kiennwrites

[kiennwrites]

Spin this wheel first and then this wheel second to generate the title of a YA fantasy novel!

(If the second wheel lands on an option ending with a plus sign, spin it again)

Share what you got!

[kiennwrites]

FINALLY GOT TO READ SPLINTERTOWN!!

such a fun fantasy read!! dream eaters, vampires, personified death!! found family!! murder mystery!! and rep that includes characters that use neopronouns!!!!

amazing concept and vivid characters, i fell in love with all of them (kainma!!!!) the story developed and took turns in a way that hooked me throughout the experience (i flew through it!!!). heart warming and also tragic at times. the writing is beautiful, esp with how it explores characters and their thoughts. it's been a while since i've read a good fantasy and this one was so rich and i loved it

Splintertown Birthday Photos!

It’s Splintertown’s first birthday, so here are some photos I took to celebrate! <3 (featuring a fake animal skull I borrowed from a friend)

[kiennwrites]

Happy Pride Month! May all my fellow LGBTQ+ readers, writers, artists, and more keep creating and celebrating who we are <3

[kiennwrites]

Today I had the pleasure of reading the horror comedy novella MTSB Ate My Friend by Kienn Nguyen ( @kiennwrites here on Tumblr), and it's such a fun ride!

Helen Hernandez and Emmy Yuasa are two average students at UCI (University of Irvine, in California), until the day a writhing mass of giant strings explode through the floor and drag Emmy away, like some kind of demonic entity reaching out from hell to claim a soul of the damned. No one believes Helen when she says what happens, and things only escalate from there when Emmy suddenly returns, incredibly different and seeming to have an intense craving for human flesh. Helen has to race against time to kill the mysterious interdimensional being that possessed Emmy...before it overwhelms her first.

This was a pleasantly short novella, easy to finish in one sitting, but honestly, I wished it was longer. I wanted more of Emmy, Helen, and the strange parallel world they inhabit, and I mean that as a serious compliment. Helen's voice is distinct and full of lovely lines that convey the depths of her growing romantic love for Emmy, and the way that she thought and talked definitely felt natural (given the circumstances). It's hard to make a character sound like they could be a regular person, but MTSB Ate My Friend pulled it off (again, I mean that as a compliment). The setting also felt relatively natural- I've never been to UCI, but I think this work really conveyed the energy of the place (well, the parts about the campus and not the parts about the interdimensional entity). There was a nice balance between horror and slice-of-life moments.

Overall, I recommend MTSB Ate My Friend for anybody with a connection to UCI, anyone who wants a fun story about college students in general, and fans of sapphic romance with plenty of monsters involved.

Get it here, or from numerous other stores like Amazon and Barnes & Noble!

[kiennwrites]

THIS IS OUT NOW BTW!!!! 30% off @ 1.99 on itch!!!

MSTB ATE MY FRIEND

A sapphic dark academia cosmic horror novella

A UCI physics student infected by a cosmic parasite gets hungry.

11k words | print & ebook | 5/29

Preorder | Sample Chapter | charity

with the science budget cuts in the US, this book was very much unplanned for. but the current administration has demonstrated nothing but hostility against DEI and science. aspiring astrophysicists whose dreams have been shattered

a bit scared throwing it out as my first official release as the audience for this book (new adult?) is very different than my usual. so please keep in mind!

PREORDER | SAMPLE | 70% off at 99¢ | 5/29

all proceeds go to physics student organizations at uci.

HELEN HERNANDEZ. An undergraduate physics student set for grad school- until her friend, Emmy Yuasa, goes missing. Dragged away by the eldritch horror beneath Aldrich. Zot, zot, zot. The strings are starving.

I sat alone in Aldrich Park. Griffiths Electrodynamics in one hand. A cryptozoologist's Field Guide to Cryptids in the other. Black painted nails and a big bottle of alcohol between my knees. Laughing to myself in the shade of a billowy tree as mud mucked my slacks...

Content warnings include swearing, alcohol, death, violence, blood, gore, body horror, psychological horror, cannibalism, cults, and parasitic infection.

FULL SAMPLE HERE

CHAPTER 1

DRINK. DERIVE. DESECRATE.

The key to being a successful physicist, or whatever the devil doeth. As remarked by Goodstein in States of Matter, Boltzmann and Ehrenfest died doing physics. It is only logical that I follow suit.

I sat alone in Aldrich Park. Griffiths Electrodynamics in one hand. A cryptozoologist's Field Guide to Cryptids in the other. Black painted nails and a big bottle of alcohol between my knees. Laughing to myself in the shade of a billowy tree as mud mucked my slacks.

Like any good pupil of the physical sciences, I spent my free time drunk and skimming through the chapters. Week old tequila staining the pages, ink bleeding and weeping like runny mascara. Alcohol was the choice barbiturate amongst physics students. It eased the brain and, as it turns out, made solutions come easier. But this time I couldn't focus. She was on my mind.

