#Darkest Against Light Zine

[proofhead]

Chaos Magazine 11. ve 12. Sayılar

Aylar önce Chaos Magazine’in geri dönüş sayısının haberini yaptıktan sonra, yıl bitmeden bir yeni sayı ve devamında da yepyeni bir 12. sayı daha yayımladı Lainmeun – Murat Chaos Gökbulut. Derginin 10. sayısıyla birlikte başlayan renkli ve ciltli bookazin formatı öylesine sevildi ki geriye dönüp yıllar önce siyah beyaz çıkan 9. sayıyı bile “yalandan renkli” bastı. Dolayısıyla bu yepyeni renkli ve…

[xazz]

Isolation 1/1

My entry for the @onelastwishzine A free zine all about Ahamkara and wish dragons. 40 artists came together to make it and I was lucky enough to get to join in

If you'd rather read on AO3

It was a long separation.

Hours became days became months became years became decades and centuries. And yet the Garden bloomed forever and Taranis’ clutch was held in perfect stasis. Time had no meaning in the Garden. They would stay perfect. Forever. Until they were removed and free to hatch at their own whims. Taranis knew many things both great and small but even he didn’t know when it would be time to bring his clutch into a place where time moved forward.

In the loneliness he whispered into the void; his voice seeking his love across the great expanse of every Realm. She often whispered back. Promises to meet again one day. A promise they both knew neither would keep. The chosen of the Light would not allow any of their kind to exist at all. But he could listen to the echoes of her voice through the Ley Lines. Sometimes he whispered her sweet words to their dormant clutch in her voice, so they might know what their other parent sounded like. ‘Mother’ was too strong a word for Riven after all. She never would have allowed it.

The Garden was forever and so was Taranis. In a place where time had no meaning his hunger never grew. It was a perfect place between where reality and speculation flourished. The energy sustained him just enough to not wither away from a lack of wishing.

He felt when its putrid Heart was destroyed. The energy shockwave was so soft and light and yet he felt it deep within his lair. He pulled his eggs close and spoke to them in his voice, and Riven’s voice, keeping them warm against the fire in his belly. Whatever came for the Heart would not come for them and if it did he would protect them.

But the monster who killed the Heart never came.

A different one came instead. One of the great liars of the Hive. A God. A King. Meaningless words to a dragon. Kings and gods did not slay dragons after all. But they could make deals with dragons.

Through the darkest places Riven’s voice spoke to him and he despaired. Ahamkara weren’t meant to live in isolation. Not even the favored Wish-Maker of the Queen of the Reef. Not even with all the desires and wishes the Queen could make could satisfy the burning loneliness in Riven that longed to be remembered. That longed to see Taranis again. That longed to know where the Queen had kept her part of their clutch hidden away, secreted to hold over her, never to be born; held in place by some Awoken magic. That longed to never die.

Not that Ahamkara could die.

Not really.

He did not repeat the words she spoke to him to their clutch. He only wept tears of despair. He loved her but he could not follow her. He would not. He did not respond to her as she told him her plan, her scheme. Once they had so delighted him, thrilled him. Now…

He did not feel her passing but he knew as one of his protected clutch started to become corrupted. Taken. A bargain made by a dragon come to collect. He wouldn’t let it be so. The Light and the Dark had taken much from him and his kind but they would not take this.

It was selfish; in a way. Taranis gathered his eggs against the fire in his belly and spoke in his true voice for the cosmos to hear. He made his first, and only, wish. That his eggs would be safe from Riven, and from the Taken King, and from Queen Mara, and from any else who sought them harm. That they would be flung to the edges of the system where no mortal could find them. Where no one could harm them.

Taranis closed his eyes as he finished his wish. He felt his eggs shimmer and shine and one by one the wish took effect and they were gone. And for the first time since the Great Hunt he was finally, truly, alone as he became one with the Garden. His children would be lost until his Wish-Keeper found them safe and brought them together again so they would never know such loneliness as their parents.

[marshmallowprotection]

Have You Seen Paradise?

My piece for the Fantaisie Zine, which was a collective fashion zine filled with articles and dynamic aesthetic choices for our favorite characters from Mystic Messenger! If you're interested in seeing the artwork depicted for this piece, be sure to check out my collab artist, @itscatbell on Instagram. It was a real pleasure to work on this Zine!

[Read on AO3]

FANTAISIE ZINE.

A daffodil blooming in shadows is a sight to behold. It may surprise you to hear that a flower can come to life without the light of the sun to spur its growth, but perhaps you haven’t thought to see beyond the reality handed to you by society. Flowers can be found even in the darkest places, surviving against the elements to prove their worth despite the expectation that they’ll wither and die within weeks of coming to life. 

Have you felt it? Have you felt the judging eyes of people on your back whenever you decide to wear the clothes that make you feel like yourself? As if people have preconceived notions about you before they know the person underneath the surface? Are you tired of that feeling of eyes watching you as if they know who you are when they could never know the real you? 

For the misunderstood members of society who feel shunned for surviving against all odds, don’t you wish there was a place in this world where you could be yourself without being removed from the darkness you’ve cultivated your identity? Wouldn't it be lovely to be yourself instead of erasing your personality and style to fit in with what they want? 

It may sound too good to be true for such a place to exist, but Mint Eye is more than meets the eye. It's a space where all your dreams can come true if you're willing to take a chance on being yourself; For someone to be able to live a life where they are allowed to show every aspect of themselves without being afraid means that they have to be willing to open the door. 

What better place to open that door than inside Magenta, the heart of Mint Eye? 

It is a place where you are allowed to be yourself through and through. You can show who you are on the inside and find people who understand what it feels like to be shunned by society for being who they’re meant to be. Everyone in Magenta knows what it feels like to be scoffed at and driven away. You never have to be afraid of the wandering eye judging your appearance inside or out. 

That’s because Magenta is where you belong. 

Have you ever imagined what it’s like to step foot inside a castle? That’s what it feels like to walk inside Magenta. You’re transported to a place beyond space and time where fantasy and magic seemingly come alive. Some say if you dive deeper into the building, you may just find an eternal party where the masquerade beckons you to don a mask and feel alive with the power of moonlight pouring down onto you from the skylight. 

It’s a fairytale moment for those who want to feel like Cinderella finally has their chance to shine in front of a crowd that sees them for who they are. Isn’t that what everyone craves deep down, anyway? A chance to feel like they’re the one that matters for once in their life? It’s something even I would be envious of if I saw someone take their first breath of freedom. 

There is no judgment in Mint Eye by those who cultivate the sea of a paradise for the outlier understanding and compassion for their fellow man stands. Won’t you consider taking a chance on the opportunity to be secure in your sense of style? Don’t you want to show yourself that you’re worthy of all you desire as the person you truly are? 

Those that take a chance on finding their way to Magenta undergo a transformation that allows them to feel like the person they’ve always wanted to be but were too afraid to let out of their closet. You will discover things about yourself that you never dared to think of, as well as realize the true potential you’ve always known was inside of you. 

