Sorry, I Didn't Mean To Imply That. I Just Meant Focus Wise.

new reblog game actually put in the tags what the blog you reblogged from tastes like

Practical Magic (1998) dir. Griffin Dunne

Writeblr Intro circa 2024

Hi writeblr!! Sooo, I've been around here since about 2014. (Yes, I am ancient.) However, I've been dormant for the past 4-5 years. Blame college and a brief stint on Twitter. Now that I'm active again, I thought I should make an updated writeblr intro so ppl know my Deal. Basically, I want to engage with other folks who write fiction (esp original SF), and that's a little easier if I have a clear post that outlines what I do. Here to make connections and hear about your blorbos :)

About me

Hi, I'm Vee! They/them, 23, 💖 🤍 🧡

I do journalism/comms in western New York

My literary jam is feminist/adult SF and gothic lit (OG or modern) 🥀 ⚔️ 🌙

Enthusiastic about gay people, body horror, and sociopolitical allegories

I cook, run, play tabletop games, and occasionally draw. Other than that, I'm mostly writing (for work and for fun)

If you were on pre-2020 writeblr, you likely know me from my eight billion daily tag games. (I still like tag games and appreciate u for tagging me. I have also gained adult responsibilities and better mental health, so I respond very slowly now. <3)

Always happy to get asks or dms, tho as I've noted: I may reply slowly.

Sometimes open to beta read! I only read one longer project at a time, but it's always super fun :)

I tag very consistently – happy to tag triggers for followers/moots

Fun fact: I love mushroom hunting and worked as a mycology TA. #cottagecoreera 🍄 🧚‍♀️ 🌱

About my creative writing

I write,,,, feminist/adult SF with gothic leanings (surprise!)

Longform and short! Trying to do more short writing this year, and I'll likely share a bit on Tumblr. It's easier to clip a short story than a 150k novel, god bless.

The Aesthetic: moral g(r)ays, Victoriana, androids/cyborgs, Women™, monstrous femininity, incessant Hamlet/Frankenstein motifs, extremely boring socioeconomic worldbuilding, evil queens and/or dilfs, psychosexual witchcraft, probably a cat. Also, an ominous, plot-relevant letter laced with anthrax from your unhinged and brilliant ex-wife. Open if you dare.

Major projects

I'm going to be writing some short work this year, but these are the longer projects that I have going in the background. If I reblog blorbo-related text posts, they probably have something to do with these.

Let me know if you want to be added to any project-specific taglists 😎

Heart of Lead – Series

The big one

Perpetually evolving

Never ceasing

Pls send help I can't stop adding shit

5-book gothic fantasy epic that I'll definitely publish one day but probably no time soon! My bastard child, my wicked firstborn, my greatest love <3

Character-oriented political drama set in a pseudo-Victorian, dystopian oligarchy where everyone's heart is made out of metal. It's about coming of age and discovering queer identity in a world that is absolutely fucked. God is an extraterrestrial lesbian who gives ppl very traumatizing magic powers. There are cyborgs, shapeshifters, and morally gray women in STEM. It's tight as fuck idk what else what to tell u.

Book 1 is about achillean monarchists, and book 2 is about sapphic anarchists. There are only two genders, I guess.

At this point, I've drafted most of the books at least once. Working to refine a lot of raw material atm!

Tag: "heart of lead tag" or "hol tag"

Lost Letters – Book

Aka the current active HoL WIP, and book one in the revised series structure

Length: 80k as of now; around 120-140k when the first draft is finished, I presume.

Genre: adult fantasy, gothic, noir detective drama?? um?? If you want me to frame it in BookTok terms (why?) it's a dark academia villain x villain tragic romantasy. Hrgh.

Summary: Cyborg soldier goes to college, joins a shady socialite frat, and falls in love with the jilted heir-apparent to the throne. Hilarity ensues.

(By "hilarity," I mean a militant revolutionary faction and a tragedy of Greek proportions.)