Emmy Yuasa. Missing since the beginning of winter quarter. My closest friend and other half.

I shut the book and took a swig. Spilled even more over that rancid blue cover. Fellow undergrads passed by without so much as a second glance. It was midterm season after all.

The things I said to her.

Things I couldn't take back.

I got down to the last drop. Said goodbye to my Pink Whitney. Swayed to my feet. Took to the inner ring road. Thinking and drifting.

No. Whatever it was, it wasn't a kraken. You need water for that. And the walls of MSTB were drier than linear algebra at eight in the morning.

Winter quarter. Your typical lab session for the 52 series. Genius physics majors that couldn't figure out how to build a simple RC circuit. The professor let us stay after class. Pitch black outside the window. I wonder if he pitied us. Girls who had no clue what they were doing. Seniors retaking classes we did shit in.

We established ground and were trying to get a reading when the signal on the oscilloscope boxes went haywire. Fritzing and stretching to thousands of kilovolts on the screen. Now, I am stupid, but that shouldn't have been possible. Nothing got fried.

Emmy looked up from a dusty old book she'd found in one of the drawers. Searching for relics. All she found was a ledger full of names. Probably cursed by the tears of previous lab students. A resigned look and a pout on her lips. "C'mon Helen. Maybe we should just go home."

I gave a short laugh. Feeling foolish myself. I thought I'd prepared enough ahead of lab time, but thirty minutes had turned into an hour and neither of us knew what the hell we were doing. We were let downs. I was a let down. "No! Come on. We can do this. Maybe we just plugged it in wrong."

Emmy scoffed. "What if we plug it up Wight's-"

A crack. From the floor. I glanced down. UCI and its shitty buildings-

Tendrils.

Bursting upwards.

Thick ropes of thousands of twisted and fraying threads. Gnarled and snaggled like roots or hair. Strings that writhed as though alive. Clear and flickering like the lights above.

They snapped around Emmy's neck. Strangled her. The dendrite feelers hooking into her skin. She couldn't even scream.

I don't think any web trainings could have prepared me for this.

I lunged for the first thing I could get my hands on. Dragged an air track from its station on the table, a long metal beam with the frictionless gliders still stuck to it. Swung.

The air track passed right through it. Clattered heavy on the floor.

One lab session and I'm pretty sure we just disproved the laws of physics.

I thought of slamming some radioactive sources down its throat. But the tendrils had no mouth, no eyes. Only strings. Strings twisting together under one mind.

Emmy rasped. Blood weeping from the tiny holes pricked into her neck. I met her eyes. Whispered the words I could never take back.

She softened. The way she often did entering a final exam when we knew it would be the end of us. And her limbs went limp.

I threw one last oscilloscope before the tendrils dragged her into the floors of MSTB. Passing straight through as though she were made of nothing but light. Swallowed alive.

A final scream for my name. Helen. Helen Hernandez, the girl who failed to save anyone.

I don't even remember what I did. I came to with my knees aching over the sticky floor. Nails clawed raw. The floor before me streaked red.

We were supposed to get boba.

Of course it didn't have to make any sense at all. Professor Wight, on the phone right outside the door, didn't see a thing. Didn't hear us scream.

I did everything I could. Didn't sleep, didn't eat. I demanded a search of the building. Begged the police department to take it seriously. They didn't.

Spring rolled around. I could have graduated by now. But Emmy was still missing and we were supposed to be in this together.

I took matters into my own hands. Broke into the same exact room to search for clues.

The moment the smell hit I remembered everything.

The string-like tentacles bursting from the waxy floor.

The book. In the drawer.

I tore through every station in the room, threw open the cupboards. That ledger, near empty yet full of names. But just like Emmy and everything else touched by Irvine Company it was gone. Gone in an instant.

And I was next.

It was a terrible feeling. The kind that makes you sick to the point of vomiting. Sludge sinking from your throat to your stomach until your palms got wet from all the trembling and feverishness and cold shock sweat. The ache in my chest knowing that I had let her down. I had let Emmy down.

The shadows lengthened. I came to. Booked it the hell out of there.

Now, my training in physics left me with a great deal of trust in textbooks and literature. But a tortured student knows when to give up. Reading that book of cryptids, I knew. The answer was obvious. Trivial even. This was something different. Something inconceivable. Something confined to the grounds of the University of California, Irvine. And to stop it I had to kill the thing inside the walls of MSTB.

FULL SAMPLE HERE

The answer was obvious. Trivial even. This was something different. Something inconceivable. Something confined to the grounds of the University of California, Irvine. And to stop it I had to kill the thing inside the walls of MSTB.

