage we do.

A good earthspeaker will tell you to listen to those who have stayed in conversation with the world. Those people who know the give and take of blood and bough and mulch. Those peoples who, so often, we have called savage. Those who we looked down on from our towers made of bones.

Listen. Listen and follow, if they will have you and if they will teach you.

We see this in the truce the druid Cambridge Ironweed made with the Skullcluster. This spirit takes the form of a pack of skeletal cats, and was thought to be a genus of demon predator. When Ironweed planted his feet in the dirt offered them his throat, he made himself a conversation between two worlds that should always have been one.

Now everyone in its domain lives with a skeletal cat. They know that, one day, they will die and it will eat the flesh from their bones. This is how their flesh and spirit will return to the earth.

Remember Ironwood's dying words: “Oh, you think we are special because we have souls? Here, let me show you how widely the river of the anima flows…”

Here is the third lesson: we tend that which we would see flourish.

If you would see people fed, grow food. If you would see forests thrive, tend trees. If you would see the a community safe from predators, grow thorns.

But never forget that anything that cures can also kill. Crops can choke a landscape and a sick landscape kills its creatures. A forest grown thick is fuel for wildfires. A town that is safe can forget it is part of a wider world and turn thorns into spears.

We see this in the work of the druid and rootweaver Devonport Blackwood.

The many buildings created by Blackwood are things of beauty not because of their aesthetic, but due to their function. In the towns and cities Blackwood traveled, they planted webs of needroot beneath the foundations. Needroot is weed-like in its dormant form, a wispy white root happy to live in pavement cracks and kiss the boots of commuters.

But if you need shelter? If you are desperate and vulnerable and cry your needs out like burnt offerings to the heavens? Well, if the heavens don't need you, the needroot will.

The structures it builds are strange things, bulbous and pale. They use whatever materials are to hand. They claim whatever space is unused (though not necessarily unowned). They look like nests built out of discarded tarmac, copper and mycelial strands - a mix of turnip-pale rubbery organic matter and urban detritus. As if someone had reconstructed the mythic roc from mushrooms and given it a building permit.

Everyone who needs a home in these places has one. This is the need Blackwood sought to tend.

But, because local landlords were rarely happy about this, they also left a twist in the tale.

So the needroot also provides every settlement with a communal poison garden. They are lush, lovely and deadly.

After all, many natural things need teeth to flourish.

---

This particular story was inspired by this post about druids, which y'all should read.

Enjoy my stories and want to support my work? I'm currently fundraising for my live show. Check it out here: https://igg.me/at/poorlifechoices/x/8175219

I refuse to let this stay in the tags, because it's so fucking good:

#'well I KNOW bad from good so i can't be affected by media!' #'everyone else also knows bad from good and defines it the exact way i do!' #'so if i think this is bad then the author must also think this is bad!' #i have bad news ....

You have perfectly described why I hate these responses when it comes to criticizing romanticized CSA. People will roll their eyes at you as if it's implausible the person writing it might not actually view it as bad. I am genuingely concerned about people who will defend romanticized CSA to their dying breath, all while refusing to acknowledge some groomers and predators write this content because they genuingely view their relationships as cute and harmless. It's usually not even intentional, because these individuals don't even blink an eye at these themes in their work. Not every person who writes this content is a groomer or predator, but that does not mean those who do suddenly poof away like magic. Refusing to ackowledge the writers that are and behaving as if their victims are just "lying puritans", like I see so many folks do, is so childish and harmful.

Like, I really wish people understood breaking away from purity culture is not this magical remedy that makes shitty people suddenly go away. Using the idea that believing the exact opposite of purity culture somehow erases all evil is falling into the same trappings that purity culture does. Like, purity culture refuses to acknowledge predators within their community because, so long as someone has specific beliefs and follows specific rules, they can't be bad. I am concerned seeing people who claim to believe the opposite pushing the same beliefs. Aka "so long as you think fiction never affects reality, you can't be a predator!". It's just purity culture repackaged.

In summary, great post OP. I know this was posted in 2023, but it's still extremely relevant right now.

I love how on Tumblr, "media literacy" has become "Um, just because someone writes about this doesn't mean they're endorsing this. I hate all these media puritans ruining everything."

I'm sad to inform you that knowing when and whether an author is endorsing something, implying something, saying something, is also part of media literacy. Knowing when they are doing this and when they're not is part of media literacy. Assuming that no author has ever endorsed a bad thing is how you fall for proper gander. It's not media literacy to always assume that nobody ever has agreed with the morally reprehensible ideas in their work.