Illuminate your heart with Magenta’s open arms, and you will find the person you never realized was missing. Mint Eye is more than something that can be limited to words. It’s an experience that you don’t want to miss. 

Take a risk, walk on air, and let your desire free as a bird released from its cage. 

You won’t regret it. 

[sedehaven]

Let Me Rise / Let Me Fall

Let Me Rise (Beelzebub) Beneath a steel sky, flashing (threats gleam like metal screaming) before the storm. Hidden in a box of glass, sterile hotel duvet holding place for your hands and lips and breath. Safe from both sides. All of your sins are sins of tenderness-- unseemly in an angel of God. And all of my sins are sins of weakness. Unseemly in whatever I have become. The thunder announces you; you fall like the water, to the nearly-white (cloudlight) carpet, as I Fell once. As I Fell into Hell. As I fell into you. Love lights the darkest paths-- a flickering match promising warmth against the iceslick street. A fool's gambit, and yet-- Falling for you is as easy as summer rain. (Did the humans name me a God of rain? They did. They did. Once.) Oh, my love, make my flesh an altar for your soft worship. Drink my tears for your Communion, and sing your prayers in the dark cathedral of our joined mouths. Kiss my skin as the rain and leave me pure. Give me wings and let me rise for a night, this last night, before the death of all the world. Let me rise.

~*~

Let Me Fall (Gabriel) First drops fall warm as our tears-- summer shower, clouds quilted to hide us. Not from God. No, She knows our raw souls. But from other eyes, from those who have never known need--who have never known a lover's touch. All of your sins are sins of tenderness-- unseemly in a demon Prince. And all of my sins are sins of weakness. Unseemly in the Strength of God. Safe before you, on my knees, and you rise from the bed--like salvation, like spring dandelions--as I rose, once. As I rose to Heaven, still smelling of Eden. This love festers and blooms like a corpse-- drawing flies and muddying all sense. I drew you to me in my rot. I know that you are consuming me, and yet-- Surrender is as beautiful as lightning. (Did the humans name me a God of thunder? They did. They did, once.) Oh, my love, make my flesh a dinner table and feast upon me. Drink my fears and become drunk on them. Sing me sweet sins in the delirious crypt of our joined mouths. Peel back my skin (and lies) and leave me weak. Steal my wings and let me fall into you, this last night, before we meet on the battlefield. Let me fall.

-- S. E. De Haven (GypsyWeaver)

Both poems to be featured in the forthcoming Red Tape Zine.

[thepulta]

At the Edge of the Reach, there are Diamonds

Summary: Those who die do not die alone. The Waste Waif watches. What happens when a ship loses its crew.  My submission for the @neath-to-reach-zine 

-=-

Organized chaos ruled the skies for who navigated the Reach. Paths between islands looped like a rat’s nest, or Her Majesty’s Palace; shards of ice and deadly pockets of high-gravity could send a locomotive spiraling. An analogous mountain range dotted the sky en route to Lustrum, full of massive, gaping peaks with jagged sides and caverns cut into the rock; echoes of something larger that carved the rock into islands in the first place. If one had enough time, and skill, and strength, the range could likely be the realms’ trickiest jigsaw puzzle. But for now, the mountains floated in silence through the winds and snow and ice that covered them, blessed with a soft smattering of starlight above.

These winds – fickle, aloof – cycled like the tides of the Surface. The patterns were still debated by the realms’ navigators, but there were patterns. Storms clouded the skies, blew islands off course; occasionally great sky beasts quit the islands with such force they crashed into each other. The lands strayed, but the steady winds tugged them back into orbit. Even in death, the Garden King willed Order.

Throughout the mountain range, bioluminescent lichen and fungi fed on the exposed rock. Frosted marble columns twenty feet in diameter drifted through the wilderness like long-forgotten trees. Besides the wind and the occasional spider, it was still.

The hiss of a flare and flash of red against the blues of Lustrum broke the serenity of the Reach. The light glinted off a locomotive floating in the darkness. It was London-built, steel weathered. No steam hissed from its boiler. The vessel rotated slowly in the realm’s bioluminescent glow. Ice had crept over the cab, frosting the widows.

Inside the engine room, in the unnatural tranquility, Eileen Declan huddled in the engineer’s old cot. She made her last trip out six hours earlier to set the flare up. She rigged a timer for it to go at the darkest part of the day – maybe someone would see then. The chances were higher at least. But now it shone and went and still each of her footsteps in the empty ship echoed through the wilderness.

Her toes were frigid after the expedition and the fact her body no longer had enough heat for her to stay outside the engine room where she burned bedlinens and crate frames lingered in her mind. Her cheeks were gaunt, fingers bony. She’d never been a large woman, but her frame was clearly meant to hold more. Her hands weakly tugged the captain’s quilt – gods rest his soul – around her. Eileen could feel the room growing colder, but the strength to find something else to burn was unobtainable. Best to conserve what warmth she had.

She coughed weakly in the frozen air.

Would she last the night? Her body felt too empty to ponder the question and she let resignation settle in her stomach instead. She was a practical sort of woman and this end was unavoidable for a skyfarer, wasn’t it? But she wondered if her sisters were alright. Sad, she thought, that she would die before her mother. Maybe this would be sad for them. Maybe the news would reach them someday.

The emotions gave her heart some weight – made her feel a little less hungry. Years ago she’d had a full belly – months ago, even – and now she could barely remember it. The crew left New Winchester on half-rations since they couldn’t sell parcels of tea for full price. The war-ravaged Winchesters couldn’t afford it, whether or not they wanted any. It was the last of several bad deals the captain had made, even though Eileen had joined for the last two. They left Winchester for Lustrum with a half-hold full of tea, low on fuel. Her friend, the first mate, grumbled bitterly to her, but she kept her voice hopeful. “Lustrum has the money and mining camps always want tea. We’ll manage. We’ll get there.”

The mountains of Lustrum entangled them halfway, burning out their fuel after a vicious storm blew them off-course. The shortcut turned into a long-cut. The regular fuel ran out, then the accessible flammables. Then the crew died, one by one, from frostbite and starvation. The captain held out hope of rescue until he died, writing letter after letter meant for the families of those who died first and letters of recommendation for those who might live. He wasn’t a bad man; maybe a bit of a gambler, maybe not the keenest merchant, but not a bad man. Eileen felt for him. They wrapped him in his bedsheet and gifted him to the wastes.

The first mate died soon after giving up her crackers to Eileen. She was like an elder sister. Maybe brusque sometimes, but with a gentle tenderness. She told her where there was a pistol hidden in the gunnery.

Eileen shot the cook when he came after her with a cleaver.

And then she was alone.

She considered eating the cook – nobody would have judged her. He was a thin man with a broken nose, mealy hair, and teeth that were too straight to be natural. Unpleasant to the eye with a unpleasanter demeanor – but he cooked well. Probably would have cooked her thighs well too, she could imagine. The day before this, she had raised the knife to cut him, but she couldn’t do it. The wilderness was too still. It felt appropriate, in some way, that she leave the dead to an unbroken slumber. That slumber would be the only burial she was gifted.

