I am most useful to man when I bear fruit.

He is happiest when juice runs down his chin. Drunk on my sweetness, he cannot help but to climb all my branches. From the top, he jumps into my cool water. He swims deeper. Deeper. Deeper. When he finally ascends and breaks the surface, he inhales and is born a new man.

The mountain in the distance is godly. It is a testament to my age. To my beauty, my wisdom, my life force. It is begging to be conquered, the way it stands so proud. And conquer it, he will.

He climbs. Climbs. Climbs. And climbs!

“Eureka!” he yells, hands in the air, having reached the peak.

I want to hide myself, but his eyes carefully trace the uncharted lands laid bare before him. I shiver, full of foreboding. But it’s okay. He loves my beauty and my fruits so much that he wants it all to himself. It’s okay. It makes him feel powerful. It’s okay.

He explores all my depths and edges. Plucks away all my fruit. Rips out their trees. Scars my surface. Scars my surface. Scars my surface. Until I am no longer recognizable.

I finally ask, “Why do you hate me?”

He counters, “Why don’t you bear fruit?”

“I’m barren.”

“Of course you’re barren. Why are your lakes dry?”

“Because you drank all my water.”

He sneers, “You no longer have anything I need.”

I would cry if I could. I can’t. I’d do something if it’d actually mean something.

What would you have me do? Set the forest he used to adore ablaze? Drain what’s left of his favorite white, frothy river until it’s a trench of thick mud oozing with sickness? Poison my roots so he can never dream of having another taste of my nectar?

Kill myself in the process?

I don’t need to do it. He’s doing it for me.

And so are you.

I’ve screamed your names. Yes, yours, too.

You are complicit.

You watched him map out each of my hills and crevices, determined to claim and conquer, as he gave you the rotten scraps.

You beg him for more as he sits on a throne of precious metals brutally shaved from my being.

You sit on your own little plastic throne, letting him use your back as a step stool to climb into his seat. But at least it means you don’t sit on the ground. The ground you beg to bear more fruit. The dirty ground you watched him desecrate.

You ignore that I’m being poisoned by the filth he sells you to make your throne a tiny. bit. bigger. It seeps into my pores, slowly suffocating me. You know it because I scream your names. I scream your names and warn you. It’s seeping into your pores, too.

You hear me. You look the other way.

I scream your names.

You hear me.

My blackened roots…

Do you hear me? I hope you hear me.

I hope, as winter melts away, you let go of your plastic thrones, water my soil, put your knees in the dirt, and help me live.

Day of the Curious Writer

The first thing I do when I wake up is check my emails, then the news, then social media. It seems mundane, but the reality is I have to make sure nothing significant happened while I was asleep. You might call it nosy. I call it practical. What if a portal to another world opened?

I open the blinds on my bedroom windows, giving me a view of my little neighborhood. The community cats think I’m spying. On them. The weather. The town. I’m just checking. Maybe a fairy ring popped up in my front yard. Or a hole to hell?

I spot a blue jay, handsome as can be and ready to conduct business.

I recall my grandma telling me they were little messengers for the devil. I peer at the jay’s eyes, serious and searching. He spots me, and I duck away.

Frowning, I sit at my desk. A quick search reveals my grandma wasn’t crazy. She was just Southern. And very superstitious, which I have known.

Though, the superstition comes from enslaved plantation workers, apparently.

It’s not surprising. Southern folklore rarely belongs to a single origin. You’d never know the roots of a story unless you went digging. Warning: That often just leads to more digging. Just like I had to go digging on why African American oral traditions depicted blue jays to be sinister menaces.

Many of our stories are a quilt sewn together from bits and pieces of more than one culture. I contemplate it. Some might consider the stories stolen, as lovely as they are. I’m not sure if I feel sad or grateful or proud. Only Southern folks would get it. It’s probably a lie. But I like that lie.

I peek back down at the blue jay and frown. What is he trying to steal from me? Which of my secrets is he reporting to Satan?

“She’s just pretending to write,” the fella tells Satan. “I see her, brows furrowed. Always plotting.”

I roll my eyes. Of course the little spy would perceive it that way. I call it research.

“She calls it research,” he reports later. “Ha! The woman is too curious for her own good.”

I don’t know what Satan says back. But, then, I remember Milton’s Satan. I don’t think he would have objected to a bit of curiosity. God probably would have. Maybe Mr. Blue Jay is speaking to Milton’s Satan. Surely, if they can fly to hell, they can fly into Paradise Lost.

Wait a minute. I am a fine Southern woman. I would never be in cahoots with Satan. But if I was…

I wouldn’t need to search for portals and fairy rings and gates and doors. I could probably just go.

So, I just go. And I ask him, “Why you got your Blue Jay spying on me?”

“To help fulfill your desires,” he says, all devilish.

“My desires!” I clutch my pearls. “Listen here you—”

“You wanted a story, didn’t you?”

I don’t even answer that question.

You see, he’s got it wrong. I don’t want a story. I want answers. I watch the world. I ask it questions. Why? How? Why? Why? Why? Sometimes, I find the answers I seek. But sometimes, even after searching for answers all day,…

I’m just given a story instead.