PREORDER HERE

[kiennwrites]

[kiennwrites]

SEVEN THINGS TAG GAME

Last book: Blackouts (Torres)

Last film: Sinners

Last TV show: Angels in America

Fave drinks: viet coffee, lemonade slush

Fave colors: blue/orange pair

Fave hobbies: reading writing drawing

Fave scents: cookies

ty @gioia-writes-and-others for tag!!

open tag! pretend there are 7 of you 😭😭😭

Seven things tag

Thanks for the tag @pippinoftheshire

Answer the questions then tag 7 of your mutuals

Last book: The Hobbit by JRR Tolkien

Last film: Rent

Last TV show: Dr. Who

Favorite drink(s): Bubble tea, gin and tonic, ginger ale, cherry cola

Favorite color(s): Any shade of blue, yellow

Favorite hobbies: Writing, art, walks, music

Favorite scent(s): Petrichor, pine needles, sea spray, freshly baked bread

Tagging @daisywords @ahordeofwasps @gioia-writes-and-others @sunflowerrosy @ominous-faechild

@thebadphilosopher @dyrewrites and any who want to join in

[kiennwrites]

Exhibit A

[kiennwrites]

being a writer is feeling like a genius and a fraud at the same time

[kiennwrites]

WE'VE RAISED $80 SO FAR YAYYYYY!!!!!!

and. on an unrelated note. investing in a box of fidget toys for a group of very neurodiverse physics majors may have been the best decision ive made ever

MSTB ATE MY FRIEND

A sapphic dark academia cosmic horror novella

A UCI physics student infected by a cosmic parasite gets hungry.

11k words | print & ebook | 5/29

Preorder | Sample Chapter | charity

with the science budget cuts in the US, this book was very much unplanned for. but the current administration has demonstrated nothing but hostility against DEI and science. aspiring astrophysicists whose dreams have been shattered

a bit scared throwing it out as my first official release as the audience for this book (new adult?) is very different than my usual. so please keep in mind!

PREORDER | SAMPLE | 70% off at 99¢ | 5/29

all proceeds go to physics student organizations at uci.

HELEN HERNANDEZ. An undergraduate physics student set for grad school- until her friend, Emmy Yuasa, goes missing. Dragged away by the eldritch horror beneath Aldrich. Zot, zot, zot. The strings are starving.

I sat alone in Aldrich Park. Griffiths Electrodynamics in one hand. A cryptozoologist's Field Guide to Cryptids in the other. Black painted nails and a big bottle of alcohol between my knees. Laughing to myself in the shade of a billowy tree as mud mucked my slacks...

Content warnings include swearing, alcohol, death, violence, blood, gore, body horror, psychological horror, cannibalism, cults, and parasitic infection.

FULL SAMPLE HERE

CHAPTER 1

DRINK. DERIVE. DESECRATE.

The key to being a successful physicist, or whatever the devil doeth. As remarked by Goodstein in States of Matter, Boltzmann and Ehrenfest died doing physics. It is only logical that I follow suit.

I sat alone in Aldrich Park. Griffiths Electrodynamics in one hand. A cryptozoologist's Field Guide to Cryptids in the other. Black painted nails and a big bottle of alcohol between my knees. Laughing to myself in the shade of a billowy tree as mud mucked my slacks.

Like any good pupil of the physical sciences, I spent my free time drunk and skimming through the chapters. Week old tequila staining the pages, ink bleeding and weeping like runny mascara. Alcohol was the choice barbiturate amongst physics students. It eased the brain and, as it turns out, made solutions come easier. But this time I couldn't focus. She was on my mind.

Emmy Yuasa. Missing since the beginning of winter quarter. My closest friend and other half.

I shut the book and took a swig. Spilled even more over that rancid blue cover. Fellow undergrads passed by without so much as a second glance. It was midterm season after all.

The things I said to her.

Things I couldn't take back.

I got down to the last drop. Said goodbye to my Pink Whitney. Swayed to my feet. Took to the inner ring road. Thinking and drifting.

No. Whatever it was, it wasn't a kraken. You need water for that. And the walls of MSTB were drier than linear algebra at eight in the morning.

Winter quarter. Your typical lab session for the 52 series. Genius physics majors that couldn't figure out how to build a simple RC circuit. The professor let us stay after class. Pitch black outside the window. I wonder if he pitied us. Girls who had no clue what they were doing. Seniors retaking classes we did shit in.

We established ground and were trying to get a reading when the signal on the oscilloscope boxes went haywire. Fritzing and stretching to thousands of kilovolts on the screen. Now, I am stupid, but that shouldn't have been possible. Nothing got fried.

Emmy looked up from a dusty old book she'd found in one of the drawers. Searching for relics. All she found was a ledger full of names. Probably cursed by the tears of previous lab students. A resigned look and a pout on her lips. "C'mon Helen. Maybe we should just go home."

I gave a short laugh. Feeling foolish myself. I thought I'd prepared enough ahead of lab time, but thirty minutes had turned into an hour and neither of us knew what the hell we were doing. We were let downs. I was a let down. "No! Come on. We can do this. Maybe we just plugged it in wrong."

Emmy scoffed. "What if we plug it up Wight's-"

A crack. From the floor. I glanced down. UCI and its shitty buildings-

Tendrils.