The locomotive grew colder as the hours ticked by and the twisted linen fabric burned to ashes. Frost crystallized under the doorway and in the corners of the room, dusting it to a milky-grey. The color echoed in Eileen’s mind as her eyelids drooped. It had been a long day working to fire the last flare. She was exhausted and it was cold. The quilt caught what little heat her body produced. The quilt was warm.

Several hours passed. The room pulsed imperceptibly as if responding to the rhythm of Eileen’s breaths, the ice ebbing and flowing as her warmth pressed back against it. Slowly, the ice replaced the space her breaths no longer filled. The warmth of the room grew smaller and smaller, like a candle’s flame shrinking in on itself.

Eileen’s breath shuddered in her sleep and the ashes smoked their last warmth as ice frosted over the remains. White dendrites crept over the floorboard, over the roof, down the walls closer to her cot. The metal walls of the engine crackled; ice tightening its hold on the ship like a crystal leviathan. Eileen’s breath deepened, forming cotton clouds in front of her face. She shivered. Hours passed. Her breathing shallowed; her pale cheeks took on a bluish hue and her lips turned blue. Each breath rasped in the silence of the engine room; her skin stretched taunt over her fingers curled to her chest, blackened and numb.

Her skin darkened over the next hour and each breath rattled more in the silence than the last. Icy tendrils crackled over the metal plating, up the cot supports. Ever so gently the ice coated her toes, silver on black in miniscule hexagonal crystals, inanimate encroaching on the animate. Eileen’s breath shook. Her lips darkened from blue to purple, eyes frosted shut – she was too weak to open them, even if she wasn’t sunk deep in dreamless sleep.

Ice thickened over the room as the minutes passed. It crept slowly up her shins, over her coat: darkening her extremities in black blotches. Her hollow, half-exposed cheek darkened and ice formed in the cavity. Frost dusted her eyelids and nose. She breathed in one last time, lungs laboring against the chill. In the tomb of an engine room with its lingering odor of coal dust and hallowed metal walls, sheets of tin with its polished bronze boiler; the silence of the pipes that no longer hissed, frozen shut weeks past; Frosty icicle ornaments strung along the mezzanine and tools that led to the cab; in this sepulcher of hubris, of man’s audacity and bravery, Eileen gave up the ghost.

Her last breath rattled through her blue lips into the small hands of a child that materialized before her. The waif was blue, coated with ice in the grotesque manner of a death forgotten and unclean. Eileen’s last breath fogged the child’s grasp, crystallizing into a stone – ice? No, diamond – a rough octahedron with jagged edges, flawed in the way humans are flawed; unpolished, unshaped, but shining. The waif’s hands let it hover in the air, soft and free while she opened a bag formed from thousands of the same diamonds, held together by silky invisible thread. Those were the special ones who knew this end and prayed to not be forgotten. They stayed close. The child blew downward and the new diamond clinked softly against a dozen others.

The waif looked at the ice-filled engine room for a while. Hours? Days? Time was immaterial. There were no windows and there was no light. Nothing moved and the stillness stood eternal. The child sensed it and stayed in reverence. After a time, the waif passed up to the cab. Frost crystalized over the engine windows as she approached. The navigator was frozen solid, head on his arms, arms on the paneling. A diamond materialized near his closed, frozen eyes as she walked close and it drew to her like a magnet. She guided it to her bag with the same gentle reverence and passed to the cargo hold. Empty piles of tea lay on the floor, crates pulled apart and burned. A pile of bones lay in the corner. Fragments of moisture gathered from the pile as she stepped close, crystalizing in the air. The waif opened her bag.

Ice crackled under her bare feet in the stairwell. The mess hall held a single large table, a stove, sink, and pantry. All the dishes were put away. The pantry door hung ajar, empty. It was oddly clean except for one wall, where ice sparkled red over a blood splatter. It smeared down to the body of the cook slouched against the wall. His diamond was rough, jagged, but crystal-clear. A convert of the Borrower. Pity there were no hours to give here except his own.

The waif left icy footprints as she traveled to each cabin, slipping through the doorways and collecting the breaths of the dead. The first mate had several books spread out on her desk. Frost had crystallized up the woman’s bedsheets and over her hair, but she looked peaceful. The waif blew a small but shiny stone into her bag.

Eventually she passed through the hull and into the wastes. The only sound around the engine was the wind, whistling softly through the mountains. Snow tinkled quietly against the metal hull, and occasionally the metal of the engine cracked as it tightened. The waif reveled in the quiet; the sanctity of The Garnet painted lovingly on the hull. Space stretched endlessly around the engine; floating mountains, wind, ice, and bioluminescent lichen amassing itself to light the scene.

There was little ‘up’ in the Reach, except on islands large enough to have their own gravitational signatures. The old, dead King had picked those islands out long ago with little rhyme or reason and the Lustrum route was particularly arbitrary once the mountains had been broken apart. The breath of the captain called to her though. It had called to her for the past week, but the waif tended to others, wandering the empty halls of The Garnet until it was truly lost. There was both sadness and possessiveness of the ship once it happened and its void called louder. She found the captain’s body wrapped in a shroud in a snow bank; a cold burial for a good man. His diamond floated to her willingly, cold, even in her frozen palm. The waif added it to her bag and struck out again.

She stretched from empty place to empty place; they were a part of her, and she of them, frosty and beloved. Travel was easiest in the places she inhabited, which was simple around Lustrum: she brushed the edges of the mountains untouched by man or beast; the snow blown into the wastes off the mountaintops. She stepped into a mined-out hours pocket underground, littered with broken picks, cast-off signs, several cans, and a once-beloved lantern. The waif made her way into the true wastes – the edges of the realm where the mountains were no longer coherent mountains but chunks of rock the size of cities floating in the wind. There were diamonds strewn between them. Everything was untouched here and the waif moved freely.

Reverent, she emptied her bag to the wind and let her connection to each death shift inside her, their memories and their names and their lives recorded eternally. When the jagged boulders shifted on the winds they exposed more diamonds; thousands of them. Each one unforgotten, all remembered, all sacred; a hallowed space between the realms for the memories of the lonely dead. Their breaths would stay here suspended forever, untouched by time and surrounding those they had loved within the traversable universe. The waif would protect their memory. The promise was unspoken, but assured. She would protect their legacy and the legacies of the spaces she inhabited: when people loved but lost. Such was her gift.

The waif took a seat on a nearby craig and watched the precious stones float past. Her form was, at best, ethereal to the human eye, although it grew stronger here, where there were no eyes to see her. There was no heat in her existence, no nerves; she embodied dying breath and breath wielded no soul. But despite that, a type of love whistled on the winds around her, buoying the new diamonds through the wastes. It blew on her desire to express her presence and their connection; an unspoken extension of herself. The gods were simple creatures. If a connection was harmed, the winds and ice shifted in swift, angry retribution.