Sometimes, authors are endorsing something, and you need to be aware when that happens, and you also need to be aware when you're doing it as an author. All media isn't horny dubcon fanfic where you and the author know it's problematic IRL but you get off to it in the privacy of your brain. Sometimes very smart people can convince you of something that'll hurt others in the real world. Sometimes very dumb people will romanticize something without realizing they're doing it and you'll be caught up in it without realizing that you are.

Being aware of this is also media literacy. Being aware of the narrative tools used to affect your thinking is media literacy. Deciding on your own whether you agree with an author or not is media literacy. Enjoying characters doing bad things and allowing authors to create flawed or cruel characters for the sake of a story is perfectly fine, but it is not the same as being media literate. Being smug about how you never think an author has bad intentions tells me you're edgy, not that you're media literate. You can't use one rule to apply to all media. That's not how media literacy works. Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! Aheem heem. Anyway.

I love this new character already! I'm also impressed with the way you write their dialogue. I sometimes struggle with certain characters sounding too similar, but you do a great job with the dialogue of all three of these characters. I can really hear their voice through the text. Also love how you write action, it had me on the edge of my seat!

Chapter 4 - The Protest.

The next morning, Jesse woke with a groan, the dull ache in her shoulder a solemn reminder of the danger she put herself into last night.

She looked over at Lira, who was still sitting with her knees to her chest. A wave of emotions washed over her. Guilt? Sadness? Love? Right now it was all too hard to parse over the pain.

“Hey, you wake yet?” Jesse asked, her voice hoarse from the ragged breaths she took.

“Yeah…” Lira yawned out, her gaze slowly lifting from the single tile on the floor she had been looking at all night, her eyelids drooping.

“…You didn’t sleep, huh?” Jesse’s voice was oozing for concern with her friend.

“Is it that obvious?” Lira whispered, a soft chuckle escaping her lips momentarily.

“Well…normally you look like a flame roaring to life when you wake up, but now you look like a raccoon,” Jesse said, a small smirk playing across her lips as she gestured toward her own eyes.

Suddenly, something on the TV caught their attention.

“Last night in Serath, protests broke out regarding…”

They both tuned out the broadcast, locking eyes.

Jesse spoke first, voice quiet with disbelief. “We… We started something, didn’t we? With our art?”

Lira nodded, her voice a hushed whisper. “Yeah… we did. Wish I’d finished mine, though.” She chuckled softly, her hands sliding from her knees to the floor as she pushed herself upright.

Jesse tried to stand too, wincing with every movement.

Lira laughed and smirked, stepping over to catch her before she could fall. “Careful, soldier. Don’t go hurting yourself now.”

Jesse couldn’t help but giggle, rolling her eyes.

The TV faded back into their awareness. “For those of you looking to stay safe, we recommend avoiding Duskline Avenue…”

“Let me guess… you wanna go there today, huh?” Jesse smiled, stretching out her stiff limbs. “Safety’s never been your thing.”

Lira huffed, smirking. “Guess you can read me like a book.”

“Not hard to do when I’m used to tagging along on all your little missions, Lira.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Lira chuckled, brushing off the tease. “C’mon, let’s get you ready.”

As Lira helped Jesse pull on her jacket from the night before, she couldn’t help but notice something. Jesse was still wearing the gloves from their run-in with Vance.

“You really like those gloves, huh?” Lira teased.

Jesse did her best to hide the blush rising in her cheeks. “So what if I do? They’re comfy!”

Lira chuckled, shaking her head. “Nothing wrong with liking the gloves you used to beat your first debt collector.”

The heat on Jesse’s face grew, and she quickly turned away, tugging the jacket on the rest of the way. For once, she was completely speechless — not from the hollow ache she knew too well, but from the sudden, fragile warmth blooming in her chest.

Satisfied, Lira smirked and tapped Jesse’s shoulder. “Time to go, soldier.”

Jesse took a deep breath, nodded, and smiled softly before leading the way out.

They wound their way through the maze of backstreets and alleyways, careful to avoid prying eyes. Eventually, they found themselves at the center of an enormous protest—voices bounced off the monolithic buildings towering over Duskline Avenue.

One message cut through the chaos, sharp as a blade: “RELEASE THE FILES. SHOW THE TRUTH.”

The chant thundered across the avenue, a living, breathing thing.

Lira joined in first, shouting with her whole chest. Jesse quickly followed, her voice softer but no less determined. “RELEASE THE FILES. SHOW THE TRUTH.”

Lira climbed onto the roof of a battered car, raising her firsts and leading the chant, fully caught in the moment. Jesse stayed close, feet on the ground, her presence quieter but no less vital.

The sight of it all—the passion, the sheer mass of people—moved Jesse in ways she hadn’t thought possible. Her simple little tag had helped spark this. It felt unreal, overwhelming…but she couldn’t stop herself from chanting alongside the crowd.