Bursting upwards.

Thick ropes of thousands of twisted and fraying threads. Gnarled and snaggled like roots or hair. Strings that writhed as though alive. Clear and flickering like the lights above.

They snapped around Emmy's neck. Strangled her. The dendrite feelers hooking into her skin. She couldn't even scream.

I don't think any web trainings could have prepared me for this.

I lunged for the first thing I could get my hands on. Dragged an air track from its station on the table, a long metal beam with the frictionless gliders still stuck to it. Swung.

The air track passed right through it. Clattered heavy on the floor.

One lab session and I'm pretty sure we just disproved the laws of physics.

I thought of slamming some radioactive sources down its throat. But the tendrils had no mouth, no eyes. Only strings. Strings twisting together under one mind.

Emmy rasped. Blood weeping from the tiny holes pricked into her neck. I met her eyes. Whispered the words I could never take back.

She softened. The way she often did entering a final exam when we knew it would be the end of us. And her limbs went limp.

I threw one last oscilloscope before the tendrils dragged her into the floors of MSTB. Passing straight through as though she were made of nothing but light. Swallowed alive.

A final scream for my name. Helen. Helen Hernandez, the girl who failed to save anyone.

I don't even remember what I did. I came to with my knees aching over the sticky floor. Nails clawed raw. The floor before me streaked red.

We were supposed to get boba.

Of course it didn't have to make any sense at all. Professor Wight, on the phone right outside the door, didn't see a thing. Didn't hear us scream.

I did everything I could. Didn't sleep, didn't eat. I demanded a search of the building. Begged the police department to take it seriously. They didn't.

Spring rolled around. I could have graduated by now. But Emmy was still missing and we were supposed to be in this together.

I took matters into my own hands. Broke into the same exact room to search for clues.

The moment the smell hit I remembered everything.

The string-like tentacles bursting from the waxy floor.

The book. In the drawer.

I tore through every station in the room, threw open the cupboards. That ledger, near empty yet full of names. But just like Emmy and everything else touched by Irvine Company it was gone. Gone in an instant.

And I was next.

It was a terrible feeling. The kind that makes you sick to the point of vomiting. Sludge sinking from your throat to your stomach until your palms got wet from all the trembling and feverishness and cold shock sweat. The ache in my chest knowing that I had let her down. I had let Emmy down.

The shadows lengthened. I came to. Booked it the hell out of there.

Now, my training in physics left me with a great deal of trust in textbooks and literature. But a tortured student knows when to give up. Reading that book of cryptids, I knew. The answer was obvious. Trivial even. This was something different. Something inconceivable. Something confined to the grounds of the University of California, Irvine. And to stop it I had to kill the thing inside the walls of MSTB.

FULL SAMPLE HERE

The answer was obvious. Trivial even. This was something different. Something inconceivable. Something confined to the grounds of the University of California, Irvine. And to stop it I had to kill the thing inside the walls of MSTB.

PREORDER HERE

[kiennwrites]

jusr started a 280k true detective fic.... it's so good but it's so over for me.......

[kiennwrites]

Tag Game: Who's in your wallet?

Character: Corey Handler Delgado, PI | Dove's Eyes

Corey's probably the most sentimental out of all of them. To keep a photo in his wallet would be to remember someone he fears forgetting. And that someone would be the someone he used to be. Or, at least, someone who reminds him of the someone he used to be. The type of someone he'd take under his wing, keep out of trouble.

Keeping it intentionally vague...

quick one today

TY FOR TAG @gioia-writes-and-others !!

Open tag!!

Tag Game: Who's in their Wallet?

Rules: Pick an OC and think--if they were to carry a picture of someone in their wallet, who would this person be?

Of all my characters, Sam would most likely carry pictures in his wallet. A family man through-and-through, he'd need a big wallet as three of his four children have started families. If forced to pick one person, rather than choose between his kids or grandkids he'd pick his wife, Katherine.

Sam: Isn't she a knockout?

*It's a black and white picture of a half-asleep Katherine with her eyebrow raised because he dragged her down to the photography parlor bright and early JUST for a wallet photo*

Cameras didn't transition into household objects until the 20th century. Good thing because Sam would be an absolute menace with a camera.

I was tagged by @orphanheirs (thank you!) whose answer can be found here.

Tagging: @winterandwords, @gioia-writes-and-others, @wyked-rebellion, and @mauvecatfic. No pressure, as always.

Hell's Half Acre Taglist: @cirianne, @oliolioxenfreewrites, @jacqueswriteblrlibrary, @thelaughingstag, @shouldyouwakethewriteblr, @mauvecatfic

Please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed!