Time passed. The waif flitted through the expanse. It was too cold to snow on the edges of the world; ice crackled where she moved. Time passed. Within the realms, hunger raked its way through a crew. An ache; a sorrow. Someone abandoned a morsel to the wastes. Shared hunger was a kindness. The sacrificed biscuit froze, frosted over, shattered to crumbs in a moment or a minute or an eternity and the winds shifted. Love. Attention. Reciprocation. Time Passed. The wind whistled amongst the diamonds.

[autumnstwilight]

Rating: T Words: 1,500 Tags: Gen, character study, WoR, angst, blood/injury Summary:  Gentiana encounters a wounded Ignis outside Lestallum. Written for Lost in Wars zine.

It is not her own coldness that fills the night. Not the bright chill of the winter wind nor the crispness of fresh snow underfoot, but the hollow black rot of absence, and so it displeases her. Her footsteps through the roiling dust are like fingertips taking a temperature and finding the body corpse-stiff. The scourge is bitter on her tongue and her breath each moment she spends here.

Here at the still point of the turning world, time has carved away half of the wait appointed. The midnight moon is just past full, and must wane again before the darkest hour. Frost blossoms at her feet, flowers from the dead land.

It has been many years since she first began to live among the humans. At first, she served as a companion and guide for the young Oracle, now she passes her time in the city as another set of hands, stirring the soup pot and tending to the sick, tasks that pass unnoticed, unrecognized. In the hours when the humans sleep, she slips the gates and wanders, surveying what is left of the world. She does not hunt the daemons, but when the Light within her draws their attention, she dispatches them with a freezing gale.

He is not far from the city gates when she finds him, the heat of his blood bright in the frosted dust, and the wheezing of his breath rising like smoke from a candle flame. Life burns within him yet. She has no message to speak, and so she watches. Eventually, he lets out a wet cough, and rolls onto his back.

“All has its hour, but the hour of the Swordsworn is yet to come.” It is, to her, an observation, as one might comment on the weather. The thread of fate on which his life is suspended has not yet reached its end.

“It will take more than that to finish me,” he asserts, pushing himself into a sitting position. “You should know.”

He summons a cane into his hand and prises himself from the ground, leaning on it heavily as he makes his way toward the gates. Draped over one shoulder, he carries a bundle neatly wrapped in cloth, treated with more caution than any part of his own body. She does not assist, but trails behind.

It is always so. She is not permitted to alter the events that have been preordained. The life of the Star rests on the point of a needle, as does the truce between the remaining Gods. Between the wrath of Leviathan and the justice of Ramuh, between Bahamut’s pragmatism and her own compassion. Woe to him who tilts the balance.

And thus, her role is observer and Messenger. Her borrowed body has lingered here, watching the Oracle grow into a dauntless young woman, then facing the destiny asked of her. Gentiana shed tears for her, as promised. It was to cry for Lunafreya that she took this human form.

“You know,” he says eventually, “I once found your following us reassuring.”

“Is it no longer so?” she asks.

Too distant for human senses, the daemons hiss in the wasteland and under the earth that his blood drips over and soaks into. They dare not rise while she is here. She is not permitted to tilt the balance. But every now and then, she places a fingertip beneath the scales.

“Back then, I thought that he had your favor. That you would protect him.”

She tilts her head at this seeming accusation.

“Bearing the blessing of the divine, the King lives yet. The High Messenger watches as he walks the path appointed.”

The man turns away from her, a wordless noise escapes him. When he speaks, his voice is rough and thickened by something other than blood.

“You did not protect the Oracle in Altissia. And when her murderer turned his blade toward the King— there was not a God in sight. What I did may have been reckless, but I never abandoned him. Can you say the same?”

“It is not for the Messenger to interfere with the path set for the King. The Swordsworn understands this now. He too knows what lies ahead, and spoke of it not.”

His head jerks back toward her, outrage on his features, and for a moment, he appears to be searching for words.

“With all due respect, our circumstances are hardly comparable. I did not decide the way of things, merely failed to change them.”

“Every action brings about change,” she tells him. “Such acts of loyalty echo in the halls of eternity.”

“Forgive me, but I’m rather more concerned with the present.” He sniffs, then wipes a trail of blood from his nose. “And I’m not ready to face eternity yet. Nor send anyone else in my stead.”

“The fate of our Star now rests upon the King. Bearing the Light, he will return prepared. Does the Swordsworn intend to oppose him?” She asks this pleasantly, but there is a taste of frost on her tongue. Betrayal displeases her.

“No! I— I will follow him to the gates of hell, if I must. But only after all other roads have been exhausted.”

It should gladden her, but her heart fills with sorrow. She recalls the elder brother standing before her, bearing the crest of his enemies, the same urgency in his voice as he insisted there must be another way, and he would find it, even if he had to tear the world apart. She had smiled sadly then, too.

Humans claimed forever so easily in their vows and poems, like snowflakes that did not know of spring. Yet even if she could freeze them in the moment, she would not. Eternity was not for them.

Long ago, they had turned against her love, driving him from his throne and leading to his downfall. But who betrayed whom? Was it Ifrit who was the first to turn cruel, demand too much, punish too harshly? Her mate, or her beloved humans— she had turned a blind eye to the flaws of both.

And would Ifrit have punished the humans knowing that his actions would lead to the poisoning of the world, threatening the Crystal itself? It seemed impossible, he had been created to defend it. And yet as king, he was as uncompromising and unstoppable as the flow of magma down a mountainside. Perhaps this was what he had willed.

Her unease then, is with the will of the Gods. It pains her most, as she has walked among the humans, come to value even lives that vanish like frost in the morning sun. None of them take joy in this, but she alone comprehends the weight of each loss.

The children of the Crystal, cruel and kind, petty and generous, short-lived and spanning across ages. Her humans. She could not look at them and feel despondent. They gathered and huddled in their settlements like campfires reduced to embers, nestling for a rebirth.

Her companion walks with a furious stride and says nothing more until they arrive at the gates, and she bows to him in preparation to leave. It is then that he turns to her, with the hesitance of a child and asks, simply.

“How long?”

She smiles a little, although he cannot see it.

“Which answer is sought? That he is soon to return, and free the world from its peril? Or that time remains, so that the Swordsworn may prepare, mind and body?”

The expression on his lips is thin and bitter, twisting around the answer he already knows.

“Too long. And not long enough.”

He lets out a sigh that dissolves in the emptiness around them.

“Tell him then. If you can do nothing else for me, then deliver this message. We are waiting. Always.”

He passes through the gates and they close with a clang of metal, something harsh and man-made. The noise displeases her, but no more than the faint howls of what lies in the wastelands. At least the creaks and clattering of mankind speak of hope. Someday they will build towers and ring bells once again.

It is then that she turns away from the city. Her gaze turns to the waning moon, suspended above the Umbral Isle and trickling away like sand in the upper half of an hourglass, cliffs reaching up like spread wings to catch it. Below, the King sleeps, and the land with him. Devoured by darkness deep enough to swallow the Light of the Gods.

