I Was Just Narrating It As "They Fight, They Forgive, They Fight Again, They Forgive. Then They Trust

I was just narrating it as "They fight, they forgive, they fight again, they forgive. Then they trust and they grieve and they love and they live."

they went on a life-changing adventure together 🥲

(the image theme is hand-holding, this post is where they started)

scorched earth.

a comic about a princess who died in a fire.

(this is a sequel to bite of winter, a comic about Snow and what became of her after her death.)

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creative notes:

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all my other comics

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I'll raise you one better: opening your writing doc, scrolling to the very top to read through again, realizing you still don't understand what you wrote and deciding to rewrite it, only to remember your previous thought process once you rewrite it to that part near the end that you really liked the first time, and now you are stuck with two different versions of the same story that you are convinced are equally good.

opening your writing doc and immediately scrolling back 3 pages like "alright what the fuck is this story about again?"

Thought I'd share something I wrote a while back.

I started thinking a little bit about Hanahaki and churned this out. I think it's cute.

If you swallow a seed, it will grow in your stomach.

I imagine that if I really were to swallow a seed, it would not grow. Not for any lack of my belief in the claim, but for the contents of my stomach.

My stomach acid is a concentrated composition of my neglect. My furious thoughts and silent years that I swallow back, that I re-consume because the world is not ready for them. The purest form of my sadness, of my fear and anger, of my negativity.

These are the reason why seeds never sprout. Had my belly been full with warm food and warmer spirits, the seeds would sprout and blossom. They would spring forth quickly and irreversibly, would grow thorns with which to claw their way up my throat, out my mouth and there into the open world, to air the shame of my love and my vulnerability.

The roots would grow downwards, piercing flesh to reunite with mother earth like the reaching hands of a fallen angel. They would still my frame, tether me to a spot, tie me to one place, one fate.

The flowers would blossom, sickly sweet on my tongue, would bear fruit much sweeter, watered by my spit and tears.

In the end, my frame would be but a macabre thing, an omen and a message, that mother nature cares not for the whimsies of youth, and not for the romantic fantasies of men. She wants her creations to remain as is, horrors and unfathomable contradictions upon the earth.

Human nature, vile as it is, has saved us all.

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