POV characters: Charles (the cyborg), Dale (the heir), and Cecelia (Charles' sister, a junior detective, the love of my life and potentially the Chosen One???)

This book is twisty and dark and immensely fun to write.

I'm about halfway through the first full draft! Hoping to share snippets and vaguepost about my children here.

Tag: "lost letters tag" (also "hol tag," tho that one's less specific)

The Last of Mortal Tourists – Book

The next longform project on the docket!

Length: a standalone work that will hopefully fall on the shorter novel/novella spectrum.

Genre: literary SF, cyberqueer, psychological space quest

Summary: The consciousness of a dead coding genius, trapped inside a spaceship, seeks a new planet to sustain their sister, the last surviving human, after the destruction of Earth.

If you're here to get wildly philosophical about gender and the myth of essential self, this is the story for you! That's why I'm writing it, lol. 🏳️‍⚧️ 🚀 🤖

This one started out as a short story (100% finished) which I want to expand.

POV: Archer Alto, the coder. Spaceship? Human? Soul?

Supporting Cast: Pandora, the last human, and Abby, a holographic impression of Archer's childhood consciousness

Tag: "the last of mortal tourists tag" or "tlomt tag"

If you read all this way, you get a whole bouquet of flowers that are certainly NOT poisonous: 🌸 🌹 💐 🥀 🌺

<3

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 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.

I loved the descriptions in this chapter. The way you described the red light and the connection between Lira and Jesse was so beautiful.

Chapter 2 - Lira cried.

Over the coming days, Jesse was lost for words, unable to speak without sobs threatening to erupt from her throat. Lira stayed by her side every step of the way though, and she knew it was everything she could do for her new friend.

The world wouldn’t pause. Not for Jesse. Not for the blood that was barely scrubbed from the tiles. The corpos barely registered a blip in their record—”Resistance to lawful eviction protocol,” the called it. Case closed. Body incinerated. Debts absorbed into the void.

Jesse didn’t leave her room for three days. Nobody asked why.

She didn’t sleep, either. Just sat on the floor of the tiny apartment she now shared with Lira, eyes fixed on the door, waiting—half-hoping the lock would click open and it would all be some mistake. An error. A bad dream with cheap lighting and synthetic blood.

But the dream never ended.

Lira came by the first night and never left.

She didn’t force conversation. Instead, she took over the smaller things—cooking tasteless noodles with rusted burners, boiling the apartment water twice, digging through Jesse’s things to find her old blanket with worn-out corners. When Jesse didn’t eat, Lira ate beside her, allowing the sound of chewing to fill the dead air. When Jesse couldn’t speak, Lira read manuals and junk news aloud like they were bedtime stories.

“If the world doesn’t pause for us,” she said one night, voice quiet in the dark, “Then we make our own time. Right here. Just us.”

Lira also handled the authorities—wrote the report that Jesse couldn’t, signed the form that let the apartment stay under Jesse’s name, hacked the local tenancy records to make Jesse’s age and status blur just enough to keep inspectors from prying too close.

She never asked for thanks. Never made a show of it.

But Jesse noticed.

She noticed the way Lira angled herself between Jesse and the door, like she could ward off the world just by being there. She noticed the way Lira didn’t flinch when Jesse finally broke down, days later, crying soundlessly into her shoulder with clenched fists and shuddering lungs.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Lira said simply. And Jesse believed her.

By the fourth day, Jesse got the notification.

It blinked cold and bright on the wall terminal, cutting through the half-dark of their apartment with bureaucratic precision.

A single click deep into the metadata, and she saw it—the name of the collector, buried in strings of serials. A security firm subsidized by one of the major corpos, protected under the Corporate Seld-Defense Act. It mean nothing would come of it. No investigation. No charges. No one would answer for the blood that stained her doorstep.

The system didn’t even acknowledge her as next of kin.

It treated her mother like a variable. A hiccup in a policy enforcement protocol.

And Jesse was supposed to forget.