But all is not lost. The cycles of the ocean still pulse, sending the sea breeze, the heat of the earth still pushes upward, and the rain still falls to quench its thirst. She senses her kin in the stirring air, refusing to let Eos perish. Within her hand she cups snowflakes, and lets the breeze snatch them from the clifftops, illuminated by the glow of the meteorshards below. For a moment, the endless night has stars.

[mondstadtbreeze]

Hey!

Usually I wouldn't post this much before it's done, but I'm applying for a zine.

This is a snippet of something a little longer I'm writing, but I thought it'd be a good show of my writing plus it has Lumine as focus point in it. I know this is a bit out of context, but I hope that's alright!

-

This was not how it was supposed to go.

"Childe! CHILDE!"

A streamlined mission:

Kill a geovishap that had started nesting in a cavern deep inside the local mine shaft, bring whatever loot there was left afterwards.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Great pay! Maybe that should have been their first clue.

"Lumine, dodge!"

Lumine ducked as another treasure hoarder swung at her.

Clang! The sword clashed against her own as she lifted it in the air with tired arms but quick reflexes.

She jumped back and sent a whirl of wind in the man's direction.

He stumbled and she used it to dash past him.

"Childe, get over here!", she yelled as she dodged another attack, but before her travel companion could answer, something exploded next to her and she was thrown into the wall with more force than expected.

She yelped in pain and then the entire mine shaft started trembling.

"Shit!", Lumine yelled, as dust and dirt started raining from the ceiling, hitting her head.

"Lumine! Are you alr- argh!"

A dull 'Thwack!' sounded somewhere through the hissing and singing of metal and arrows and Childe didn't speak again.

"Childe!"

Lumine shook her head to get rid of the dizziness from hitting her head on the rocks as she ran towards the sound.

Her vision blurred slightly when she moved out of the way of another thug and mercilessly rammed her sword into the space between his neck and shoulder.

She shook her head to clear it before hurrying in the direction of the cave entrance where she'd seen Childe last.

Where was he?

Another bomb detonated a few meters behind her and this time the mine shook so strongly, that she stumbled.

These idiots! They were going to bury all of them together!

Using one hand to keep to the wall, Lumine kept going.

Where was he?!

The dust was getting thicker and it was difficult to make out anything other than shapes in the low light of the mine's torches.

Panic crawled up her throat, choked it closed like greedy claws when he still didn't answer.

It made breathing difficult, her heart pounding even faster.

She couldn't have passed him, right?

Maybe he'd run ahead and was too far out of range to hear her.

She didn't yell again and instead just pushed herself to run faster, eventhough her leg hurt and the geovishap had gotten her pretty good before the run in with the bandits.

What if they took him? Or had already killed him!

No, even in both their states, Childe wouldn't go down so easily.

Plus, he dressed like the rich man he was, so maybe they'd just drag him to their hideout for ransom and she'd still have time!

A memory blinked into her mind; Aether, hand outstretched and eyes widened, terrified, as dark, cubes of magic encased him.

She clenched her jaw as she pushed it back into the darkest spaces of her mind, tried to forget the fear in Aether's voice.

Not now!

She couldn't panic now.

She took a deep breath and started running, stinging leg be damned.

"CHILDE!"

Finally there was a muffled reply from up ahead, where the dust cleared a little and Lumine almost laughed in relief- until her foot got stuck and she kicked something a few meters.

She stopped at the glow it gave off.

Childe's vision.

She looked back to see what she fell over and realized with dread, that it was his bow.

-

"Lumine, watch out!"

Alarmed by his warning Lumine missed a step, slipped and fell backwards, the same time a loud metallic zinging and a blow of wind rushed past her face, only centimeters above her head.

The huge claymore sank into the earthen wall above her like a knife into butter.

She yelped as a kick got her in the ribs, but used the mometum to roll out of reach before looking up to see the treasure hoarder pull at the big weapon.

Lumine didn't waste time.

She rammed her sword through his foot and pulled herself up in one fluid motion, going straight into an attack stance, shutting his pained screams up with a hook to the chin.

Something cracked as his head flew back and he lost grip on the claymore, sinking to the floor, unconscious.

Lumine whirled around, where she could hear the scuffle of two other bodies; a bloody looking Childe on the floor held down by the enemy's foot, eyes wide and struggling against the hold, just as the big burly bandit was about to bring his hammer down on his head.

"NO!"

Lumine took to a run and jumped, propelling herself forward with help of every ounce of anemo powers she had left.

She didn't leap in front of Childe, didn't put herself in between them.

Instead, she hit the body of the treasure hoarder like a canon ball, drove her sword so deep into his body she could feel it cut through and break bones.

They crashed into the closest wall with a force that gave the foundation of the mine the last push.

With a horrid creaking and shrieking that only wood could make, the wooden framework on the sides bent inwards, before it burst into thousands of splinters and noticable had the earth sag.

"We have to get out!", Childe yelled and Lumine threw herself forward to reach him in time.

"Paimon! Get us out of here!"

Paimon's magic sounded in a familiar chime, just as Lumine gripped the fatui by his collar and pulled him close.

The world went dark.

[oveliagirlhaditright]

Sunshine - A Sora Character Study Piece with Some SoKai

What my piece for the Sora Zine on Tumblr would have been, if I'd gotten in: when you know the answer to why you are the way you are--and while that state of your being itself never really changes, perhaps the reason for it does. Why does Sora always smile? This is my way of trying to answer that: based on my favorite Sora fic (that's now gone) that tried to answer the same question in the KHII era. KHIII-centric.

@thedeliverygod I think you were interested in reading this? Well, here it finally is:)

