Just A Heads Up For The Near Future: Within The Next Two Weeks I'll Be Starting My First Big Writing

Just a heads up for the near future: within the next two weeks I'll be starting my first big writing project! Hopefully by then I'll have officially posted the first bit :3

I usually write more when at least someone sees it and expresses interest so hopefully this'll work! In the meantime, I'll be posting another poem or two before setting to work on the big boi.

Big boi (title pending) is going to be DnD inspired with original characters and will feature more adult content and themes, so be warned. I'll do my best to put on any necessary trigger warnings. I also have no idea how big the story will be, so we'll find out together, I suppose!

With all that being said: Wish me luck!

Mask Seller

The Mask Seller comes every year, no one knows his name or face. But they come with her car and his dogs all barking and pulls out the masks to sell.

Pretty masks, ugly masks, young and old, thin and wide, people clamor for masks of all kinds.

"Make me beautiful!" the neighbor's wife yells, and the Mask Seller sells one for only ten dollars.

"Make me younger!" cries the old man, and the Mask Seller sells it, but only for a quarter.

Today I am brave, and I asked what he has, "Masks of all kinds, for every shape and size."

They lean forward but not too much, and there's a smile beneath her veil so he asks me, "What would you like?" I don't know, I say. I just hate my face and I want something else, so they hum and she nods, listens to my tale. He taps me on the forehead, face still hidden by the veil.

"You've already got a mask," the Mask Seller says, suddenly old and wise. "I can't take it off, so you have to instead."

I thank them and I leave and mull it all over, I pull at my chin, my ears, my nose. But it doesn't come off, maybe the Mask Seller was wrong.

I stay for another time, until the Mask Seller comes again, and they say, "You still have that mask on, how about a deal?"

If I can take it off, before she leaves town, he'll buy it for a handsome sum. I don't care about the money, but I shake their hand and nod.

I stare at the mirror and catalogue my face, mulling over everything I hate. This isn't me, I say out loud, and with a pop the mask comes off.

I take it to the Mask Seller without looking in the mirror, and shout at her with glee, it's off, it's off, I'm finally free!

She takes the mask away, pats me once then twice. He's gone by morning, but I feel very light. The mirror's face isn't different, but it's happier than it was and oh, this is me.

You’ve talked in the past about patreon’s anti-horny policies, and how they impact creator’s income streams, and so I thought maybe this could be of interest to you/others in that situation. Someone is trying to put together a collective legal action against Mastercard. https://x.com/pom_poison/status/1768753517651546540?s=46&t=366EMtqp8Vh2MIY7oWvoKw Please also feel free to ignore me! But it seemed neat.

PS I love your book, thank you for the excellent words!

Thank you so much! And thank you for bringing this to my attention.

Sunlight and Fire

Silva was born into a world of colors, shades and hues so numerous he couldn’t count them all, varied and beautiful. But strangely, the color of the sun, of gold and flowers and so many other things, has grown with him. 

His cradle was green leaves and soft grass, new eyes taking in the veins beneath the verdant surfaces. The sky overhead was grey, pale silver light passing through the clouds while crystal rain fell in droplets upon his face. Lightning, yellow and stark against such a uniform background, crackled with energy and set trees alight in orange fire. Silva, newly birthed from the Mother into the storm, watched the lightning and felt fear.

As he grew, tended to and nursed by dryads and river spirits, his forest cradle grew dense and lush in the coming spring. Vernal danced through the spaces between branches, sang songs with the coming of new life, the plants budding and blooming in riotous colors. Pink, purple, white, red, green, blue, all coiled together along vines and branches and stems that bent whenever Silva passed by. The nature spirit coaxed the young god to join in his merriment, and daisies grew around Silva’s feet wherever he tread. 

The god grew older still, the trees swaying to bow as he moved between them. Autumnal cast the leaves in warm hues of red, orange, and yellow, an ombre that reminded Silva so vividly of fire and magma flowing beneath the earth. Lightning struck, storm winds toppled the forests and flooded the rivers as war began. The forest was alight in yellow flames and lightning, and his once lush home became a grey mountain, bubbling and belching molten rock high into the atmosphere with his rage.

