#kirbee writes sometimes

[quasarkisses]

picture: me, 65, sitting on the front porch of my cabin in the unforgiving mountain wilderness, all patched carhartt canvas and gray-flecked beard. i am crocheting what looks like the beginnings of a good-sized dishrag but on the side table next to me is a crossbow and a cup of cooling tea. laying at my feet are a pair of odd but well-loved pets, a farmdog and a nanny goat. the soles of my sturdy workboots are still flecked with mud from a morning spent on the riverbank, and a comforting tune drifts faintly from somewhere inside.

life is sure cruel and it’s hard to get by these days, but i know enough about cars to get you back on the road and there’s a place on the couch if you change your mind about leaving before dark. the simple meal you share with me and my wife is hot and filling and when you leave, you can’t seem to catch any sign of the little cabin in your rearview mirror, the only reminder of your odd visit the carton of eggs from our chickens in your passenger seat

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O Mountain Mother, bring to me my bride

For I am the soil and she is the sky

Whisper of a woman and horizon alight

She sings with the thunder, "A storm, come tonight."

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A Warning

Reach out with gentle hands, this time

For it's resigned to hardship's hold

An organ cold to tender rhyme

The mark of crime a wilted rose

A broken road ahead to climb

Yet 'neath its grime still gleaming gold

[quasarkisses]

worldbuilding element: one of the inherent and kind gifts of the reality I have constructed is that languages outside of one's home universe are magically and psychically translated into the listener's native tongue with no effort by the speaker

possible inconsistency: this doesn't take into account my deaf character(s) and the signing between her and those close to her

resolution A: tragically, translation for non-verbal communication does not occur and we have to find interesting ways to work around that together

rating: 1/10, +1 for possible problem-solving opportunities but ultimately small dick energy with this one. pointlessly difficult

resolution B: allowing for a more lengthy adjustment period the adaptation abilities of the human psyche are more than capable of compensating for this, as much of the original translation matrix is linked to what meaning is being conveyed rather than direct word-for-word translation, converting even for a person with 0 experience with sign language into a form of mental dialogue

rating: four stars, -1 for feeling unsatisfyingly easy, but puts my deaf character(s) on equal footing with hearing characters when it comes to alien interaction and also I get to write one of my favorite characters having an individually unique experience

[quasarkisses]

I knew that I must love you like the sun would never rise Knowing well the color dawn, pretending that the light Never burned this skin so cherry red and tender to the touch That any brush of kindness left behind it bloodied blush

I made of myself a sailor that so dearly held the sea To pray that on horizon land would never sighted be My fingers laced with calluses so marred by dark-tilled soil Yet sinking in the wake below that shovel, hoe, and toil

All logic holds that night will end with sunrise in the east That ships will someday run aground, this inevitability One fear alone unspoken blew a chill through our long night That you beat no heart for sailors, and admired only light

Should we fail in face of morning and find sand beneath our feet Or never feel again its burn in oceans dark and deep Two paths in bond and bone are bound, may day and dirt depart The allegiance of a soldier from a poet’s tender heart

[quasarkisses]

Angel, strike me with lightning Name my ashes redeemed Anger, fire ignite me That I may come home clean Let the bitter winds that blow Carry off my wicked soul And return me to the earth Don’t lay no bed for my rebirth

[quasarkisses]

all my poetry and music can be reduced to the vague concepts of reaching, reaching; the desire for contact, palm pressed to palm, skin to skin, crown to crown⁠ — to touch and be known in the ringing sound of inharmonious laughter

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Fixed a sonnet I wrote a couple of years ago. Fucking love being as vague and metaphoric as humanly possible, if you can't tell.

Happy Pride.

[quasarkisses]

scene: a very cheap movie theater. there is a support pillar three quarters of the way across the room, there are five rows of seating directly behind it. the far right wall has a window with a heavy sheet hung over it but summer sunshine sure does find a way to shine through the cracks. the mouldering seats and accent curtains are definitely from the early 90s, which let me say was 30 years ago now. the speakers crackle with a filter of white noise and every time someone gets up to go to the bathroom their chair squeaks so loud it drowns out the dialogue. tickets are $6.50 apiece and popcorn and sodas for two is $25

[quasarkisses]

Spirit, Valor, and Knowledge Teaser

SVK is my original story. I’ve been worldbuilding for it for about seven years under the working title “heroes story”, which longtime followers have probably seen mention of at some point. It’s gone through several iterations over the course of that time and has changed a significant amount from the initial attempts.

The current manuscript is partially incomplete and will need to go through  thorough edits, but I’m hoping to release early chapters for beta readers later this fall or winter, with the goal of ensuring that the representation I’ve included is done as well as possible for a queer hick from the rural midwest. 

All characters and content are my original creations and are open to improvement. Feedback is appreciated and will encourage further content release.