Their voices grew hoarse, lost in the sound and the safety of the numbers around them—the unwitting masses never realizing their two ghost leaders stood right there among them.

Eventually, the crowd began to die down—until a single gunshot cracked through the air, slicing past a wall of bodies and slamming into the hood of the car Lira was standing on with a sickening crunch.

Screams erupted in an instant. Panic spread like a wildfire. Lira leapt from the car just as another shot hit the metal frame behind her, sending the crowd into full-blown chaos. People pushed and stumbled, nearly trampling one another in their rush to escape.

“Where the fuck did that come from?” Lira shouted, eyes darting across the windows of the far buildings as she searched for the source.

Then—another shot. This one shattered the side of the car near her landing point.

Before Jesse could react, Lira grabbed her hand and yanked her toward a nearby pillar. She’d seen it: the telltale flash of glass. A scope. They weren’t aiming to kill yet. Just playing with them. But they knew where they were.

A third shot slammed into the pillar with a sharp thud.

Then silence.

Too quiet.

Where had the protestors gone? Were they hiding? Watching? Had they scattered completely?

Questions raced through Lira’s mind, but she pushed them down. No time. Can’t look. That sniper’s still watching.

A soft crack—a new gunshot, muffled this time. Silenced. A warning. Either the sniper had changed tactics, or there were two.

Jesse’s fingers began to tap a quiet rhythm on her thigh, the one she always fell into when the fear crept too close. Her eyes scanned the nearby doors, the pillars, the shadows. Can’t go down the street. Shots were too low. They’ll have it covered. Need an alley. Something tight.

Lira stayed still, her breathing shallow, eyes flicking between possible exits.

Then her thoughts turned, as they always did, toward Jesse.

If I give myself up… would they let her go?

She clenched her jaw. No. No, don’t think like that. We get out. Together.

Jesse tore one glove off and lobbed it around the corner of the pillar. Two shots rang out—simultaneous. The glove shredded mid-air.

Shit. Two of them. Her thoughts raced, calculating.

Bolt action? Maybe. Could give us a second to run for an alley. But I can’t keep tossing things and hoping they reload.

Her rhythm picked up—fingers tapping frantically now—as her eyes met Lira’s.

Without hesitation, Lira pulled Jesse into her chest, shielding her. Every muscle in her body coiled. Then she moved—scooping Jesse up like she weighed nothing and sprinting toward the next concrete cover.

They almost made it.

Two more shots ripped through either side of Jesse’s jacket, far too close for comfort—too precise.

Lira’s instincts screamed. She pivoted sharply, the sunlight catching a puddle in the alley just ahead. She veered toward it, taking a hard turn just as two more bullets slammed into the corner where they’d been just milliseconds before.

Don’t stop. Not yet. Too close. Her legs burned, lungs heaving, but she pushed through it all—darting between shadows, diving behind dumpsters, weaving through tight alleyways.

Only once they broke into a crowded market, loud and alive, did she slow. She set Jesse down in front of her, breath ragged.

“You okay?” she asked, scanning her friend for blood.

Jesse winced, taking a deep breath to calm the adrenaline coursing through her veins. “No more hurt than I was this morning…unless you count sentimental damage.”

Lira let out an exasperated sigh and wrapped her arms around Jesse, holding her tightly, as if sheer force could keep her safe. “Thank god… I don’t know what I’d do if I let you get hurt again.”

Jesse smiled softly at her words, unspoken words and emotion curling at the corners of her lips.

The market buzzed around them—a wash of voices, bartering, footsteps, and laughter. After the gunfire and hollow silence, the sound of normal life was almost surreal. Comforting in its chaos.

“Was it a setup?” Jesse asked, her voice low.

Lira’s stomach tightened. It was the only thing that made sense. “We can’t be sure just yet.” She knew she was lying, but it was better than facing the truth.

Jesse nodded, drawing in a deep, shaky breath. “Yeah…but if it was a setup, they gave us a way out. Almost like they didn’t want us dead. Like it was a test.”

They began moving, weaving through the crowd. Lira leaned in closer, her voice almost drowned in the noise. “And if they wanted us there, who knows how many of those protestors were agents?”

Jesse went quiet, her shoulders tensing slightly beneath the ripped jacket.

Just as they were relaxing slightly, a voice cut through the noise of the merchants behind them.

“You two made quite the mess back there.”

They spun around. A woman stood half-shadowed beneath the canopy of a market stall, fingers tucked into her coat pockets. She looked calm—too calm for someone who’d supposedly just walked out of a sniper ambush.