[kiennwrites]

HE WHO SMITES THE SUN : Dori-Tsokhizhemasonen

CHAPTER 1: SANO'NYON KI MANYENYA (The Rain Dance)

The light of the bonfire was so bright, that even standing atop of the outside wall of their ancestral city, far removed from the center of their encampment where it blazed, Tsokhizhe could still see it. The flecks of stray warmth and light traced its paws against his dark skin, still drawing him into its orbit. The flames rose higher than they would ever dare at a normal pyre, but tonight was a special night, and so special exceptions were made. Every clan and tribe south of the Gingi’nga Nanmoso would be celebrating tonight; there would be no need to worry about an attack, safe within their wall with guards like Tsokhizhe to keep it. There was a mysticism in the air tonight—one that made the flame’s reds closer to oranges, and oranges closer to white; and the colors danced, interlocked and interwoven against the backdrop of the pitch black sky. Music and laughter fueled the mirthful, heady flame, up to the very heavens above where the Affinities, named and unnamed, lie; surely enjoying the spectacle. It was a celebration worth the ages, and then some, better yet than any they had before.

Yet, unsurprisingly, Tsokhizhe was purposefully left out of the festivities. While other guards may have traded posts with one another to each take their turn at the pyre, the dances, or the feast; he was not permitted; despite being the Khoda’s own eldest child. However, he was used to this. His mother, Khoda’nga Kori-Yadeno, approached him with quiet steps at his lone hut—sequestered away from the rest of the clan’s residential huts, or the nobles grand estates; hidden in the overcast of their city’s walls—just before dawn had risen that morning. Her face was hardened, yet there was no other expression he was used to from his mother. When she spoke, her words burned, with quiet disgust barely hidden on her tongue:

“You are to be stationed at the Eastern Gate tonight.”

Tsokhizhe quickly got out of bed, still in his sleep-dress, and knelt at her feet, his head bowed respectfully to the earth. “Yes, Khoda’nga.” He said, devoid of all inflection. It was hard to be hurt by something he already knew was coming. When he was a child and first took watch-duty during this festivity, he hadn’t understood why he was not allowed to join. But now, he knew, even if no one said. He knew it in the way that his parents avoided him, the way other Kori and Dori avoided him, how even those of the diminutive gender would not meet his eye when he walked past. Every meal he took alone, hunted by his own hand. Every mission he braved alone, only speaking to his father for duty and his mother for instruction; never an affectionate word or hand given to him. These sins he bore, and wore, not with pride but obligation. 

“Kori-Tsokhizhemasonen, do not disobey me.” His mother scolded. Even his name: She Who Smites The Sun, spoke of this great transgression of his: his very birth, under the most evil of all nights, and that omen of misfortune would forever follow him, to the rest of his days.

“You are to be alone and you are to stay away from the festivities. Do you understand this?” 

“Yes, Khoda’nga.” If Tsokhizhe could bow his head lower, he would. He could feel his mother’s steely gaze lie upon his back for a moment too long, then she finally turned on her bare heel, whisking herself away towards the main grounds. Still, out of a long borne habit, Tsokhizhe stayed that way, waiting until he no longer heard the pad of her feet against the ground before he allowed himself rise. 

The Eastern Gate was the furthest away from the festivities of the night. It is why, whenever they were short on guards, he was stationed here. Even the guards did not meet his eyes, and instead kept their gazes turned away towards their mounts, or their sword hands that always rested just so on their scabbards when he passed. They were ready to strike him down at a moment’s notice, he knew. But he did not bow his head in defeat, nor shame. He only bowed to his Khoda, and father, Dori-Darada’ngomakhadzonki—Chief, He Who is Master of Mounts; his mother, Khoda’nga Kori-Yadenomanyozhango—Chieftess, She Who Guards The Store; to his younger sister if their parents bore witness to an interaction; Kori-Chazomakenan’nyopinyi—She Who Breaks the Dying Season’s Song; and most of all to the power of the Affinities named, and unnamed, who lorded above all. He may be cursed, and he was not proud, but Tsokhizhe knew better than to show weakness. If his mother taught him anything, it was to bear your sins for they define you and it is folly to expect another to bear that burden in your stead.

Still, watch duty was Tsokhizhe’s least favorite occupation. He would rather be hunting—out in the far off fields away from the reminders of his misdeed and the ire of his betters. But kenan’nyo had fully set in now—the nights were long, and the frost had begun to pepper the ground with its kisses of chill. The store was full and there was no need to go out—only perhaps, for water runs. But even that had been circumvented by the canal that as of last year had been finally completed. Now, freshwater flowed through their ancestral streets, confining Tsokhizhe more and more to these walls of clay and mortar.

Lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t notice the shadowy figure coming to approach him until a friendly hand tapped his shoulder. Tsokhizhe was long practiced in never startling—and he was thankful he hadn’t—the moment he recognized Yanyado, the shorter man was immediately throwing his arms around Tsokhizhe in a hug, a joyous cry of  “Sonenko!” leaving his lips. The momentary discomfort at the ko at the end of the fond name, did not stop Tsokhizhe from putting his arms around Yanyado in turn.