A week later, someone from the Housing Department came by to “confirm unit compliance.” The man had silver implants where his eyes should have been and didn’t seem to notice the stack of half-eaten food or the two girls crammed over to one side of the room like survivors clinging to a lifeboat. He offered Jesse a new tenant registration card and a reeducation pamphlet on ”positive social integration after loss.”

Lira was the one who took it from him and shut the door in his face.

“They think you’re just some glitch,” she muttered, tearing the pamphlet in half. “That you’ll disappear. That we’ll forget.”

Jesse couldn’t speak. Her hands were clenched around her mother’s old mug, knuckles turning white with a flurry of emotions. That night, she stared at the terminal screen until the soft blue glow etched itself into her vision. She memorized every name listed on that damned security contract. Every ID. Every falsified timestamp.

She didn’t have a plan yet. But she would. Omnigen made sure of that.

Days turned into weeks, into months, of the same thoughts crossing her mind. The same names and IDs flashed behind her eyelids every time she attempted to close them.

Eventually, Lira had gotten sick of seeing someone who had grown to be her best friend and closest confidante hiding in the darkness of her room—only cming out for the occasional meal or because she wanted to accompany Lira on a trip to the store—and burst past the creaky door. “Jesse, I have something we’re doing.”

Jesse, eyes filled with sadness and fear, didn’t respond at first, only standing once Lira pulled her to her feet.

Lira brought Jesse to a dark alleyway in the middle of some corpo complex, much like her own, when her voice seeped from her throat, cold and even.

“Jesse, we’re going to start something. Together. We’re going to be the spark to the fires of a revolution,” Lira spoke softly, just loud enough for Jesse to hear.

Jesse didn’t have the strength to respond with her voice—that was still lost in her depression—her brows raise and she tensed slightly.

“I know it’s scary, but I found a debt collector for the same corpo assholes who—well, you know…” Lira’s voice trailed off, knowing Jesse knew what she meant.

They round another corner in what felt like a maze of twists and turns with Lira pulling Jesse close behind her by the wrist to reveal a man in a suit, tied to a chair.

The moment Jesse saw his face, something clicked into place—something that had become dislodged by the trauma of seeing her mother’s blood pooling beneath her warm body. She knew him. She had never forgotten his name.

“Vance Halroyd,” she muttered, her voice cold and calculated. “The man responsible for my mother’s death.”

That old rhythm tapped out on her thigh, subtle and steady, as she stared him down—searching for words that refused to come.

Only one memory surfaced: Vance’s sleek figure snaking around a corner as she collapsed to her knees beside her mother’s body.

The same sadness welled up in her chest, twisted now into something darker.

A disheartening laugh slipped from her lips, sickly sweet and unhinged, echoing through the alley in a way that made Lira shiver and take a step back, releasing her friend’s wrist.

Jesse stepped forward, deliberate, each footfall heavier than the last, until she stood mere centimeters from his face.

“Vance,” she sneered. “I’ve been waiting to see you properly for months. And now that I have you here, all I can think about is how sick people like you make me—how badly I want to make your kind disappear into the void of depression and anxiety.”

She paused, her voice softening just enough to send a chill through Lira and Vance’s spines.

“But I wont. I’ll leave you marked, not dead. I won’t pass my pain onto your family—if you have one that loves you—by killing you. I’ll let karma take care of that.”

With that, she turned to Lira and motioned for her gloves. “Give me those. He’s had this and more coming for as long as he’s been a debt collector corpo scum.”

Her words were dark, laced with venom—something Lira had never heard from her before. She took off the studded fingerless gloves and tossed them to Jesse, who caught them, pulled them onto her hands, and let that same sick chuckle seep from her throat again.

The sound died in her throat as quickly as it had begun. Her eyes narrowed, fixing on the man with an unsettling stillness. She inhaled deeply, a small, sharp smile curling on her lips—just a flicker before she snapped into action. In one fluid motion, her fist collided with his jaw, the sickening crack of bone slicing through the air like a promise.

