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Literature
08/18
I made a fake moustache
from Kipling cake foil
in the idle grey early hours
pressed it to my upper lip
and got a shock
from 20 years over my shoulder
why is there hair! there was never hair there
was there
But there. It. Is.
and why am I afraid?
I think it's because of the ghost.
A bruised and wordy child
conjured by cake foil
blinking eyes in a big head
with a face like his father's,
and like mum’s, and almost
but not enough like my own
not enough to know me
not enough.
I cannot talk to him
he is gone.
I am made of all the days that ate him.
and what would I say?
Would I tell him-
it is called depression
it changes but does not go away
Love,
you will love in ignorance
but never in shame
and always, always,
stories are
better
and they will make you better too.
I've molded the foil into a new shape
almost like a snake, almost straight
a crinkled Caduceus
I think about crushing it
forgetting it with a fist
but I don't.
The child isn't real.
but that never stopped me
and after all,
:iconAutumn-Hills:Autumn-Hills
:iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 1 0
Literature
eggshells
Vomit me
into the open mouths
of a clutch of squawking gods
their beaks yawning to be
quenched
they won't care
that my taste grew sour hair
on your fertile tongue,
that your stomach bucked
clenched
buckled and blenched
they won't care
that it cost you tears
—sobbed out of a black womb:
dry heaves of agony
staring at that blank hotel wall—
to swallow my heart.
they won't care
and they never have.
Eyes boil in fragile eggshell heads
tongues snap,whip-licks
their pinched bellies
distend and crawl with caustic liquor
they won't care
that the void is never full
that I can never sate
their fledgeless thirst
that I am thin gruel, thirdhand
and that you starved to lose me.
they won't care
that I am poison
a shrieking double helix
a steel centipede coiled through young lungs
that even hatchling gods
will choke on.
And when the nest bleeds oceans
and the last croak floats
I'll seep free of gooseflesh corpses, and
crystallise
on the hotel bathroom floor.
From a starless sky your bones
:iconAutumn-Hills:Autumn-Hills
:iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 0 0
Mature content
Introducing Xivo - work from 'Warprince' :iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 0 0
Mature content
Company of the Horned Moon Oath Speech :iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 0 0
Literature
Walls Remain
The house is almost naked.
These walls—
long hid by bookcases
are now bare
now flushed with sunlight
and empty of warm shadows cast by curtains
(those too are gone)
the walls remain
but not in the same way.  
Little
white
sticker signs
mark all the taps, the doors, the water heater
warning against use
That copper drum was so full of boiling, glaring heat!
now it is cold and drained
they left a rusty stain of water
when they bled it.
It is not the emptiness
that aches
when the van leaves with the last boxes,
nor the nails that jaw the letterbox closed,
nor the keys that no longer fit.
But posters of disbanded bands on bedroom walls
discarded clothes—the books
we did not take,
they hurt.
The house is almost naked
from the outside you can see that
and the lowering sun has made all the white clouds gold
and one lamp in a brother’s bedroom
unlit,
casts its shadow on the sunlit wall.
:iconAutumn-Hills:Autumn-Hills
:iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 4 0
Mature content
The Hundred Thousand Fingers :iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 0 0
Mature content
In the Ice :iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 30 11
Mature content
Profile :iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 0 0
Literature
The Tyranny of Consciousness
I choke on my eyes
blinking
one by
one I
swallow, retch
they will not lie down
they will not lie down
they play drums on the knuckles that twitch
under the skin
of my chest.
.clings around my ribs
and resists
the battering sacks that my lungs become
a volume of silence
a chaos of roaring
a weep of shouts
they will not lie down
they will not lie down
they will not lie down
At last
I swallow my eyes
one
by one
forcing them like needles
through thick wet leather
They are still open in the dark
of my stomach
still roving.
.blinking in the socket of my bowel
and still.
they will not lie down.
:iconAutumn-Hills:Autumn-Hills
:iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 0 0
Mature content
All of a Man :iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 1 2
Literature
Poetry Live March, 2016 - Cambridge
Here are two sedate witches
shawled in the dignity of dark colours
sober nuns in the order of
the word Written
the word Spoken
the word offered in devotion
Spelled to catch meaning
they raise
their  true image from the ink cauldron
to speak with the dead that once they were
and by voice they force the lungs of memory
to breathe again
These two wise women
sedate
teenagers.
They scry the personal past
but the fleeing fearful young
run forward.
The witches are safe now that we burn children.
later
the fat black woman
slight and quiet and a hundred meters tall
so full of voice
like a jericho whisper at the walls of babylon
she hauls whoops from the uniform rows
sows shaking heads among the lads
a pale crop ripe to blush
at her rap
an offence of baby sounds
without pretence of violence
then
she leaves the stage on the strength of a smile—she will never be colonised.
last
striding toward us
dragging secrets into the stage lights
some kind of wizard
his voice rolls with oceans
and
:iconAutumn-Hills:Autumn-Hills
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Literature
The Saint of St. Lazare
On the escalator in St. Lazare
going down as
we ascend
there is an old man wearing no pants
his pale legs like lolly sticks
descend
from a grubby coat just long enough to hide what
nestles between those withered thighs
he stares straight ahead as he
passes with the diagonal serenity of
a sad line graph
he is chewing even though his mouth is
empty
busted washing machine tongue
hidden under a short
beard like lichen clinging.
He doesn’t seem to care about his missing trousers.
Now he is out of sight as the escalator
nudges me on to walk again
and he is gone
along with the troubling absence he wore
leaving only the dangle of
question? marks
:iconAutumn-Hills:Autumn-Hills
:iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 0 0
Literature
the hail
the hail
strikes scattered sheets
across the windscreen
textures the air between the shine
of black street glazed in icewater
and the grey glow gloom;
the heaped storm-heavy preponderance
squatting across the rooftop of sky
as high as all the miles of winter
falling.falling.
yet through the freezing applause
-the hundred drumming curtain calls-
I can see the sides of sky far beyond the shuddering fir trees
past the slick rooftiles ,
the walls of the world are blue with sunshine
from floor to arches
and small white flags
drift
:iconAutumn-Hills:Autumn-Hills
:iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 0 0
Mature content
Letters from Hell :iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 44 28
Mature content
For the Rest :iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 1 2
Literature
Traversing the Shade
FIRST
The aeroplane plummeted.
Dana, forced back in her seat by the g-force, couldn’t even scream. The noise of the TT-Swan’s twin jet engines had become a scream. Dana could see her father’s hand gripping the arm of his seat ahead of her, his knuckles white. She wished she could see his face.
The lights in the small passenger cabin flickered once. Then darkness.
-
In a café, a young man glanced up at the television above the counter. His coffee cooled on the table in front of him. Around him, the chatter of voices quietened. The other customers, like he, now watched the news report. A waitress reached up on tiptoes to turn up the volume.
A male reporter explained the images. A narrow streak of fire cut across a field on the screen, fragments of white-and-blue painted metal decorating a blast zone, broken trees at the edge of a copse showing where the small plane had entered the treeline, bouncing and already broken. There were fires showing in the woods a
:iconAutumn-Hills:Autumn-Hills
:iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 2 0