Yanyado—or, Yanyanagape’nyodo, Moon Crier— was his closest friend—only friend. And despite their friendship spanning for nearly two decades, Tsokhizhe still had never become accustomed to the affection that his friend handed out in doles. Yanyado was the only one who never besmirched him. Why Tsokhizhe never knew. But even if they were from totally different worlds—with Tsokhizhe being a Kori, and Yanyado being of a lower gender, nevermind the omen that hung about Tsokhizhe like a frightful, impenetrable cloak; he never seemed to mind this. Like the sun, Sonen, and the moon, Yanya, the two of them were inseparable and complementary, and despite his mother’s warning from this dawn, Tsokhizhe still found some part of himself happy to see him.

“How did you find me here?” Tsokhizhe asked when they pulled apart. 

“Your mother always stations you here when she does not wish for anyone to find you.” Yanyado’s voice was coy. “She is not as subtle as she thinks.” He said so conspiratorially, as though it were a lighthearted and playful secret between friends but instead a lump of basalt lodged itself in Tsokhizhe’s throat; he nodded along. “I see.” 

“Don’t look so sullen!” Yanyado lightly punched his shoulder. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” Tsokhizhe nodded, but he could tell that his expression must still be far away since a frown pulled over his friend’s features. “I know what will cheer you.” From the folds of his brightly colored parka, he pulled out a wrapped cloth. “Take it, take it!” He urged, holding it out to him. Eventually, when Yanyado did not pull his hand back, Tsokhizhe took the proffered parcel. It was warm to the touch, and the sweet smell of freshly cut herbs and flowers, rolled in sweet dough hit his nose. He had not eaten anything since sunrise, after his mother visited him and informed him of his disinvite, he charred one of the rabbits he felled the day before, gnawing on its grisel, then armed himself for the day’s activities—namely, to make himself scarce. His stomach growled, but still he could not bring himself to unwrap the parcel.

Yanyado noticed his hesitation. “I will be upset if you do not eat it. After all the work I put in to make it, I would hope you appreciate it, Sonenko.”

Something that could have been a smile tugged onto Tsokhizhe’s face, and he slowly unwrapped the cloth. “You made this?” Yanyado puffed his chest out, beaming. This made the traces of a smile that tried to bloom fully blossom on Tsokhizhe’s face. “My Yanyado does not know how to cook. Are you sure you aren’t a sopiro?”

Sopiros—fables told by parents to scare their children into behaving. People who denounced the order of things, such as the genders assigned to yokhe’nyo and kenan’nyo, who believed themselves mighty enough to hold even a speck of power that the Affinities wielded. Outsiders, hated by everyone, and shunned from all the Southern Tribes; forced to wander the wilderness unto the end of their days. Even if they warred amongst each other for resources, hunting routes, ancestral cities and land—they all agreed that sopiros were not to be trusted. 

Tsokhizhe himself, perhaps in another life, could’ve been a sopiro. He wondered it when he was small; and he heard snatches of stories around the campfire of those treated just as he. But try as he might, no otherworldly confidence came to him. No sparks of affinity flew from his fingertips or burned strong in his chest. And after the first time he was discovered and was beaten for it—he tried no more. It was then that Tsokhizhe learned that sopiros could not be feared; it was those who feared them who posed the real threat.

“Do you really think a sopiro could be so handsome as I?” Yanyado asked indignantly; but the jest was heard in his light tone. “But furthermore, I have the burns on my hands to prove my labor for you.” Yanyado held his hands out in the far off light of the bonfire, and even further light of yanya and the stars that attended it—there, on his forefinger and his thumb, Tsokhizhe saw the telltale angry welts from a few burns from a hot iron pan.

“Yanyado.” He tsked, but it was fond. “You ought to be more careful. For my sake.” He added when he noticed Yanyado’s mouth open to protest. He tucked the parcel of food underneath his arm to take Yanyado’s hand into his own. There wasn’t much he could do to heal the burns, but he did still rub them between his hands, the cooling of his skin hopefully a balm to heal it. Yanyado smiled—he was always smiling around Tsokhizhe. Tsokhizhe still hadn’t learned what fondness to his friend he held, but it did warm something broken in him. 

“For my sake, my burns will be for nothing if you don’t eat.” Yanyado reminded him. Tsokhizhe gently let go of his friend’s wrist, and finally took a bite from the doughy treat. It melted in his mouth and the taste of lemongrass and chamomile danced along his tongue. He hummed appreciatively, but before Yanyado could say more off in the distance, the songs began to grow louder, as though every voice in their clan were joining as one to cry out to the heavens their thunderous, joyous celebration. They both turned their heads. After a moment of listening, Yanyado’s eyes lit up, recognizing the melody.

“They must be doing the Sano’nyon Ki Manyenya.” Yanyado held out his hand invitingly, the beads of the colorful bracelet around his wrist jangling just as joyfully as the sound. Tsokhizhe… hesitated.

“I… do not know the steps.” He slowly admitted. 