For a moment, everything was still—then, without hesitation, she planted her foot on his chest and kicked with all her might. The chair he was tied to splintered beneath the force, its remnants scattering across the cold damp ground like discarded refuse.

Jesse leaned down, her voice a low whisper that cut through the dead air like a knife, “This is the part where you run, Vance.”

The moment the words left Jesse’s mouth—the sickening sound of blood dripping from her gloves echoed in the silence—a cruel smirk flickered across her lips as she watched the man scramble to his feet—pathetic, desperate—and turn to flee. She didn’t move. She didn’t need to, she had sent the message.

Satisfied, Jesse turned to face Lira, her smile soft and warm, uncharacteristic given the coldness of the moment. It was genuine, a flicker of appreciation in the wake of the violence that had just transpired. Without a word, the two stepped out onto the bustling street, the world around them completely unaware of the brutality that had just unfolded a few yards away.

A few moments of walking passed before the blare of a police drone’s siren sliced through the air, causing Jesse to flinch, the sudden noise rattling her. Instinctively, she moved to run but stumbled, her legs unsteady. Lira was quick to catch her, pulling her up with a steady grip before leading her back through the maze of alleys they used to get there in order to lose the drone.

After what felt like hours, Lira pulled Jesse into the apartment, the air filled with tension up until the moment Jesse locked the door behind her.

Before Jesse could get a word out, Lira put her hand on Jesse’s shoulder and chuckled.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Lira exclaimed, her voice hushed but laced with pride.

“That was…certainly an experience,” Jesse managed with a chuckle, her voice still trembling from the adrenaline.

Jesse leaned against the door, running her fingers through her hair. She had inadvertently smeared some blood into the dark strands by doing so, but she didn’t care. She stopped when she hit the ground, her hand still tangled in the wavy mess, a long sigh escaping her lips.

Just then, Lira giggled, pulling a safety pin from her jacket and handing it to Jesse.

“Take this,” Lira murmured, her voice laced with genuine concern. “It’ll help you stand out even more in the visual noise of the crowded streets, if we ever get separated.”

Jesse nods, fidgeting with the pin before flashing a soft, genuine smile. “Thank you, Lira…for everything you’ve done for me.” She didn’t know it yet, but Lira had quickly become her emotional anchor over the past few months.

With a fluid motion, Jesse unclasped the safety pin and jabbed it through her earlobe, carefully fastening it again once the point re-emerged on the other side of her lobe, turning it into a makeshift necklace. It became a symbol of safety—so long as Jesse believed Lira would always have her back.

Lira wined as Jesse turned the pin into an earring, but said nothing. She knew better than to question this choice. Not now.

Jesse smiled through her tears and pulled Lira into a tight embrace, letting herself cry freely for the first time in what felt like ages—even though it had only been a few hours.

Without hesitation, Lira wrapped her arms around her best friend, holding her close and gently rubbing Jesse’s back, anchoring her in the moment.

“Hey, let it all out,” she murmured, her words slipping out like a promise. “I’m not going anywhere. Not that easily.”

Months passed in a blur of small rebellions—quiet adventures, muffled laughter, and fleeting moments of peace. Jesse and Lira had made a habit of tagging corporate buildings, their own way of biting back at the companies that tried to erase them. But tonight, the air was heavier. Tense. Like the entire city was holding its breath.

Jesse glanced up at the monolithic structure they were tagging, the hum of the electric lights buzzing louder than usual. Her grin spread slowly, sharp and deliberate, as her eyes caught the neon sign glowing above them.

Omnigen Solutions.

Jesse grabbed a red can and shook it, the mixing ball rattling like a warning shot in her palm.

She doesn’t even need to think. She knows what' she’s going to paint. With steady hands and fire in her chest, she starts scrawling her mother’s case number in bold, furious strokes—EV-0481972—each character a declaration.