The Facts

I never intentionally set out to write a story. I didn’t even set out to write In Roaring She Shall Rise. As silly or outlandish as the above “story” may seem, that is about how I come up with story ideas every time. The above story is, by many definitions, factual. It always begins with a question. Some “why” or “how” question about the real world.

And it’s why I love storytelling so much. It gives humans (me) a way to work out the big and small complexities of life.

As a matter of fact, the above is basically how In Roaring She Shall Rise was born. Of course, it’s a pirate fantasy. As mythic as it is, it’s not about a blue jay or Satan (Milton’s or otherwise). But when I thought of curiosity and Paradise Lost, my idea began to form.

So, I suppose that’s to say that most of my ideas come from curiosity itself. The logical parts of my brain want to understand. The imaginative parts then take over and provide that understanding in the form of stories.

Furthermore, I would love to say there’s some structure to my writing routine (whether we are discussing my schedule or my plotting). But I perpetually live in a stream of consciousness that, to the outside, might look entirely like unproductive chaos. No rhyme or reason to anything about my day or my writing in general. I must never get anything done.

Yet, there is a very productive logical flow to it. There is rhyme and there is reason, even if I can only figure out what it is in retrospect. I get thousands of words written per day, even if they never see the light. I tighten and retighten the projects most important to me. How can I elevate this? How? How? How? I might not have a schedule, but I have a process.

Hence why I wrote this post this way. How else am I supposed to explain it?

By the way, shout-out for for allowing some wiggle room in this project. I’m most certainly not a rebel! LMAO. But I felt like more words were needed. :)

Thank you for reading! You might like to check out Smear, Smear, Smear: The Price of Clean Hands.

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Issued with the Highest Authority after the Last Wake

Let it be known across all of the Land:

That the continued steadfastness of the world depends upon the devotion to proper order, and that all disruptions must be eliminated.

To this end, the practice herein defined as Curiosity is declared a wrecking force and, therefore, subject to elimination.

Curiosity shall be understood as:

• the seeking of knowledge beyond one’s appointed function

• the questioning of natural, divine, or social order

• the possession, exchange, or concealment of unauthorized texts or relics; this includes, but is not limited to, all texts and relics which honor and uphold the ways of Chaosa or Abyssa, with exception of Abyssa’s relation to Ordos.

• visiting Choasa’s shrine upon any person.

• the repeated asking of why where no answer is required

• daring to explore where no man has ventured before

It is further recognized that Curiosity has, in prior ages, given rise to disorder, suffering, and events which shall not be recorded here.

Therefore, all men, women, and children are to remain within the bounds of their assigned knowledge and duties. Instruction shall be limited to that which preserves order and proper function.

The following measures are enacted:

1. Unauthorized materials are to be voluntarily relinquished to the Keepers of Order.

2. Gatherings formed for the purpose of speculative discussion are prohibited; gathering of more than three, with the exception of blood families, are required to seek permission and the attendance of a Keeper.

3. Instruction of children shall exclude matters of origin, divergence, and unverified histories.

4. Any individual found to exhibit persistent or excessive curiosity shall be subject to correction.

5. Failure to report those engaging in, or exhibiting, the aforementioned shall be subject to death, as decided by the Order of Ordos.

Let it be remembered that accord is not achieved through excess. Each part must serve as it was made to serve. Those who adhere to proper order shall know peace.

This decree is to preserve and foster human thriving.

Sealed and witnessed under the Authority of the Order of Ordos.

If you missed the previous book lore post, a creation myth, then check it out here. In Roaring She Shall Rise, a pirate fantasy, releases May 21, 2026.Cover reveal and call for ARC readers coming soon. If you enjoy mythic fantasy, please stick around for more lore posts! I have recently unveiled a diary entry and a log of confiscated materials that may be of interest to you and I will post it soon.

Note: You do not need to read the lore posts to understand or enjoy the books. Also, no lore posts will spoil the book.

Thanks for reading!

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All day, it clacks.

The typewriter was a housewarming gift from my neighbor. She’d come over to welcome me to the quiet street and was delighted that I was a writer. She’d been one once, too.

I had tried to explain to her that I wasn’t a romantic of old tech. I liked the ease of my laptop. I was fine with my pace. The stories would get done when they got done. I loved writing and wanted it to remain that way.

“Oh, but you haven’t seen a typewriter like this.”

It was an old, heavy hunk of metal. I still don’t know how she’d lugged it over.

“This will help,” she had said.

“I don’t need help.”

“Life is short. Finish the stories.”

I sit here as it clicks.

It clacks away at stories that have been locked in my head for years. I try to drown out the incessant clicking. I play music. I sing to myself. I recite old poems. I muse through old stories out loud.

It clacks, clicks, clicks.

I’ve had enough. I pick up the tarnished typewriter to carry it outside. Careful down the porch steps and through my overgrown lawn, I make it across the street and bang on the door.

“Hi?” a young woman answers.

“Give this to Shirley.” I push the typewriter to her but she doesn’t take it.

“Shirley?”

“Shirley…” I falter, frustrated. “Johnson? I don’t know. This was hers. There’s something wrong with it.”

“You’re fucking with me.”

“Take the typewriter. Please.”

“This house was vacant for years ‘til I moved in.” The woman stared me down. “If you come back I’ll call the cops.” She shut the door in my face.

So, I sit here again. I have to finish the stories.

Click, clack, click.

Jackson.

That was it.

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