Big Stuff

Myriad Mirror

An actual play blog for the excellent journaling game, A Visit to San Sibilia, narrated by my love sick lesbian with a taste for the dramatic, Darling. It was meant as a tie-in for a stalled Wanderhome game.

I originally described it like this:

This blog is a work of fiction based on A Visit to San Sibilia by Peter Eijk and Wanderhome by Possum Creek Games. The realtime update format was inspired by Dracula Daily.

Journal entries will be published 1-6 days apart, according to the whims of my dice. The game ends when it ends.

Twine

My Twine stuff is currently unavailable. I'll try and get it back online when I can find the files again. :/

Hemlock: An electrum microfic about an m6k synth who shares a few things in common with one of my Floraverse characters.
Listen: Unorthodox interactive poem inspired by a nightmare.

Poetry

Sometimes I write poems. Here are a few I don't hate!

the distant radio

Corroded former humanoid

Embraces pain she can't avoid

Vibration, tension, cosmic flow

The thrum that makes her paranoid

Whispers secrets we can't know

Whispers from the world below

The sounds of signals long ago

Split the distance, cross the void

To activate her radio

anxiety

This heavy heart like hammer pounds

It's pulsing, pumping, panic bound

This mind, a blaring battleground

Of screeching, scratching, static sound

cycles

She feels the pull, the catch, the pain

The scratch that breaks her skin again

The numbness seeping in again

Again, again, it's all in vain

She feels the fissure in her skin

She rips herself another

In desperation, lashing in

She screams in silent sunder

She, in filth and terror lies

She, ever dying, never dies

She's given in to ugly lies

The lies, the lies, she hopes she dies

Her rusted nails, her shattered skull

Hewn in two but never twain

A wonder that she feels at all

The cycle circles round again

Again, again, to her chagrin

And frantic panic, seeking end

Her broken mind and body mend

And so another turn begins

"not a poem"

I wish I could write poetry

But I suppose you'll disagree

With my assessment of my skill

And say the only limit's me

It's true, I write and rhyme and pun

And all of that, I do for fun

But though a poem this seems to be

You've been deceived; it isn't one