Lira chuckled under her breath as she watched Jesse work, sensing that deep, unshakable focus. She snatched a few cans of her own, the air around her practically buzzing as she sizes up the sterile, corporate wall. Her art is more chaotic, instinctive—expression over message.

Jesse’s lines sliced like blades. Hers isn’t art; it’s a testimony. She finishes the number, switches to black, and begins spraying a jagged, blooming rose beneath the writing—a crude, beautiful wound.

Then—a sound. A footstep, soft but wrong. Too deliberate. Jesse freezes. Her hand taps against her thigh in that familiar, comforting rhyth,—tap..tap…tap-tap…tap…

“We’ve got company,” she mutters, her voice low and razor-sharp despite the tight knot that had formed in her chest.

Lira glances at her unfinished tag and sighs, reluctant but ready to run. She nods, already stuffing her cans away.

But before they can move, shadows stretch acorss the alley.

One.

Then two. Three. Four. Five.

An entire armed patrol steps into view, scanning the darkness. Too many. Too fast. They weren’t just patrolling—they were hunting.

Jesse moves quietly without hesitation, disappearing into the night like she was born in it. Her body moves with practiced fluidity, every muscle coiled for escape.

Lira hesitated. Just for a second. Long enough.

Her boot slipped on a slick patch of red over-spray, her balance faltering just enough to send her scrambling to recover. Her breath hitches. Her pulse spikes. Then she ran—toward the chain-link fence ringing the back of the compound, boots pounding the pavement behind her like war drums.

Just as she reached the fence, Lira heard a sharp whistle to her right—Jesse’s signal. There’s a path. But she was moving too fast, too unsure, and the hesitation costed her. She slammed into the chain-link fence with a metallic thud, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs as she crumpled to the ground.

Move. She screamed inside her head, panic crackling through her chest like live wire. MOVE. She scrambled to her feet, gravel biting into her palms, and catches a flicker of light—Jesse’s safety pin glinting in the darkness, a beacon in the chaos.

There. A gap in the fence. Just big enough.

Without thinking, she dove through the opening, the edges of the wire catching her jacket as a gunshot cracks through the air.

Shit. Her legs burn as she runs, lungs aching, but it’s the sound behind her that freezes her blood.

A scream. Jesse’s scream.

Jesse had guided Lira through the fence but lingered a second too long and wound up taking a bullet meant for Lira. A sharp searing pain exploded in her shoulder blade before she even hears the shot. She stumbled, gritting her teeth and willing herself to keep moving.

Minutes stretched into eternity as they tore through alleyways and backstreets, the city around them warped into a blur of motion and panic. By the time they reached the apartment, time itself felt broken—twisted by fear, by pain. They stumbled inside and slammed the door behind them, collapsing to the ground in a tangled heap the moment the lock clicked into place.

Jesse’s breath came in sharp, ragged gasps. As the adrenaline drained from her system, the pain hit her in full. She lifted a trembling hand to her shoulder, fingers brushing over the torn fabric and seared skin. The wound was shallow and at most six inches long, but it felt like fire tearing through her body.

Before she could spiral, her eyes found Lira.

“Did…Did you get hit?” Jesse asked, voice strained, jaw clenched against the rising wave of pain.

Lira looked down at herself, hands trailing quickly over her limbs, checking. Nothing.

“No,” she whispered, almost like she didn’t believe it herself. Then her voice cracked. “But you did. God, Jesse, I’m so sorry…I shouldn’t have taken you there.”

Her gaze dropped to Jesse’s shoulder, where blood mixed with the black of burned flesh and gunpowder. The smell hit her like a punch. Tears spilled freely now, and Lira turned away with a dry gag, the bile of guilt thick in her throat.

They sat in silence for a while, the only sounds filling the room being Jesse’s ragged breathing and the occasional groan when the pain surged in waves.

Lira takes a shaky breath and gently lifts Jesse into a seated position against the door—a posture that’s become far too familiar over the months.

For a moment, she froze, her mind racing. Where’s the kit? What does she need first? Her hands trembled as she wiped the tears from her face, trying to push through the rising panic.