Wordcount: 1.2k

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The cat was nosing in Theo’s paint again, bothering him for a scratch. He loved the insufferable creature, but damn if it didn’t seek affection at the worst of times. Careful to balance it properly, he set aside his pallet and rubbed Carnie’s ears. The wind blew cold even in the summer season, and Theo pulled his coat tighter around him, trying to keep paint off of it and the cat as best he could.

He took a moment to warm his hands in its long orange fur and look over what he had completed so far. The rough textures of the worn brick and concrete buildings of the city east of the commune were a good challenge; the crumbling asphalt road with its faded remnants of yellow and white leading outwards tested his skill at displaying perspective.

Mx. Jordanes had assigned him to sketch the same scene last year. More of the shoulder of the road had deteriorated since then, doubling the size of the pothole, and one of the telephone poles had rotted through in the spring. It had taken fifteen able adults to move, clearing the way further to the fourth stoplight down, where things became 4th Street territory. The stop lights still cycled through their colors, directing the ghost of traffic. Once, they had been the pulse of the city. Theo thought he might catch them all at different colors. Some red and yellow would really brighten up the scene.

He was putting down a base of orange on the furthest one when he noticed the change. A cluster of dots in the distance had come around a corner and were making their way down the road: two of them black and two of them gray. Two travellers, he assumed, being escorted to Slateset by 4th Life Strays, who claimed the 4th Street territory. The Strays were usually good about sending survivors their way, but as they came closer Theo could see the strange make of their clothes. The gray figures were bundled in swathes of cloth over every inch of their body, hoods pulled low over their faces, while the dark coated pair were marked at the shoulders, the taller one by red and the shorter by violet. They were packed too lightly for real wandering, but they didn’t look like Kings either. Certainly they wouldn’t have come through 4th Street if they were.

Theo painted his stoplights as he waited for them to come in calling distance of the barrier wall he was perched on, and began packing away his brushes for deeper cleaning.

If they were Darksiders he was as good as dead already. They didn’t look the type, no guns or bows as far as he could see, but Theo adjusted the hatchet hanging from his belt so the steel caught the light just in case.

“Hail!” cried the violet-marked woman, her dark face turned up to look at him against the sun. A long scar ran vertical on the right side of her face from jawline to cheekbone.

“Hello,” he replied. The wind picked up bitterly, and he had to raise his voice significantly to be heard. It was possible someone else from the commune would hear him and come to investigate. Carnie the cat didn’t care for his yelling or for the sudden cold and trotted off down the wall without him. “Did the Bosses give you passage through 4th Street?”

The woman’s reply was stolen by a cold gust. “We met no one on the road here,” she said, louder this time. “We are glad to see someone left alive. Are there more of you?”

“We’re all glad to be alive these days,” he replied, to avoid answering her directly. “Do you need food or medical attention?”

The woman shared a look with one of the hooded figures and discussed something between them. “Your company is all we would request. We have come from far away, and we have many questions as to how this place came to be in such a state. If you would come down and speak to us, we would be grateful.”

Theo weighed the risk. She didn’t talk like a local, she wasn’t lying about that. Their clothes, especially the gray cloaks, were exceedingly clean for someone who had been on the road for any stretch of time, and both she and her redmarked companion would freeze to death if they spent the night outside. They didn’t even have gloves. Still, they didn’t seem like Darksiders, and they had made no threat to him. If they had news from any distance the council would want to speak to them immediately. It had been more than a year since they’d had news from as far as the next state over, and there would be a hundred questions to ask anyone from further.

No, they hadn’t threatened him yet. It would be safer and smarter to test that before bringing them back to his home. “No, I’m staying up here,” he shouted. “Ask whatever you want, but do it from down there.”

They showed no sign of aggression at his refusal, though the women turned and conferred with her companions again. “What is the name of this place?” she asked.

Theo frowned. He leaned over, holding onto the ledge, just to check that his memory was correct. Below his feet in letters five feet tall, Slateset: The First Solar Supermall was proudly printed in bold emerald script. They’d taken down the plastic decals to clean and repaint only two weeks before. Mx. Jordanes had organized the effort, and Theo was still finding green paint behind his ears.

Maybe they were illiterate. Or, more likely, there was some obvious reason for the confusion that Theo was overlooking somehow. Either way, he said, “This is the Slateset Commune.” He pointed back the way they had come, then westward towards the mountains. “That’s all Fourth Street until you hit the residentials, and past us you’re in the King’s Republic.”

“Theo!” Still in his work clothes, Jack Kindley jogged over from the farmyard. “We heard yelling, you alright?” The barrier wall was set against a hill, leaving Jack only a few feet below him as opposed to the height he spoke with the strangers from.

“I’m fine Mr. Kindley, only there are some people here that say they’re from out of town.”

Jack’s face brightened with surprise. “Out of town? How far out of town?” He began to scale the wall next to Theo, heaving himself up by wrapping his arms around the edge, and looked down at the four travellers. “You come from out Kansas way? 73 still a bandit nest?”