When the fighting was over—for now, the promise hissed—there was rebuilding to be done, as the remaining dryads mourned their fallen kin and the river spirits snuffed the last fires. Silva gathered them all, his nature bound brethren, at the foot of that grey mountain, dried black as ash fell like snow around them. The forest he regrew, the grass and trees growing thicker and twining around him, swaying toward their god, was darker than before, evergreen and deadly with roots to trap and vines to ensnare. Solstice swept over the land, and the flowers that bloomed there seemed to glow white while their thorns flashed amber in the dim light, spreading around the base of the mountain like a protective shield. In many ways, it was.

The city Silva built, heeding the pleas of frightened mortals, became golden, as the new residents painted their houses in colors of brown and red and orange and oddly, yellow. Yellow flowers mimicking those at the base of the mountain, and golden murals in the shape of Oro’s horns took shape along walls and roofs, the solstice casting everything in bright sunlight. Silva was almost blinded as he walked through the city, once small and humble, now resplendent and full of life. 

When there was time, in rare stretches of peace, Silva would trace the patterns on Oro’s back, glowing with white-hot gold beneath dark stone skin. His friend would say nothing, would only wait his turn until Silva was finished, and then the vines that made up the god’s hair would be tended to, stone skin on stone skin as they curled together, powerful yet frightened.

Solaris’ hair is as yellow as the sunflowers she creates to adorn the grounds, tending to the flowers that turn their heads toward the sun. Silva changes their colors, from a lemon hue to blue or purple, all for Solaris to throw her head back and laugh, flaxen hair blooming as she lets the world know of her joy. Silva would dance with her in the square to make more flowers bloom, and the daisies from before made a triumphant return.

Ophel’s eyes shine sallow in the low evening light as they sing in the entrance’s antechamber. They sing of victory, of peace, of tales so old Silva remembers them dearly, all reflected in the color of the spirit’s gaze. The spirit sang of betrayal, of heartache, and of a god who saved them, and all Silva could do was beg that the spirit not thank him. He has done many things, impossible things, but he did not wish to be thanked for saving a life. He has taken far too many.

Winter descends on the mountaintop, the snow dusting the tops of trees and casting everything in a somber silver. Secretly, or perhaps only cautiously, Silva finds winter to be his favorite season. With his yearly visitor, Silva may admit that he has a bias. Hiemal does not wear yellow, preferring blues and greys that suit his pale visage more, but his blue mingles so nicely with the colors of Silva’s wardrobe. He dons a golden robe this time, and the god expects the blues and yellows of their clothes to meld into green, to bloom into snowdrops and winterberry and crocus as snow settles on the windowsill. Instead, they tangle but never mix, the gods a bit too in their cups and sprawled over cushions on the floor, laughing and touching and kissing through the haze as the lanterns cast the room in warm light. 

Of all colors that Silva has seen, of all colors his flowers take on and the many shades of gems hidden beneath the rock, he always finds himself partial to the color of sunlight and fire.

I Met Him in a Dream (Poem)

I met him in a dream, long ago if I remember

He was bigger, he was taller,

But his face was just too real.

I'm waking up, it's just a dream

Before I go, he says

"Hey, it's me."

I met him in a dream again, I remember it this time

His hair is short, his chest is flat

But his voice sounds a lot like mine.

Before I woke I'm calling out,

So he said,

"Hey, it's me."

I met him in the mirror, for the first time in forever

His chest's not flat, his hair's too long

But his eyes are just like mine.

I'm seeing myself for the first time ever, so I'll look with everything I've got.

And hey, it's me.

What a wonderful year it's been... Awful post to make, My cat ate a lily stem which is very poisonous and had to be rushed to the ER, I'm currently facing an over a thousand dollar vet bill, My commissions are open if you want to help out, if not please at least share this. , https://ko-fi.com/nessyraptor