rocksoliddecisions

[rocksoliddecisions]

FIELD FRAGMENT → To the Ornament that Devours

“The crown was never decorative — it was hungry.” — Marginalia, Culling Notes

You wear it like triumph, fangs polished into filigree, gold hammered from marrow.

It doesn’t sit on you. It roots into you. Claws tucked behind every shine, the way wolves tuck hunger behind fur.

The watcher circles, patient, its gaze an old hound’s breath at your neck. It doesn’t bite. It waits.

You thought it was an heirloom. It was a jaw. You are still inside it.

[Addendum: At 00:17, restraint systems failed.] Chain-links reported fractured, howls recorded across three districts. The ornament reclassified as pack — all attack dogs at midnight, muzzles slick, reducing silence to torn marrow.

Recovered from kennel quarantine, jawbone lattice gnawed clean.

Archive continues → https://rocksoliddecisions.substack.com/

[rocksoliddecisions]

Fasteners With Job Security

Imagine being hired for your staying power… and still being shown up by the 17th-century originals. That’s the Vasa bolt legacy.

The first lot? Wrought iron, stubborn, and good for three centuries under the Baltic. By the time the ship was raised in 1961, they’d done their shift and quietly retired.

Enter the ‘60s replacements: 5,000 steel bolts, all corporate confidence and modern swagger, but rotting from the inside before they even hit pension age.

By 2011 they were yanked out, replaced with custom stainless numbers so smug they could tell you their tensile strength over champagne. They’re polished, precise, and blissfully unaware their job is holding together a ship that already failed its probation period.

Glamourless work, maybe. But survival doesn’t always belong to the shiny and new. Sometimes the older kit doesn’t just work, it works better.

[rocksoliddecisions]

It’s not a warship. It’s a floating-ish press release. Just ahead of its time.

New longform post → https://open.substack.com/pub/rocksoliddecisions/p/rainy-day-vibes-at-the-vasa-museet?r=67mlnb&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true

[rocksoliddecisions]

“Some beauty is only there to keep you from noticing you’re still sinking.” — Marginalia, Unsent Rescue Logs

You glitter in the sun — coiled and patient, smelling faintly of salt, and afternoons too perfect to trust.

I hold you like a promise, though we both know you were never meant to lift me.

You are gold where there should be grit, diamonds where there should be knots — more jewellery than lifeline.

And yet, I reach for you anyway — every time.

Because you’re beautiful. Because you feel like hope — even as you wait to watch me fall.

Recovered from shoreline storage; no date recorded.

See The Corpus Delicti Journals - 002

[rocksoliddecisions]

New story’s up.

This one’s about what survival really costs.

You don’t rise. You settle. Not like silt. Like error. Like someone forgot you. You learn to mistake stillness for safety. And eventually, you become good at being still.

https://rocksoliddecisions.substack.com/p/the-water-doesnt-lift-you

[rocksoliddecisions]

COMING SOON: The Water Doesn’t Lift You

The Corpus Delicti Journals – Entry 002

No one hears you drown if they’ve already applauded your survival.

A descent without drama. A drowning without rescue. The kind of water that doesn’t carry you anywhere—just holds you still and catalogues the rot.

📅 Monday — the well opens.

[rocksoliddecisions]

This is where it started.

A carcass of tree I found half-sunk in salt muck on the beach.

Sun-bleached. Waterlogged. Highly personalised by sea, sand, and tiny creatures.

Where I can, I do two things:

1. I carry silicone putty (SIL-HAND) to make quick moulds - textures, surfaces, small details. Like memory. This day I got a lot.

2. I find, photograph, and assign a voice to the object and the micro-world it lives in.

→ Read what it became: https://rocksoliddecisions.substack.com/p/what-the-tide-left

[rocksoliddecisions]

- What the Tide Left

Driftwood gospel. A grief that doesn’t rot — just hosts new things. You were once upright. Now you’re scenery. The tide left. It hasn’t come back. But the shells have started settling in.

“You’re not dead. You’re just early.”

Read the full piece here: ✴️ https://rocksoliddecisions.substack.com/p/what-the-tide-left ✴️ Maximalist grief horror. No ghosts. Just the sea watching.

[rocksoliddecisions]

Hiya!!

My name is …

I like writing and jewellery making.

I write horror-ish, experimental maximalist fiction. [Still figuring out how to explain it clean — but maybe that’s the point.]

My writing centres on horror as an expressive vehicle for grief, memory collapse, and the poetics of psychological unravelling. I prioritise repetition, linguistic density, and mood logic over traditional narrative clarity — drawing on horror not as genre, but as pressure. Internal. Mythic. Ritualised. All stitched through the disintegration of dense sensory language and soft mythic undertones.

I don’t aim for clarity — I aim for atmosphere. For stories that feel like they’re growing mould behind your ribs.

Think fungal prose. Dream logic. Long sentences that suffocate on purpose. More lyrical descent than plot. More scripture than story. Grief as architecture. Mirrors that hum.

This space is part journal, part storybook, part holding cell. It’s not curated. It’s not trying to be palatable. I’m not here to perform niceness, build a “brand,” or sell self-care in aesthetic fonts.

I’m building a body of work. A voice. A journal of sorts. Sometimes it’s structured. Sometimes it’s just fragments, offcuts, and whatever the rot dragged in.

Think fiction, wax shavings, grief patterns, bee videos — posted when they happen, not when they’re algorithmically marketable.

You’ll find: • Serialised fiction — mostly horror, mostly weird • Raw commentary on art, survival, burnout, and the social rot we swim in • Process notes on jewellery making • The occasional personal essay or update, if life insists

There’s no fixed schedule. No algorithm-chasing. No bullet-point wisdom. Just the long, messy slog of making something honest — one piece at a time.

Stick around if that sounds like your kind of purgatory.