“I know you do!” Yanyado replied. He didn’t wait for an answer and grabbed Tsokhizhe’s hand anyway. The wall was too narrow to do the dance properly, and Tsokhizhe really did mean it when he said he didn’t know it—at least, he didn’t know the ko part; the follow. They bounced together awkwardly trying to find the faint rhythm’s steps, and it was everything Tsokhizhe could do to try and keep with his do’s lead. Their hands were tangled awkwardly together; just as their feet marched arrhythmically in place. Tsokhizhe’s scimitar bounced at his hip and the jangle of the ties and beads of its scabbard just added to the confusion. At last Yanyado gave up and released him with a breathless laugh. 

“You have two left feet, Sonenko! I have not danced the steps that badly since my mother showed me how nearly a decade ago!” 

If his dark skin would allow him to blush, perhaps Tsokhizhe would’ve; but not of embarrassment but shame. The only part of the Rain Dance that he knew was the lead—the do. That is what he taught himself, observing from a closer wall station as a child; when he was yet too young to be fully left alone but still wholly excluded from the festival’s activities. He’d returned to his little far off hut at the end of the night and while all the tribe slept, whisper sang the words that had entranced him all evening until his voice went hoarse:

Ki yin nana ma’sen

I do not talk much

Ranmi renin ke petono’ni sikhona’nyo

But the rhythm knows my desires

Manyenya naro ke, ki’ngi da zhazhana

Watch me dance and I will show you

Nimon da soson da ki’ngi chon

If you leave I will follow

Nimon da kasachi pon ke, ki’ngi zhino dechi soson da

If you tell me to stay, I will never leave you alone

Nimon da sano’nyo ki’ngi yangipan

If you are water then I will drink it

Sano’nyon-ki’chi. Ki’ngi yangipan. Ki’ngi yangipan.

It’s raining. I will drink. I will drink.

“I’m sorry.” Tsokhizhe could hardly find it in himself to make his voice louder than a whisper. Even in his mirth, Yanyado was still attendant to his friend; a frown pulled down over his round, heart-shaped face, and he stepped into Tsokhizhe’s space, pushing his friend’s twisting blue locs away from his eyes.

“Old friend, you have nothing to apologize for!”

“You believed in me, and I failed.” It was childish, how much the thought of failing Yanyado hurt to admit—but Tsokhizhe admitted it anyway because he was not proud. He was honest. But Yanyado wouldn’t have it. He quickly reached for Tsokhizhe’s cheeks, squishing them together until Tsokhizhe tore his golden hazel eyes from the space between their shoes. 

“To not know is to partake in the joy of learning.” Yanyado was always wiser than his youthful face would suggest. He squished Tsokhizhe’s cheeks harder. “And anyway. If you wanted to dance the do part, why did you not tell me?” 

Tsokhizhe felt as naked as the day he was born. “Wh… Why would you assume that?”

“You didn’t deny it, no?” Yanyado smiled cheekily. “And anyway, we kept messing up because you stepped the same ways that I was. I hop right, and you hop right with me. You must know enough of the dance to know do hops right, unless you knew not at all, where perhaps you would only stare at me.” 

“I would not stare.” Tsokhizhe sputtered.

“You stare during every other festival that I have seen!” 

“And when have you seen me during other festivals?” Tsokhizhe countered—a fair question. Now it was Yanyado’s turn to look bashful, but it too seemed borne out of shame rather than embarrassment. 

“I have sought you out, on occasion.”

“Perhaps?” Tsokhizhe asked, and Yanyado nodded, confirming it. “Why have you not approached me until now?”

“Our Khoda—”

“I understand.” Tsokhizhe didn’t want to hear anymore. Tomorrow would still come, and he would face it as he had faced any other day.

“Would you like to try leading me?”

“I would not want you to disgrace yourself.” Tsokhizhe grunted. The music from the pyre had finally died down, and with it, the flames, as their stokers departed, perhaps to the awaiting feast. The warm glow that touched and glimmered on every far off rock and blade of grass outside of their ancestral walls, was now bathed in the serene light of yanya. It was too dark for Tsokhizhe to see Yanyado’s expression.

“You are above me, Kori-Tsokhizhemasonen.” Tsokhizhe winced when Yanyado used his full name—even if it were true. “That I should lead you at all is not fair to you. Ki’ngi chon da.” I follow you.

Tsokhizhe pulled away from his friend, turning his back to both him, and their city. He looked out into the night; willed it to swallow him. “The feast has begun, and I would not wish you to miss your meal.” “Just one verse.” Yanyado held out his hands again, palms flat and inviting. But Tsokhizhe did not turn back to his friend; he was not weak. He crossed his arms over his chest until Yanyado finally sighed and began his descent down the wall—back to the rest of the clan, where he belonged. Tsokhizhe belonged here. Guarding him. Them. From those like him, who would expect others to bear their burden.