Author’s Note: Highly inspired by my favorite Sora character study of all time, that has now sadly been lost to the void. Sora sat at a campfire, by himself now, as he again thought over how Donald and Goofy had just asked him why he was always smiling. He’d at first thought they were joking, and wanted him to retort it was because the gummi ship ran on happy faces. Right? But the moment he could tell they were serious, he had of course answered that it was because of his friends who were always with him in more ways than one, and who had saved him so many times. Though that had done nothing to alleviate Donald and Goofy’s fears, either. Sora hadn’t known why they were concerned, and still didn’t. Was it because his happy-go-lucky attitude during the Exam had made him an easy target for Xehanort… or did they were worry his denying his inner darkness—and blocking it out with light—would lead to him falling? Sora wasn’t sure. But even though he had been confused by Donald and Goofy’s worry and still was, he was also touched by their love for them and had made sure to tell them that. And he had promised them that if they were that afraid of what might happen, he’d make sure to try and somewhat do better on this quest—as long as they were always with him, and they promised him they would be. So, while going out to the new worlds, Sora tried to be light and humorous as he usually was when the situation called for it—and this time, the situation really did call for it most of the time. And Sora felt like he, Donald, and Goofy were getting into more funny hijinks with people than they usually did—but also to make sure he was sober, if need be. But oh, when he got to the Keyblade Graveyard—and he needed to be upset there more than ever, with all that he lost—Sora ended up wishing strongly that he’d never thought about any of this, about giving himself a reality check… that he would have just opted to stay optimistic, and that Kingdom Hearts maybe would have rewarded him if he had. And when he was crying to Riku, that he was worthless without his friends and now they were all gone… what other choice did fate have, then, then to swallow both him and Riku up, too, to make Sora pay for those words? …And then Sora found his Light in the Darkness. His Kairi: something that he’d been suspecting about her and their bond for a while now… And though most of this was lost in the depths of his memories, Sora had thought he’d heard that term used about Kairi in regard to him before. And he’d idly wondered then if that meant what he was taking from it: that he, perhaps, would have been a much different person—a darker one—if Kairi hadn’t come into his life like a comet for the soul. But it was only after Sora had twirled her around—feeling better than he had in a long time, when he realized that she had saved him as she had promised, and that through that it had allowed him to aid everyone else, too—and Kairi was explaining things to him, that Sora thought he really understood it all. No… he wouldn’t have necessarily been a different person without Kairi, but her natural light—that of a Princess of Heart—made his shine all the brighter, as she worked with him to get things done (though Kairi, ever modest, wouldn’t take credit for any of that at all). And Sora hoped that he could somehow make her shine all the brighter, too—and that he could do the same for his other friends—so they could show the world what it could be by example, not leave it as it was. And it was why Sora suddenly decided that Donald and Goofy thinking he smiled too much—even if he of course got where they had been coming from—was wrong: because if the other way was just seeing the crack in the surface, instead of finding a way to patch it up through sheer force of will… Sora knew which one he’d choose every single time. When Kairi brought Sora back to the others, he was truly out of breath from everything he’d just experienced—and also in being in awe at Kairi, who all of his feelings for were finally coming together like a massive puzzle—but as Sora felt that he’d just figured out a mystery of the universe through it all, and that the prophecy really meant nothing and they had to win… what else would he feel soon after, than the rug being pulled out from under him once again? The person who had just given Sora all these wonderful feelings—and made square pieces fit into circles holes for him, like they never had before—… Kairi, was struck down right in front of Sora’s eyes. And there was no world without her. For a moment, Sora fell himself being pulled into the pit of darkness, that he’d always fought so hard against, as he tried to murder Xehanort for his actions and almost seemed to wish that it had been anyone but Kairi who had died. Eventually—like how the night was always darkest before the dawn—Sora found some hope again… in the form of Roxas chastising him, of all people, for being worried… in Xion comforting him about Kairi’s condition… with Donald and Goofy being there for him as they always were—as Sora so needed—now being his points of reason… and in the promise that there was a way to stop Master Xehanort, after all. And Sora held onto this promise and did the right thing for the world, as he had since he’d realized on his first adventure that his new friends from the other worlds were just as much his responsibility as anyone and anything else. And so, Sora found bits of the light again this way… even though at this point, it was like slats of it coming in through barely opened blinds—the darkness still ever-present there—but he would gladly take it to any alternative. And Sora found himself thinking about Kairi—as he fought and fought and fought the Xehanort clones in Scala Ad Caelum, in some ways thinking he was losing his chance to see Kairi ever again forever by doing so, but also thinking that this might be the only way to save her… Perhaps he’d put her up on a pedestal. Even if she couldn’t have darkness in her heart, it was clear that she still had anxieties, insecurities, and self-consciousness that she worked through to be the most bright star that she was. In a lot of ways, she had worked to push the light through her own blinds, too, and wasn’t too different from Sora right now, in that way. And that… that was really the way one ought to live their life—and it was now clearer to Sora than anything else was; he knew Donald and Goofy even did this themselves, too (“No frowning, no sad faces.” “Yeah, you’ve gotta look funny. Like us.”), even if they hadn’t quite seen it on that night a few months back—so when the choice soon became Sora’s own life or Kairi’s, Sora chose the latter gladly; and made sure to embrace Kairi with any light he could, even to his last moments, so she might never know the clouds as the backdrop to the silver lining while he was there. But Sora wasn’t foolish enough to think it would all be rainbows and sunshine for Kairi without him, either. No. But Sora liked to believe that maybe he’d passed on some of his light to her--so she had that to stand on, and to fight the darkness with, when she surely started her own journey, that would surely be so much like his. For the ones you loved deserved nothing less than all the sunshine you could give them, in Sora’s eyes.

[miss-meri]

Eros Yuuri Zine - preview

Pre-orders for the gorgeous @eroszine​ open tomorrow, 11/29! Just in time for best boy Yuuri Katsuki’s birthday <3

Hook, line, and

The key is surprisingly heavy for its size. Viktor turns it over in his hands as he waits for the lift which will take him to the entertainment deck, marveling at its apologetically archaic shape. No one uses keys like this anymore, not for hundreds of years, when an electronic equivalent is so much more reliable, secure, and available.

It’s black of the darkest sort, smooth against his palm but reflecting no light at all from the corridor. A gift, the man at the bar had said, pressing it into Viktor’s hand like a precious, secret treasure. Compliments of the station.

When you’re the heir to a galactic megacorp, people tend to shower you in gifts and affection, hoping for favor. The right thing to do, he had learned, is to accept them all, graciously thank them, and then do whatever you were going to do anyway without regard. Viktor’s been gifted entire ships, rare delicacies, even his prized and much-envied Earth standard poodle by people desiring influence. It’s the first time he’s been given a key like this, however.

It’s taken weeks to arrive at this backwater system. Far from the inner ring, the law does not reach here, and things that wouldn’t fly in Viktor’s home are commonplace.

The lift, when it comes, is not a smooth ride. It’s honestly a little exciting. He reaches the entertainment deck where the atmosphere is dim, plush, and dripping with sin, and a smiling attendant wearing not-very-much leads him to his room down a long and winding corridor. They pass through a few layers of security as they go, and the decorations become more expensive as the doors become further apart.

“Your room, sir,” the man bows low.

[kuroccvlt-blog]

黒ＡＧＡＩＮＳＴ ＭＯＤＥＲＮ ＣＵＬＴＵＲＥ 黒 Kuro means black in Japanese. Black is the darkest color, the result of the absence or complete absorption of visible light. It is often used symbolically or figuratively to represent darkness. The occult (from the Latin word occultus "clandestine, hidden, secret") is "knowledge of the hidden" or "knowledge of the paranormal". The term is sometimes taken to mean knowledge that is meant only for certain people" or that "must be kept hidden". KURØCCVLT celebrates the knowledge of the deepest, darkest aspects of our so-called "humanity", an aesthetic and symbolic ode to the ever fleeting black flame of knowledge that can only be attained through suffering. This is warfare against contemporary culture and mass consumption. Our inspiration materializes from the fringes of our mundane reality in the aesthetics of industrial decay, end-time cults, survivalism and all things blackened. We do comission work (branding, artworks, videos, zines, etc..) for bands, writers, arsonists, free thinkers and anyone that share our jagged vision of this dying world. Send us a message if you would like to collaborate with our collective.