The man with red on his coat answered them in a deep tone that cut through the wind like a knife. “We only came west recently,” was all he said.

Jack glanced to Theo, adjusting his grip on the wall. “They look like trouble to you?”

“Nah, I think they’re just odd. They came from 4th Street, though, and they said they weren’t stopped by any Strays. That sounds like trouble to me.”

The older man frowned and nodded, peering over the ledge again. “You guys got any weapons?”

The woman with the scar and her tall friend pulled out a large sword and an axe with a long, black blade. She presented it oddly, as if she were offering it up to be taken or showing it off, and the man did much the same with his blade. The hooded figures were supposedly defenseless. Jack seemed to think it as strange as Theo did, but he nodded all the same. “Alright then, guess you can’t shoot the place up. Let’s get you in where it’s warm.”

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I’ll likely post more teasers from throughout the book as parts become more polished. If anyone actually reads this far, thank you! Literally all feedback is good, my asks are open and anyone can dm me. The response I’ve gotten so far has me looking forward to putting out more original content in the SVK vein but please like/reblog/usual e-shilling etc if you enjoy it.

Thank you! 

[quasarkisses]

I was raised weird. my dad let his daughters do masculine things, masculinity was praised as strength, he taught us exactly how his father had taught him. he was not as lenient with femininity, and while it was allowed in childhood, it was less so as we grew, and it was always, always off limits to his son.

his son, his golden boy, who was a cruel brat, who threw tantrums, who could never seem to be punished. he grew big, fast; the oldest of three and in charge always. I loathed and adored him, loved him and idolized him. I wanted to be strong, and right, and skilled. but he made sure that his sisters were always a peg below him, rigging the game just in case his rule would be threatened.

I feel I have never allowed myself femininity without guilt and shame framing the picture. I am built stocky, mannishly; without my brother's bulk and height or my sister's delicate build, I am a twisted blend of the two. an alien, neither male nor female. neither title has ever fit correctly on my shoulders, nor will it ever. I am some other thing, dreaming of a beard and bust, strong arms to carry myself and a heart full of love for all things soft or broken.

toxic masculinity is a prison I was raised in. toxic femininity is a class I was born into. I am allowed in neither house, too big and yet too weak. Too loud and yet too fearful.

no words can quite express how wrong it feels for others to see me, round-faced and wide-eyed and rough to touch. clothes that feel right look wrong, and they always will.

I can't be right.

[quasarkisses]

A sonnet for the starry-eyed lady.

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[I.D. An uncolored sketch of a disabled black woman wearing jeans and a cropped jacket riding a horse. She sits in an assitive saddle which supports her back and secures her legs as she rides. Her wheelchair is secured to the saddle and rests on the horse’s rear behind her. End I.D.]

A rare smile from Sabryna <3 She’s a goth disabled apocalypse survivor from my original story Spirit’s Son. She makes cloth and clothing for her community and plays guitar and violin. Her horse is a paint named Styx and her service dog (not pictured) is Judgement.

[quasarkisses]

Oh but the inevitable breakdown, the moment when Crowley snaps at some small softness offered by the angel, demanding Aziraphale stop, "Just because you know about this doesn't mean that you have to pretend." Because he wants that genuine gentleness so badly and to have a taste of it and think that it's a lie is shattering him and picking him apart piece by piece.

And Aziraphale takes the hand which is so cruelly twisted in the sleeve of Crowley's jacket, clawing at the marked, damned skin beneath, and twines those fingers with his own to press against the place where his own flesh is marked with serpent scales, asking, "My dear boy, why would you ever have thought I was pretending?"

good omens soulmate au where humans have soulmates but ethereal/occult beings as a rule do not

crowley falls in love on eden's wall and a flaming white-feathered quill (or equivalent) appears on his shoulder. he spends the next few thousand years catching glimpses of every inch of aziraphale's skin until he convinces himself that this is his punishment for falling, having a soulmate who doesn't love him back

aziraphale of course comes home from the nazi church with his books safely in hand and finds an undeniable black snake curled up on top of his heart where it's always belonged

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No evil thing shall touch me for I am strong and powerful. No evil thing shall touch me for I am patient and kind.

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I go through cycles.

I so want to hold their hand and call them dear, (not like “dearie” but my dear) and be near to them in every way.

I so want to maintain this wonderful thing that we have, (this close and warm and loving thing) I don’t want to ruin this love.

I’m so afraid that I’ll pressure them, (that if I ask they’ll say yes to please me, to keep from hurting me, because it’s so easy to say yes) I’m afraid of how I crave to be wanted.

I’m so afraid that I’m wrong, (because I’m only mostly right, and when I feel the most confident is usually when I shame myself the most completely) I’m afraid that it will end.

I’m terrified of change.