“I—I’ll get the med kit,” Lira says finally, her voice barely holding together. “You just…stay right there.”

Lira’s steps are unsteady, but her determination keeps her moving. She stumbled into the apartment’s cramped kitchen, flinging open cabinet doors, one after another.

“Where the fuck is it…”she muttered under her breath, each drawer and shelf only serving to deepen her frustration.

The room is suddenly bathed in a soft, pulsing red as a neon sign outside flickered to life through the window. Jesse lets out a breathy, half-laugh behind her—tired, pained, but still somehow amused.

Lira doesn’t laugh back.

At last, her hand closed around a dented tin box tucked behind some expired rations. Inside: half-used bandages, a rusted pair of scissors, and a tube of unopened burn cream. Not much—but hopefully enough. They’ve patched up scrapes and knife wounds before, but never a bullet.

This was new. This was real.

Lira walked back toward Jesse with renewed determination, her steps were heavier, more grounded. The flickering red light from the neon outside painted the room in a surreal glow as she knelt beside her best friend.

Jesse offered her a faint, weary smile before shifting, teeth clenched, to let the jacket fall from her shoulders with Lira’s help. The pain was sharp—etched across her face in grimaces—but she didn’t protest. Not once.

The scent hit Lira again—burnt leather, scorched flesh, and faint traces of gunpowder. She has to steel herself before meeting Jesse’s gaze.

Jesse nodded, their hands already entwined. The pressure of Jesse’s fingers around her said everything Lira needed to hear: I trust you.

That silent permission, that connection, sends a jolt of something like courage through Lira. She tightens her grip back before opening the burn gel, squeezing a trembling line of the thick, cool substance onto her fingers.

“This is gonna sting,” she whispers—not as a warning, but as an apology.

As the gel touches the wound, Jesse jerks involuntarily, a strangled gasp escaping her throat—but she didn’t pull away.

She never pulled away.

Lira’s hands trembled as she struggled to steady the bandages, her breathing shallow and uneven. Stop shaking. Stop trembling. She could feel the fabric slipping in her fingers and winced, praying it didn’t hurt Jesse too much. She’d patched her up before—bruises, cuts, scrapes—never something like this. Never a bullet wound. Never something meant for her.

Breathe. Just breathe, Jesse told herself, teeth clenched as another wave of pain rolled through her shoulder. The sting of the burn cream still lingered, sharp and hot, but nothing compared to the look on Lira’s face. She didn’t even need to look, she could feel it. She’s blaming herself. That thought alone hurt worse than the wound ever could.

Lira’s fingers were careful, trying not to shake as she looped the bandage around Jesse’s shoulder again. Her brow furrowed, her lips pressed into a tight line of focus. Jesse watched her silently. Lira always tried to be the strong one. The one who held everything together when things fell apart. She doesn’t know I see how much this is hurting her. But Jesse saw. Every time. Gods, I don’t deserve her in my life.

Lira pressed her palm gently to Jesse’s skin, feeling the heat rising from it. Too warm. Please don’t be infected… She pushed the thought away, forcing her focus back on the next wrap. Just one more, that’s all. I can’t lose her. The words struck hard and fast. Not to this city. Not to a bullet meant for me.

Jesse’s chest tightened. She wanted to speak—Thank you. I love you. I’m sorry.—but the words caught in her throat. They felt too fragile, like if she let them out they might shatter into a million pieces. So instead, she reached out and gently squeezed Lira’s hand.

Lira froze for a heartbeat, than glanced down. Jesse’s hand, still warm and shaking, held her with a quiet kind of strength. It said more than words could. She squeezed my hand. Just like before, Lira thought, and for a moment, that was enough.

With a soft exhale, Lira pressed the final edge of the bandage down, smoothing it carefully. “There,” she whispered. “All patched up.”

It wasn’t true. Not really.

But in that moment, it was beautiful.