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I made a fake moustache
from Kipling cake foil
in the idle grey early hours

pressed it to my upper lip
and got a shock
from 20 years over my shoulder

why is there hair! there was never hair there
was there
But there. It. Is.

and why am I afraid?

I think it's because of the ghost.
A bruised and wordy child
conjured by cake foil

blinking eyes in a big head
with a face like his father's,
and like mum’s, and almost

but not enough like my own
not enough to know me
not enough.

I cannot talk to him
he is gone.
I am made of all the days that ate him.

and what would I say?

Would I tell him-
it is called depression
it changes but does not go away

Love,
you will love in ignorance
but never in shame

and always, always,
stories are
better

and they will make you better too.

I've molded the foil into a new shape
almost like a snake, almost straight
a crinkled Caduceus

I think about crushing it
forgetting it with a fist
but I don't.

The child isn't real.
but that never stopped me
and after all,

I am listening.
Vomit me
into the open mouths
of a clutch of squawking gods
their beaks yawning to be
quenched


they won't care


that my taste grew sour hair
on your fertile tongue,
that your stomach bucked
clenched
buckled and blenched


they won't care


that it cost you tears
—sobbed out of a black womb:
dry heaves of agony
staring at that blank hotel wall—
to swallow my heart.


they won't care


and they never have.
Eyes boil in fragile eggshell heads
tongues snap,whip-licks
their pinched bellies
distend and crawl with caustic liquor


they won't care


that the void is never full
that I can never sate
their fledgeless thirst
that I am thin gruel, thirdhand
and that you starved to lose me.


they won't care


that I am poison
a shrieking double helix
a steel centipede coiled through young lungs
that even hatchling gods
will choke on.


And when the nest bleeds oceans
and the last croak floats
I'll seep free of gooseflesh corpses, and
crystallise
on the hotel bathroom floor.


From a starless sky your bones
accuse me
sockets gaping from the ceiling.
And in my ears I hear the sound
dry, distant; the rustle of new eggshells


but I won't care

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“Your father is a dog, Xivo!” Full of fury, the insult flew ahead of a thrown brick. Xivoli Kontas ducked under its arc and tore away from the protective grip of his friends, darting across the nearly empty street towards the youth who had hurled both.