Jesse instinctively stepped back, her body still wired from adrenaline. Lira moved in front of her without thinking.

“We don’t know you,” Lira said flatly.

“You don’t need to.” The woman glanced up, letting them catch a brief glimpse of her face. She looked vaguely familiar. Maybe someone who’d been part of the protest. Or the building. “But I know you.”

Jesse tensed.

The woman continued, her voice just above the murmur of the crowd. “You weren’t the only ones painting last night. But you were the loudest. Most visible. And now? People are listening.”

She paused, looking at Lira. “They’ll come again. Louder next time. You need to be somewhere safe.”

“And let me guess,” Lira said with a bitter smirk, “you just so happen to know a place?”

“I know the place.”

The woman turned and started walking away without another word. Lira hesitated. Jesse touched her arm.

“I think we should hear her out.” Jesse’s voice was soft and meek, like a mouse.

Lira didn’t move, eyes narrowed. “It could be a trap.”

Jesse exhaled. “Maybe. But we’re running out of alleys and markets to hide in.”

Lira hesitantly nodded, knowing their safety was limited if they stayed on the run.

With that, the two women followed this new anomaly of a woman.

I'm a lesbian and i see myself in media about bi women, also in media about gay/bi men. even if it's not Entirely made for me, it's still for me. and I know and hope that other gay/bi people are able to see parts of themselves in lesbian media. sorry to be cheesy but we are more similar than we are different and it's those experiences we share that draw us to these stories in the first place, and the reason we're even telling them <3

reblog to diminish the horrors from the person you reblogged from

I don't know the context but aw, they have such a sweet relationship. /gen

Chapter 3

363 words

Caellon was lying on his bed on his back, hanging off the edge of it with Aelarias politely sitting next to him.

“You need not worry so much over such things, Aelarias, it's not even your job.” “Oh but I must, you're such an optimistic dolt that you would never consider such worldly things and your siblings just baby you so.” 

Aelarias poked Cael’s side at ‘dolt’ to add some form of emphasis before his smile drifted. “You wouldn’t have ordered me here if you weren’t in need of counsel.” He added in a more severe tone. Cael had flinched away at the harsh contact but didn’t argue against his claim instead Cael nodded solemnly and sat up. “It's an awful lot to do, Osiian doesn't hate it, but she’s the oldest, mum's right hand, it just feels like an average Tuesday for her. Eirion doesn't like that it cuts in on his sparing time with the knights but he doesn't kick up too much of a fuss about it.” He paused for a moment.

 “Rhydes has always enjoyed the diplomatic aspect of her role, she likes chatting with our ladies and lords as well as the common folk, gives us a ‘grander perspective of the goings on’ she says. Of course Taliesin is taking it in stride as per usual, and I'm doing alright I suppose, it's definitely more work than I'm used to though…” Cael trailed off at the end of his sentence, turning his gaze and attention to his hands.

“Well I’m here for one  reason or another aren't I? I’ll help with the workload for a bit, till you get your legs back under you eh?” Aelarias gave him a fairly gentle nudge with his elbow and the pensive frown on Cael’s face finally flickered back to a smile. 

“Yeah, I suppose you are.” He grabbed his friend into a fairly tight hug. “There we go.. good on you.” Aelarias murmured as he returned the gesture and slowly pulled the two of them to standing. “Your mother isn’t set to be gone all that long a while anyhow, you’ll be used to this in no time at all Cael.”

I really don't want to discuss this issue in greater detail, and plan to avoid doing so in the future, but I will say this:

You can be anti censorship without silencing the voices of victim's whose experiences do not conveniently back your viewpoint. We are not tools for your arguments, we are living people with lived experiences we should be allowed to express.

Also, just like you wouldn't assume someone talking about how the teachings of the Bible hurt them means they want the Bible to be censored, you shouldn't assume someone talking about how certain media hurt them or was used to groom them automatically means they want it to be censored. I was groomed by certain media, but I am anti censorship. I want to see more human potrayels of victims in media. I am still anti censorship. These things can co exist. I am not going to suddenly stop talking about it because some brain dead idiots on the internet can not fathom nuance. I promise you it is worthwhile sitting down with yourself and examining why you assume victims are always out to get you if they don't repackage their experiences in a way that kisses the ass of your world view. We are people, we are not here for your comfort or convenience. If you are not ready to hear about certain experiences, be mature and block instead of treating us as evil.

If you are using being "anti purity culture" as a weapon to silence victims, you are just as bad as the people who use purity culture to silence victims. Being "for victims" means respecting the experiences of victims viewed as "sexual weirdos" and victims viewed as "too prudish" equally. Pressuring victims to not bring their experience to the table because you constantly assume we want to censor you is a shit thing to do.