Ooo I am so intrigued so far! I wonder why Jesse and Lira feel connected. Are they soulmates, did they know each other in a past life? I also wonder who that man was. So excited to read more!

Chapter 1 - Jesse survived

For most of her childhood, Jesse lived in what could be called a shed. The inside was cramped, barely enough for her mother and herself to move around. Drafts always managed to seep through the cracks in the walls or the gaps around the windows by the moment. A narrow bed was pushed against the wall opposite the wood burning stove, just big enough for the two of them to sleep in together. Despite all this, Jesse’s mother made sure her daughter knew she was doing her best to add as much comfort as possible to their living conditions, there were a few hand-me-downs and scraps of fabric adding some semblance of privacy and color which the two of them appreciated.

The outside was a mess of unkempt grass, some discarded tech, and a broken down truck. Nothing to write home about but it was their land, and she knew every inch. Mom would tell her stories of the past when they could afford this small patch of peace, the freedom it instilled in them before corporations swarmed the suburbs with towering, sterile buildings. This was a place of calm resilience for Jesse, though she never fully realized the weight of the situation until much later.

One day, the inevitable came barreling down on them–the land had been bought up by some nameless megacorporation. They woke from a deep slumber to a blaring horn from the bulldozer, a solemn reminder of the destruction to come. They scrambled to flee the building in time, leaving behind everything that wasn’t already on their backs and feeling distraught as they watched the home they had lived in for years get demolished in front of them.

Her mother fought hard to keep the land, but a corporation stole it. She was old enough by then to know the look of despair on her mother’s features. The last bit of freedom and dignity they had clung to for the last seven years of her life had been torn from them–leaving them both metaphorically and literally naked as she stared at the broken rubble of what she had called home.

She despised watching the apartments build up on the plot of land where she had spoken her first words, taken her first steps–but what is someone like her able to do against that level of authority? Everything she had known since birth was destroyed in a matter of moments by the cruel, unflinching megacorporation that her mother had warned her so much about since as early as she could remember.

She knew she couldn’t do anything about it–not yet at least–but she made a silent vow to herself in that moment. She would make them pay for taking her dignity, and she would personally carve out her own freedom from the very foundations of every single corpo bastard’s cushy home.

When Jesse and her mother were first forced into the complex, she found herself lost in a crowd of people. Every wall looked the same–sterile and all too clean. Every concrete hall echoed eerily, either with silence or sounds she couldn’t bare to comprehend. Her mother worked long hours to afford the rent, leaving Jesse alone in these sterile halls for all to long for her comfort. To escape the reality of the situation she wandered the labyrinthine halls or sitting on the flights of stairs–until she met Lira at least.

Lira saw her, a girl who looked like she didn’t belong in these halls even as she was aimlessly wandering them, and felt herself drawn to this girl by an unseen force. Neither girl tried to blend in, not really. Lira’s heavy boots made loud echoing footsteps as she walked towards Jesse, who seemed to almost be in a trance as she walked–seemingly not hearing the steps coming behind her. Lira could tell this girl was hiding something, some heavy burden she couldn’t help but feel intrigued by.

Lira tapped Jesse’s shoulder and turned her around, seeing the girl’s trance snap the moment her hand touched the girl’s shoulder.

“You seem lost,” Lira said almost too matter-of-factly as she searched the girl’s deep emerald eyes for any signs of modification.

Jesse didn’t answer for a moment, but she didn’t pull away from Lira’s touch, either. She felt an instant connection, as if there were impossibly unspoken decades of conversation that had already happened between the two.

“What of it..?” Jesse managed, her voice foreign and broken in her throat.

Lira could feel the contempt brewing beneath the girl’s calm exterior and smirked at the attempt to suppress it. “I like that about you, the name’s Lira.”

Jesse locked eyes with Lira, a small smile threatening to creep up on her lips–the feeling was just as foreign as her voice felt just moments ago. She was speechless, considering her reply for a long moment.