The nearby foundry on the Street of Picks lent an orange glow to the faces of the overhanging buildings, but it was the cool moonlight that showed Xivo his target. Arno Greggaro, son of Krios the merchant. Three lads wearing Greggaro ‘flashes’ on their left shoulders loomed just behind the snarling youth, standing tall with the threat of violence.

Wisely, Xivo stopped in the middle of the street. The few people still walking home, mostly bordars coming off work at the foundry, gave the young men a wide berth.

“Come on, you coward!” Arno taunted, holding up his hand to make a crude gesture.

“My father won the seat,” Xivo responded, forcing himself to control his breathing. “All your fire is just envy and bitter wine, Arno.” He reached down to his side as he spoke, resting his hand on the hilt of his makeri, the short thrusting stiletto he wore. They all wore one, or a variation on the design, a privilege of birth.

“He bought the seat,” Arno hissed. “Like he pays for his whores.”

Xivo smirked. “Your father can’t afford to pay his mistresses?”

Now it was Arno’s turn to be held back, but his friends succeeded. Xivo’s friends reeled him in, then guided him away. Together, they ignored Arno’s diminishing insults until they’d walked beyond the reach of his voice.

Xivo toyed with the smooth, spherical pommel of his weapon and imagined murder.

The makeri, like its big brother the makerno, had no edged blades.  By traditional Archene law, edged weapons over a certain length had always been denied to citizens, preserving the status of the lordly Kontas and their falk-bearing attendants. The City Seniority, which Xivo’s father had recently been elected to, had banned any weapon over a certain length. The result was a classic hypocrisy of life in Dassos, for the sons of the senior hyparchs were the first to wear short versions of the banned weapon, sidestepping the law. Xivo’s was triangular in cross section, the edges blunt all the way down to the vicious, hardened stabbing point.

“I could have taken him,” Xivo said, still stewing in frustrated rage at Arno’s disrespect.

“Not all of them, Xivo,” Fedelo said. He put an arm around his shoulders, a gesture that Xivo returned automatically.

“Ah, you’re right. You’re right.” They walked in lockstep for a moment or two. “May Death bugger him rightly,” Xivo muttered. His friends murmured their agreement.

“Why are we sober?” Avido asked, suddenly. Xivo broke with Fedelo, and they both turned to regard the larger youth. Of the three of them, Xivo was the shortest, a full head shorter than Avido who was built like a gatehouse tower.

“We have work to do,” Xivo said, keeping his voice low. “We can’t do it well if we’re pissed.”

“One of your Pa’s opponents?” Fedelo wondered.

“Just delivering a message to a debtor,” Xivo said. “A wealthy debtor. Forno the Baker.”

Avido whistled. “Not a little dog, then.”

“No,” Xivo agreed. “This one barks and bites. He thinks he can afford to put Pa off, now that he’s busy with being a hyparch.”

“Foolish. Your father’s a banker first and last.”

“Exactly, Fedo.” Xivo reached out and tousled Fedelo’s hair affectionately. With his other arm he drew Avido in closer, so that the three stood close in whispering conference on the street corner. “Here’s what we do…”



The night had grown a little chilly by the time they put his plan into action. Avido threw a chunk of masonry through the painted shutters of Forno’s primary bakery, just off the Temple Square. Almost at once, running feet sounded from the stairway within the building. Two men armed with cudgels, one half dressed, ran out into the moonlit street. Avido was already well on his way, sprinting across the cobbles away from the square.

“Cur!” One of the night guards yelled, giving chase. The other followed, turning off into an alley, anticipating Avido’s route up ahead.

Xivo watched them briefly, then before they were quite out of sight, wriggled out from under the empty cart. He’d been lying in the pool of shadow underneath it, ignoring the grime on the cobbles. Brushing himself down, he went swiftly to the door of the bakery and tried it.

They’d left it unlatched. Trusting that Fedelo was watching out from the roof of the brewery opposite, Xivo slipped into the bakery and closed the door behind him.

The air smelled of flour. Stairs ran up to the workers’ rooms on Xivo’s left. The room was richly appointed with wood panelling and brass, the floorboards rubbed pale by the footfall of customers over the years. A long counter separated the front of the shop from the door through to the bakery itself.

Xivo vaulted the counter, landing as lightly as he could. His ears pricked for noises other than his own. Footsteps above? Yes. Someone was still upstairs, probably bakers and their apprentices rather than more night guards. It was unlikely that Forno himself would be up there—he typically spent his nights in his big house on Fig Hill, touring his four bakeries only once the sun had risen.

The bakery had two wood-fired ovens. One was stacked with kindling ready for the morning, the other burning low, just embers visible through the open door. A young boy slept on a flour sack bed in the corner, a poker in his hand. His job, probably, to keep the one fire going and light the other. Xivo crossed the room and knelt beside the child. He put out his hand and shook the boy’s shoulder to wake him.

