flower crown, peter pan collar, and ~dem boots~


Sometimes a certain blogger’s aesthetic gets stuck in my head, and I sit around itching until I can emulate it. In this case, it’s Kate of Scathingly Brilliant, specifically this look. She doesn’t post anymore (boo hiss), but her blog was one of my favorites. Say what you will about style ruts, but I admire people who own a certain look and wear the hell out of it. In Kate’s case, super!kawaii pastel Disney princess. It’s not everyone’s thing, but it worked for her.


Today I’ve also got part of a short story for you. Recently I’ve been editing some of my old stories. I used to think polishing up an old story was “cheating” somehow – that the Skye who wrote it was an entirely different person, someone I’d be somehow ripping off. This just in: I’m so neurotic that I worry about plagiarizing myself. That is not a sign of anything good.

So here you go. It’s a ten-page story, about half of which I’ve rewritten so far. Just an intro to whet your appetite:

easterIV easterV

It’s been three years now, to the day, but I still can’t forget how time used to move differently. How three or four or five years ago I wouldn’t have measured in years at all. I moved in seasons and sighs and smoke curling through morning mist. The tensions were high, but the living was grand. We’d be blown to hell soon enough; now was the time for our own hedonic heaven.


My days poured into the shape of her, bold along her spine or precious in the details of her eyelids. Awash in seconds, hours, days, she glowed. When energy filled her and she brimmed with excitement, with lust, time raged by in bounds. Other days, slow and piecemeal, it was barely there. A meager heartbeat in waxy skin.

“Tell me about her,” my brother asks sometimes. He can tell when she’s glimmering just inside my bones. “Let her out.”

“I can’t,” I tell him, again and again. I never took the time to memorize all of her at once. She wasn’t interesting to me that way; her devilry lay in the details.. She was a smile and a sterling collarbone and a pair of perfect earlobes and a set of hips. I can’t let her out, because that’s all I have. I just need it to stay mine.






Writing is the thing I am best at. It’s also, by accident or design, the thing that frustrates me the most. I can take a hundred photos every day, but writing comes slower. Every word is a reflection of Who I Am As A Person; I don’t want to consign anything anything short of perfection to the page. So I plod along, dropping words here or there and fantasizing about the cigar I’ll smoke upon my first book deal.

I’m working on four stories right now. Here’s an excerpt from each one.



Her name was Rachel, and I loved her. Before her, my loves were mild. Uninspired. I could take or leave those pale-eyed girls. Rachel was more. Her hips swelled into my hips and her hands belonged in mine. I loved Rachel. Let that be known.



But in the fields I couldn’t keep my mind to myself. It lit harshly on other times, other Issachars. He was young and new, potential yet unwhittled. Were there rudiments of the future man in those unbidden smiles? He was twelve, and first felt God stroke his still-beardless face. He was twelve, and he knew.

He was fifteen and beginning to feel his truth. The bones that had carried him to manhood were filling now with a different kind of purpose. Beyond subsistence, beyond existing itself. His prayers dizzied and dazzled him. He was twenty and fervid, passion collecting itself in those bones he knew to be more than just his. He felt vocation down in the deep where boy becomes man becomes martyr. He was twenty and he was sure.


“I am a peaceful woman,” Lizzy was fond of counseling herself, a rejoinder to that which implied otherwise. “It’s the rest of the world that’s mad.”

That night in front of the mirror, she counted out a hundred, two hundred strokes with the ivory-backed brush. Lizzy let her eyes go soft. Under midnight’s trickery, she was almost Lucy Allister. You could find the common blood in the tatty curls and permaflushed cheeks. But Lizzy’s Granny was gunning for matronhood even in her youth. Her breasts contained multitudes; her hips conquered life itself. Lizzy was Granny Lucy Allister’s colder, leaner successor.

She looked at her reflection and said “hello, Granny.”


..but even surly and stern, she was still a woman. And he a man, no matter how awkwardly he wore his alien form. In the daylight hours, he was never to touch her. He knew this viscerally, and he had vowed to honor it. Even their shoulders, bowed together in conspiracy, would never brush. He had learned to compartmentalize on the nights when she leaned into him and begged.

(what I totally never write Maleficent fanfiction that was totally someone else and not me)