“Thank you, Lira…I guess there’s no getting out of being your friend now huh?” Her voice initially came out as quiet as a mouse, “My name’s Jesse.”

Before Lira could answer, a loud bang rang out in the halls, seemingly coming from everywhere at once. What seemed like a scream was interrupted by another bang–two, three, four–Jesse’s face was contorted with fear and anguish as she recognized the scream. Without thinking, Jesse ran toward the source of the sound, Lira not far behind.

Jesse skidded to a halt as the hallway bent sharply, her sneakers scraping against the concrete. Her breath caught somewhere in her throat–a choked sound, halfway between a gasp and a sob. The surrounding air was thick with the sterile scent of cheap industrial cleaner, but underneath it lingered something coppery and unmistakable.

Her mother’s body was sprawled across the threshold just outside their apartment door. A crumpled form that once held tired laughter and soft lullabies. Her eyes–usually alert, darting, always worried about Jesse–were empty now. Open. Unseeing.

Blood seeped out from beneath her mother in sickening contrast to the dull grey walls. The pattern of it already began to dry into the cracks of the floor, spreading out like tendrils trying to become part of the building itself.

Jesse didn’t move. She couldn’t. Her legs were locked beneath her, the world suddenly quiet. Too quiet.

Behind her, Lira arrived, breathless, her presence a sharp contrast to the horror. She looked between the body and Jesse, reading the story in the girl’s silence. The air buzzed faintly with the distant hum of corpo drones–already gone, their protocol overlooking this. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the form of a man rounding the opposite corner, and for a fleeting moment, she saw the glint of a gun in his hand.

“Jesse…” Lira whispered, stepping forward carefully, as if she were approaching a wounded animal.

Jesse was beyond hearing. Her fingers began to twitch at her side–tap… tap… tap-tap… tap. The rhythm she didn’t realize she knew. A lullaby pattern, ancient and instinctive, a whisper of her mother in motion.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t scream.

She just stared.

And then her knees gave out.

Lira caught her without hesitation, arms circling Jesse like they’d always belonged there. She didn’t speak. Didn’t try to fill the space with comfort or apology–only silence and warmth. Even though they’d just met, Lira understood something vital and unspoken. Jesse needed someone to witness this moment. Not fix it. Not erase it. Just be there.

And Lira stayed.

i'll be real, sometimes when i'm writing my own stories and i'm trying to be poetic with my fifteenth metaphor i have to sit back and be like. actually you're doing too much when what you mean to say is "i love you." like sure, maybe the fruit rots on the vine without hands to cradle it or a mouth to press itself against, or maybe the heart is a house, half-lit, with your ghost in all the windows, but all i mean by that is i love you, i love you. what's more poetic than that

Writing update 5/1/2025

I am continuing to write Sleep Laughing slowly but surely. I'm getting caught up in making the logs detailed, and trying to get myself to realize, "you need to write the skeleton of this idea before you can go into the depths of this character's suffering". And also, during the first logs he's so weak/in so much pain he's barely concious or thinking straight, so it makes sense why they're not as detailed.

Still, I managed to get extremely good progress for logs 7 and 8. Here's my favorite snippet (tw body horror and agony):

I've come to a conclusion. Even if I am in Hell, it really isn't such a bad thing. It just means I'm being punished, and, if I'm being punished, that means there's a chance to redeem myself, right? Every single agony I experience is a debt being paid, a sin washed away. This pain isn't a curse. No… …this pain is a blessing! It's giving me a chance to repent for everything. Oh God I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I'll never do it again. So please, just let the light take me!

Also, I am looking for beta readers for my stories The Diary of Spinel Bramford and The Breeding Grounds. You can find their descriptions here. If that'd interest you, please let me know!

Taglist: @aweirdshipp

Heyo! You want people to chat with about your WIPs? Or your OCs? Even your art? Come join me on discord. Let's make friends and get some writing done! I'll even be creating writing/art events or challenges through the year. Advice will be posted, references, I even do research for people in need of it. I have channels for daily prompts or challenges.