Not Alone
Oh my.
I feel very…different.
Relieved?
Realizing I am not alone.
My experience is one others share;
It can be explained.
People get me.
I am not…a bad person.
I am not…wrong.
It is not…my fault.
And help will work.
I spent so long
—too long—
Thinking.
Thinking that what I was going through,
Was somehow untreatable.
I believed for so long
—to long—
That I had to explain,
And still no one
Wrote this at night, falling asleep.
Wrote this as a dream came to me.
Wrote this while I cried,
Wrote this and forgot it.
A Knock on the Door
A knock sounds, at my door.
I open it, and gasp.
Who is she, with no mask?
Who is she?
“I am you,” she says happily.
“Who you will become,” continues Lily.
I stand breathless, then begin sobbing.
I don’t stop for hours, and she’s at my side.
I just can’t believe it, but
Posting backlogg
Helpless
I can’t watch this,
I can’t read this,
I just can’t.
It’s all too much, this hate.
It’s all so wrong, our fate.
Was I born too late?
I feel something deep within—watching this unfold.
I feel fear, anger, and deep deep wrongness.
I can only ignore it so long—until they come for me.
I feel helpless—paralyzed—watching
I feel sorrow and depression.
I can only dream, hope, and plea.
When I was in a very Brandon Sanderson phase of my life, I created a nameless setting that I wrote a few works in. Originally, it would have spanned the whole universe, but the only two things I wrote were on the same planet, Flers.
(From a comment on another blog post)
Anyway, I'll just dump setting information, and mention what I like at the end.
So, initially, humanity is just on the planet Flers, on an island continent in the south. A group who has basically monopolized the
About two years ago, I wrote one novella and four short stories in a setting of my own creation. I've looked down on it as weaker writing, but now that I'm looking back, I think there are things worth salvaging. My short story collection especially, as I wrote it later.
One of the things I did was add little "Syndicate logs", information from a mysterious organization from space throughout the collection, to shed light on their motives and plans. I'll put them below. Without context of the
So I don't remember much of this game, as I forgot to type it up when I first played it.
It was 4 player Bios: Genesis, with me (red), @The WorldHopper Taynix (yellow), @Hoid the ShardBoy (green) and my non-Sharder non-Sanderfan brother (red).
It took ages for anyone to get a bacterium. We went all the way to the start of the Proterozoic without a single one.
Eventually, the Hydrothermal Vents from turn 2 became @The WorldHopper Taynix's bacterium, and I got one two from a refugi
There are two types of story in The Longest Thread. The frivolous, meaningless chaos of a story the authors didn’t care about was the first- in fact, the Thread was born from posts like this. These had little to no consequence and were soon forgotten. These second was the real story. The plot arc of a character who was truly believed in, the inspiration of a powerful tale, the writing of an author highly invested in their work. This was what the Thread had become. And this type of story couldn’
Living through a medical transition often means your "wins" are measured in lab results, dosage adjustments, or appointment checkboxes. But this week, the breakthrough wasn’t in a clinic—it was in the mirror.
I’m dedicating this post to a non-medical win: the pure, unadulterated euphoria of a fresh haircut.
There is something transformative about the sound of shears near your ears. It’s the intentional shedding of an old silhouette. For me, this wasn’t just about "cleaning up the edges
This was also something I made at that writing camp, this one had a bit more work put into it, but I don't like it as much because the gayness isn't the focus of the story, and the poor writing I feel like is more noticable. I also accidentally stole House of Leaves's colored text gimmick without knowing about it. (Also copy+paste is weird, the colored text is supposed to also be bold, but for some reason the entire document is bold. Ah well.
This was a thing I wrote last year at a writing camp. We were given a prompt to show a reversal of who typically has power in a situation. It's pretty mid, but I like it still.
Homines, Mors.
Nobody even still remembers
Why?
We forgot.
Simple and true.
All we knew
Was that…
We wanted it.
And that was enough.
That was enough.
Homines is still bustling.
The streets are empty.
But you can hear its death everywhere.
2 solders, sleeping on the streets.