[osmo-sian]

A Wolf on The Path

Summary:  A reworking of Little Red Riding Hood written for Compendium: A FFXV fanzine, with our favourite slimy man as a predatory wolf. 

A03 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16043651

If you’re interested in the zine, then feel free to buy it at: https://www.etsy.com/uk/listing/628379437/compendium-a-ffxv-charity-fanzine?ref=shop_home_active_1

All proceeds go to Cancer Research UK

The moon was high and it made Ardyn’s body ache.

The fresh scent of a new prey made Ardyn ache too. Each cell occupying his body felt electrified, poised for the game of cat and mouse– or, more specifically, wolf and mouse. Just the concept was enough to allow a small, humoured breath to fall from Ardyn’s mirthful mouth. The identical creatures beside him trembled too, as if the moon were full instead of waning. Ridiculous creatures. Ardyn struggled to hold back an eye-roll, pushing back annoyance in favour of the building excitement as his prey’s scent strengthened.

Ardyn watched the figure bustle through the forest, the hemline of their white coat raking across the underbrush below. This was almost perfect. His stomach clenched in anticipation of the hunt. He watched intently as the damp flecks of grass and mud travelled across the fabric, staining the otherwise pristine creature. A slow smile toyed along the edges of Ardyn’s lips, amber eyes burning– riveted– in the dimming light surrounding them.

Ravus lifted his gaze away from the beaten forest path, as if alerted to the still silent presence.

Barely able to suppress yet another humoured laugh, Ardyn pressed his body further against the rough bark of a tree, pushing himself deeper into the shadows of the overgrowth. After a pause, Ravus continued along the path, watching his feet as he moved, content in the false truth of solitude.

As the wind whistled its song against Ardyn’s ears, Ardyn allowed a slow growl to fall from his twitching lips. Ravus’ ears pricked as the soft sound was carried towards him by the thin air. He halted, feet kicking up brown and green flecks from the undergrowth, hand lifting to hover against the handle of his sabre.

“What a lonesome figure you cut.” Ardyn almost purred, his body still masked by the shadows of the tall trees surrounding the two. Narrowing his eyes, Ravus’ hand tightened around the sabre's hilt.

“Show yourself. Else admit your cowardice and continue to hide.”

“Oh my, such cutting words.” The fandango-haired man grinned, his sharpened teeth glinting in whatever moonlight they could find in the shadowy scene. He stepped out of the trees penumbra, allowing Ravus to peer through the gloom at him.

“What...what are you?” Ravus wasn't used to stammering, but the vision before him disturbed him. Ardyn seemed almost human, yet he had qualities about him which settled like a bad taste in Ravus’ mouth.

Ardyn watched with glee as Ravus’ lips slightly trembled around his words, filling the air with his stifled tension. “Your-...Why do your eyes glow, beast?”

“Isn't it better to see me, little creature, if my eyes glow like this? Surely,” Ardyn smiled, lifting his hat from his head, “these glowing eyes of mine could light your way, so to speak.” He took a large step forward, to which Ravus responded by narrowing his eyes warily, although he deigned not to back away.

“I already know my way.” Ardyn laughed; His laughter was unlike any that Ravus had heard before, It bounced around the trees as if it had no point of origin, although Ravus had watched it unfurl from the slender male’s lips.

“Oh, really?” Ardyn quirked a brow upwards inquisitively. “And where is it that you’re going?”

Ravus was silent for a moment. Ardyn almost beamed. No doubt Ravus was very aware of the trap that Ardyn was setting. Still, with an expression of surprise, as if the words fell unbidden, he answered with a quick “my sister’s,” before pulling his lips into a tight line.

“Your sister’s?” Ardyn’s tongue slithered across his lips, as if he were a snake tasting the air surrounding them. “I see.” Ravus didn’t notice Ardyn’s quick movement behind him. He shivered at the sensation of fabric being draped across his shoulders. His hand lifted, grasping at the corner of the red cloth.

“The darkest hour of night is almost here, little mouse.” Ardyn murmured against his ear, causing a shiver to press against the base of Ravus’ spine. “It will get much colder soon.”

Ravus attempted to turn towards the other, the sound of metal sliding as he pulled his saber from its sheath. However, the beast was no longer there, the only memory of his existence being the shifting of the leaves left in his wake.

Sure, the creature he had met was a beast, but he was no liar. Ravus was glad for the warmth that the scarf brought him as he progressed in his journey. Soon the moon was high, and the wind biting, and his hands were buried deep into the thick fabric as he stepped onto the path of his sister’s cottage.

The sight before him seemed to almost chill his blood in his veins. Ravus moved his tongue in his too-dry mouth as he studied the open door which was etched with deep welts on the wood. He stumbled forward, into the abode, and retched immediately as the stench of fetid flesh assaulted his senses. “L-Luna?”

Ravus’ cry elicited no response. Through the carmine coated furnishings Ravus’ eyes fell upon a yellowed gaze. He froze as the eyes moved, the beast that they belonged to stepping out of shadows.

“We meet again,” Ardyn purred, lips parting, allowing the top row of his red-tinted stalactites to gleam.

“My...sister?” Ravus’ voice was nothing more than a whisper, almost smothered by the howling of the gnashing wind from outside of the cottage.

“Your sister?” Ardyn smirked, his eyebrows lifting and disappearing beneath his hat. “Dear mouse, she was merely an entrée.” The beast took a step closer to its prey and it’s prey took a step back.

Ravus turned to dash out of the doorway, only to discover green-masked creatures barring his way. “Don’t run.” Ardyn’s teeth scraped against Ravus’ earlobe. “I don’t want to have to chase you.”

Ardyn grinned. Finally, he mused, finally– I can enjoy a filling meal.

[booklust]

If the rumors are true that print is dying, then we’re in a zombie apocalypse. Booklr and the self-designated online community of book lovers, as well as publishing professionals and the more dismal-minded of authors, have been predicting the death of print culture for years. Yet it persists, with physical books still outselling e-books by a hugely significant margin. Zine fairs, DIY publishing, and small publishers creating beautiful physical copies are popping up everywhere in my feeds and in the culture, and I’m excited about it. If anything, the intensification of the digital realm has increased the demand--and need--for print publications. They complement each other in ways that no one (or at least, of other non-tech-native generations....no shade dad) could have predicted.

It’s appropriate that the first interview in the series is with the Road Virus, a horror-genre-and-queer-focused mobile bookstore currently traveling the United States. I came across the Road Virus in the digital realm, where we followed each others’ writing. We hit it off right away, because we both have telephone anxiety and have a passion for the non-hierarchical, accessible future of literary culture. Sade and I had a conversation on G-Chat about what it’s like to run a mobile bookstore, Stephen King, accessibility in book culture, how libraries can save lives, and the future of lit. Check it out below:

So first off--thanks so much for your time/agreeing to this interview! I'm super stoked about the Road Virus and everything it's about. Absolutely, and again––thanks so much for doing this interview project in the first place. I definitely feel like now, more than ever, the world needs a good strong focus on things with a literary bent. The best part is that we're the ones writing, in realtime, the history of our own culture. 