[kiennwrites]

OC in fifteen lines of dialogue

Character: Corey Handler Delgado | he/him | private detective | MC of Dove's Eyes, a western gothic horror mystery novel | Ch 1-3

Fifteen lines:

i don't need saving.

you're delusional. turning sinners into saints. a girl is dead and you're playing god. i'm not confessing anything.

i tried to kill a man. is that what you wanted?

i just punched your pastor in the face.

maybe i should punch you next.

they don't even want me here.

how am i supposed to be in a western if i don't have a gun.

maybe i should sneak into your bedroom. nab the pistol you keep under your pillow.

the soul rots. habits fester. they have no one to blame but themselves.

god sent a great flood but sin still lingered. nothing ever washes away completely. man leaves behind his ghosts. i don't believe in second chances, wayne. especially not the kind you're selling.

no you haven't, sunshine.

i'm selfish. i think i own the truth.

i hate you, wayne. i hope you know that.

never said i didn't blame myself.

want a kiss goodbye?

his most interesting dialogue. mostly between him and dr. wayne sykkes ("sunshine", "maybe i should punch you next", "i hate you, i hope you know that", etc)

fun fact i don't use quotation marks at all in this work lmao

this was fun!!! ty for tag @illarian-rambling :3

Tagging: @vacantgodling, @gioia-writes-and-others, and anyone else who wants to try!!

Thanks for the tag @houndsofcorduff!

OC in Fifteen

Rules: Share 15 lines of dialog that really show off a particular character

I'll answer for Anarac, let's see if I can actually scrape up fifteen lines of dialog from this man lol - bro is not the chatty sort

“It’s— It’s not your fault I’m afraid.”

“I will go.”

“I can help. Just… on the ship.”

“Two hours. You’re two hours late. I thought….”

“Yo-u’re not r-eal. You two are far away from here.”

“I know your names. I… think you know mine?”

“...B-Bluff."

“Be careful out there, kid. You don’t know how much danger— how much danger you’re in.”

“They watch…. Beyond. Beware.”

“We’re not like you.”

“I just happened to see the rope. …The kid is still learning, don’t be too harsh.”

“Starlight. It hates me.”

“You can enjoy the beauty too. It doesn’t have to be all numbers and science stuff.”

“It isn’t silly if it means a lot to you.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty good. I think I missed being outside.”

I think it's telling that I had to scroll through like 100 pages to get this much dialog. Like I said, not chatty. However, what he lacks in dialog, Anarac more than makes up for in internal monolog. Here's a choice selection:

Aliens must have sandwiches, right? Everyone has sandwiches.

Wow, it’s like I’m a mushroom or something.

Oh, fuck this bullshit.

And what could someone want from you so badly they’d risk a second death? They’d have to be crazy, which, with this crew, is only twenty percent true. 

After a few thousand years in a hive mind, damn it, I deserve a solid meal. 

Maybe not all of my problems are able to be fixed, but I think a dumpling could definitely do a number on those that are. 

Sun, it’s like raising teenagers all over again….

He wanted that dumpling so goddamn bad 💀

Anyways, I'll tag @lunesartsworld @kiennwrites @seastarblue @cain-e-brookman @sergeantnarwhalwrites and anyone else who wants in!

[kiennwrites]

great films available on the internet archive part two

first post + the archive collection with all of them

la haine (1995) dir. mathieu kassovitz

carnival of souls (1962) dir. herk harvey

andrei tarkovsky's filmography

a nightmare on elm st. dir wes craven

possession (1981) dir. andrzej źuławski

the silence of the lambs (1991) dir. jonathan demme

safe (1995) dir. todd haynes

psycho (1960) dir. alfred hitchcock

cops (1922) dir. buster keaton

sherlock jr (1924) dir. buster keaton

when harry met sally... (1989) dir. rob rainer

the bride of frankenstein (1935) dir. james whale

man with a movie camera (1927) dir. dziga vertov

coffee and cigarettes (2003) dir. jim jarmusch

m (1931) dir. fritz lang

it happened one night (1934) dir. frank capra

casablanca (1942) dir. michael curtiz

purple noon (1960) dir. rene clement

carrie (1976) dir. brian de palma

eraserhead (1977) dir. david lynch

they live (1988) dir. john carpenter

female trouble (1974) dir. john waters

do the right thing (1989) dir. spike lee

wings (1927) dir. william a wellman

fallen angels (1995) dir. wong kar wai

velvet goldmine (1998) dir. todd haynes

black panthers (1968) dir. agnes varda

american psycho (2000) dir. mary harron

the manchurian candidate (1962) dir. john frankenheimer

girlfriends (1978) dir. claudia weill

more to come ♡ glad you all like movies.

[kiennwrites]

be proud of me I'm requesting a book be added to the library catalogue rather than impulse purchasing it immediately

[kiennwrites]

yeah now that i think about it im here creating things myself because of how disillusioned i was with mainstream rep. spite. you look at *that* and go. that thing? i can do better