Wearing different uniforms, both bleeding red.
Humans, Death.
Ding ding.
”I’ll go get it”
I go up to the door.
I already know who it is.
I open the door.
I suppose now is the time to mention my hand was shaking.
The Darkness is at the door.
You should step outside.
Inside is so cold… it’ll be warmer out here
I turn back.
My family is there.
Laughing without me.
But I’m at the door.
Without me.
Occasionally, one of them looks over.
They probably think I’m handling it.
They don’t
A Flaw is an entity from a dimension between stories, I think in TLT this is known as The Void. Flaws exist for one purpose- to prey on Authors and destroy their stories. There are three types of Flaws I have created: Subversion Flaws, Killer Flaws, and Tyrant Flaws.
The Subversion Flaw is a demon-like entity that lives in its normal form in the space between worlds. It is the lowest level of the Flaw hierarchy and subservient to higher ranks, and is also the most common form of a Flaw. A s
The High Priest lay on the cobblestones, feeling the heat of the flames licking the wall, feeling the weight smoldering vestments settle on him, the burden of tradition chaining him down.
"Please . . . spare this temple."
No answer. The fire began to burn the tapestries, and the heat became unbearable. Blood and ash had mixed, and were indistinguishable. The Dreamsmith had been right. The false prophet had been correct. The doom was upon them.
"Doom?"
The High Priest jerked
The fluorescent lights of Mr. Hemmingsworth’s AP Sociology class hum with a clinical, soul-sucking frequency. I sit three rows back and two seats over from Luanne, hidden behind the broad, stiff shoulders of my own jacket. Mr. Hemmingsworth is droning on about “social structures” and “the invisible threads that bind us,” but all I can see is the island of oak where Luanne sits alone.
She doesn’t look like an invisible thread. She looks like a jagged, purple lightning bolt in a room full of
Ok. The reason for the odd title and thumbnail is because I'm gonna start keeping the after-midnight writing separate from the daytime ones. I wrote these after midnight last night, which was technically today, but that's just confusing. Plus, I want to post them now, but also might write more today, and then would have to go back and edit to add them. So it makes sense, right? Also the reason for "22?" is because it works I guess and still fits alphabetically between .../22 and .../23. So yup.
Better Person
Sometimes you just have to suck it up,
And be the better person.
Sometimes you just have to realize,
That your feelings don’t matter.
Sometimes you just need to see,
That you don’t need to argue.
You don’t need to complain,
You can just do it,
And enjoy it,
Enjoy helping others.
Deeper Understanding
You know when you really get someone?
When they say something,
And are ridiculed?
Dismissed?
Silen
For Week 2 of this series, we’re talking about the Secret Wardrobe—that first piece of clothing or jewelry that actually felt like you, even if you only ever wore it behind closed doors.
When you’re a trans girl navigating the early stages of transition, the world feels like a place where you’re constantly performing. You wear the "boy clothes" like a heavy set of armor that doesn't quite fit, waiting for the moment you can go home and take the mask off. But for me, the first time I felt li
Too Much
Just a meal.
Just a meal.
Can I just eat a meal?
Clearly not.
I want to leave.
Won’t they please stop.
This time it’s too much.
Too loud.
Too much.
Too much.
I can’t.
I can’t.
Let me leave.
Please just stop.
Please get along.
Please stop.
Please.
Please just be quiet.
Please be nice.
I beg you.
I can’t do this.
I can’t sit here.
It’s too much.
So much.
I do
I wrote this kinda late yesterday, so I'm publishing it now the next day.
Unlived
She sat with them, happy.
She sat with them, a rare joy.
She sat with them, being herself—or trying.
She sat there in one of the few amazing moments of her life.
…
She walked with them, through the night.
She listened as they talked, sometimes joining.
She rarely spoke, however.
That was her way—as long as she could remember.
It could be hell, but it was
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The stars are beautiful
tan(90)
Poetry
Coding
Writing
Math
Worldbuilding
Trigonometry
Roleplaying
STEM
Humanities
AP CompSci
English
Sudoku
Reading
Logic
Emotion
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