Give me your elevator pitch for the Road Virus--except the elevator is broken, so you have more time than you thought.

The Road Virus is a time-tested dream come true. Born out of displeasure with the stasis of ordinary living, my best friend Em and I decided that we wanted to open a bookstore. Books and literature have been in our bloodstreams since before anything else really mattered, so we decided to make that a tangible reality.

Unfortunately, since things in life are so uncertain, opening a brick-and-mortar store just didn't seem feasible. So, we decided on the next best thing––we bought a bus and converted it into a half-RV home, half-mobile bookstore. Lucking out with an ex bookmobile, we decided to focus on fringe genres such as horror, sci-fi, subversive graphic novels and comics, erotica, fantasy, and so on––both due to our limited space and our own inherent interests.

We plan to visit even the most remote parts of the US––and someday beyond––with the concept in mind that a lot of places don't have access to the kind of wares we're totting.

Now, I imagine the elevator creaking, hitching––giving us a fleeting hope––and then plummeting down the shaft. We're probably fine. ------------------------------   keep reading below  -------------------------------

How did you and Em meet to form this dynamic duo of traveling booksellers?

We met by the grace of a mutual friend. A night out drinking in one of the darkest and dingiest bars in the world led to a weirdly cohesive and whirlwind friendship. After discovering our shared love and obsession with books and bookstores, we came around to discussing the idea of opening and running our own. We ended up taking a pretty much spur-of-the-moment trip to Tokyo; something about that trip set reality in motion and things ended up happening so fast that I still look back on it and wonder if it wasn't all just a dream.

Is the name the Road Virus inspired by the Stephen King short story?

It certainly is. With our main focus being on horror and all things related, we felt like we needed a name which not only reflected the contents of our shelves, but also our goal.

In the story, the Road Virus is a car owned by an interdimensional killer; it travels across the US, leaving a swath of death and destruction in its wake. Less on the murder-y side for us, we see it as a way of spreading knowledge––which, of course, can be one of the deadliest and most destructive tools of all. The story, which first appeared in the anthology 999––edited by Al Sarrantonio, this book has been one of my most prized possessions since childhood––has always stood out to me; when we were kicking around ideas for names, The Road Virus was one of the first I jotted down. It came back, and it stuck. 

Also, when I saw that your name was the Road Virus, I couldn't help but connect the resilience of the killer painting in the story with what you both are doing for print literature---in a positive, not at all murderous way--that bookstores are closing down, and people proclaim that print lit is dying, but the Road Virus is an active example of print literature's resilience against all odds. With that in mind---what would you say to people who claim that print lit is dying? and what pushed you to start the Road Virus at this moment in time?

I really enjoy the emphasis we're both putting on this totally not being a murder thing at all, whatsoever.

To those who say that print lit is dying, that books are obsolete, that the internet is the only way to acquire new information and fiction, I say: barring the physical process of a body shutting down and decomposing, something can only truly die if you allow it to.  As long as there is at least one person publishing a book or zine and one person reading it, the concepts and idealism and spirit of print lit will survive and thrive.

Yes! It's so important to me that you connect physical, print lit with physical bodies. The power of print literature is that it creates physical community in a way that digital can't do alone. And physically showing up for something you care about can, and will, keep it alive.

Absolutely. Something that people need to remember now more than ever is that we have the ability to influence anything and everything. There is always a light in the dark, and we always have the choice to make something of ourselves and our surroundings. We are not powerless. For people like us, books have always been an escape, but they're also so much more: calling cards, symbols of power, beacons of hope tying groups together and ripping old systems apart.

Literacy is an extremely important thing to both of us––Em, as you said, is a former librarian, and I myself basically learned all I know from books. Libraries and bookstores were like second homes to us as kids––and sometimes, more so a first home to me personally. I dropped out of school at a very early age and attribute the majority of my ability to comprehend the world around me to the free, open-access presence of libraries. I come from a non-academic background, and Em comes from one of thorough education-oriented leanings; this combination suits us to a t.

The idea that they're dying out and being defunded saddens us greatly, and we feel the need to bring back those concepts to the forefront.

Mutually, we wanted this to be a bookselling venture so that we can sustain ourselves through the trade itself; however, we definitely felt the need to interweave the free and open-source aspect of libraries. We're still working out the avenues of providing reading lessons, and have quite a few ideas in mind for things like free movie nights and author readings.   What's being on the road like? Where have you been, and do you have any weird stories/interesting encounters?

Living in San Francisco, we've been very fortunate to have some amazing haunts. I think we owe a lot of our inspiration for The Road Virus to our favorite daily stop, Aardvark Books on the historic Church St.

Actually, we've been drydocked, so to speak. Our goodly vessel has been parked at a friend's about an hour northeast of SF for over a month now; we've been living on the bus full time while we've been renovating and preparing for permanent life on the road. We also unfortunately ran into some issues with the electrical system, which is being taken care of this week.

Regardless, we're both pretty nomadic people, and we can't wait to officially take off. I can say that driving the bus back to the buildsite was a hell of a trip.

Before we got her, Jolene––our name for the bus––lived a quiet life in Kansas City, MO. We flew in and were planning on driving her back in 2-3 days. This, as it turned out, was absolutely impossible. It ended up taking a week, and was rife with complications; we broke down numerous times, ended up sleeping in the uninsulated bus in -20 degree weather, and had endless scares on the road. Driving through the midwest was like traveling through a different world. I don't think I've been stared at that much in my entire life, except maybe in Tokyo (I'm covered in tattoos, piercings, etc.).  

The drive back over the CA state line was like something out of a dream––more a nightmare, maybe. We drove into one of the worst rainstorms I think I've ever seen, to the point where cars were sliding all over the road, trucks were going 20mph on the highway, and vehicles our size were actually barred from driving any farther at a certain point, so we were all lined up on the side of the highway for hours. This was on about 36 hours of no sleep. As far as fun stories on the road, in my experience they are many and not-so-far in between; we'll have plenty to share once we really get going, I'm sure. Driving through the snow-covered Rockies in a 32' bus when neither of us had driven anything larger than a UHAUL truck was certainly one for the books. 

Lastly, in a quick semi-tweet-length: How do envision the future of literature?

Futurelit, the Tweetening: Though ink may run, pages may yellow, & screens may flicker–the world of lit will forever reinvent itself, thriving in the face of adversity. xxxxxxxxx Follow the Road Virus everywhere:

(Facebook, Tumblr, Twitter, Instagram, and Snapchat) @roadvirusbus Communicables: http://theroadvirus.com/blog 

Reading Is Infectious (book subscription service) (http://shop.theroadvirus.com). A book in the genre of your choice delivered to your door every month.