“Wha?” The boy jumped awake. He shuffled back from Xivo, blinking.

“There’s going to be a bit of a fire, kit.” Xivo said. He put his hand on the pommel of his makeri. “But you’re a lucky lad, and you escape the flames, don’t you?”

The boy’s eyes widened with fear. Then he nodded quickly.

“Good boy. Show me the flour, show me a candle, then get out through the back.” Xivo pointed to the small door in the far wall that led into the bakery’s small courtyard. “Who’s upstairs?”
The boy got to his feet, hands trembling. He glanced up at the ceiling.

Yes, somebody was awake up there. Xivo felt the thrill of risk lurch in his chest. “Apprentices, bakers?” Xivo pressed. The boy nodded. “Don’t worry, I’ll leave the stairs clear,” Xivo promised. “They’ll get out. Now, show me the flour sacks.”

The fire spread quickly. Xivo set it in wicker baskets on shelves waiting for bread, under the shop counter, and lastly in the store room. He ran after that, aware of the chance of an explosion in the flour dusty air.

He reached the front door just as it swung open, revealing the plump face of one of the night guards, an expression which switched from frustration to fury in an instant. The man raised his cudgel, his left arm snaking out to grab Xivo by his collar. He was a big fellow, taller and wider than Xivo. Spittle flew between his lips to land on the young man’s face as the guard snarled with rage. “What did you do?” Smoke was already filling the room.

Xivo twisted as the cudgel fell, taking a glancing hit on his shoulder. It still sent a shock of pain through him that almost dropped him to the floor. Before the cudgel could come again, Xivo kicked out, catching the guard’s knee. He violently shrugged himself free of the man’s grip, taking a step back. His way out was blocked, and the courtyard door now surely lay beyond a growing blaze and a pall of unbearable smoke.

Someone thudded into the back of the guard, making him yell. Without thinking, Xivo drew his makeri and shoved it point first into the guard’s belly. A half dozen street-fights and the martial tutor his father had paid for guided his hand, twice, three times. The resistance to the makeri’s point was taut at first where clothes, skin, and a layer of fat blocked the way, but the stabbing weapon had been made to pierce mail. It slipped in up to the hilt each time, the third time grating on a rib.

Xivo stepped back as the guard fell to his knees, shock making the man's pink face flaccid, his mouth gaping as blood began to flow through his shirt, running over his hands. He had dropped the cudgel.

In the doorway, Fedelo stood frozen in surprise. His own makeri was still at his hip, he had tried to tackle the bigger man with just his bare hands. Xivo met Fedelo’s eyes. Shouting came from upstairs, questioning, then panicking. Feet drummed on the stairs.

With a gasp that kept Xivo’s vomit from rising, the young man fled, pushing Fedelo ahead of him. They ran down the empty street, turning into one of the alleyways that connected the back of shops and houses between Market and Temple squares. Avido was there as planned, slumped under the first floor overhang of a house like a beggar. He got to his feet as they arrived.

“Is that blood?” He reached for Xivo, who shook his head, gesturing for Avido to step back with one of his hands. He still held the soiled stiletto in his other hand. Hands, shirt, and weapon—all of it was slick with blood.

“Don’t touch, you’ll mark yourself.”

“God above, Xivo…”

“It happened.”

Fedelo bent over, hands on his knees as he panted for breath. “It’s my fault,” he managed to say. “If I hadn’t…”

“No.” Xivo unlaced his shirt, pulling it over his head, mopping his hands and the cold steel of his makeri with the cream coloured linen. He shoved the weapon back into its belt loop, then tossed the soiled shirt into the rags and detritus that muddied the gutter beneath the alley’s upper windows. “No, it was my move, Fedo. I don’t regret it, my shoulder is screaming.”

“Injured?” Avido asked, looking around nervously. Distant voices broke the silence, but they didn’t seem to be coming closer.

“Not badly.” Xivo tried to calm his breathing, but it seemed to want to match his racing heart. He felt cold, but he was sweating profusely. “Go. Home, or to Kontas House. Papa’s guards will let you sleep there.”

“What about you?” Fedo asked, brow creasing with consternation.

“I’ll visit Pavera,” Xivo said, forcing a grin. “She can give me an alibi. I think I’ve left a shirt there as well.”

“Have fun,” Avido said. He started off at once, heading away from the sound of voices.

“I’ll be fine,” Xivo promised Fedelo, who seemed reluctant to take his leave. “Go.”

Finally alone, Xivo wove through the dark backstreets until he found the garden wall of the kafna that Pavera ran. Her eatery and bar faced onto one of Dassos’ quieter thoroughfares, but the balconet of her bedroom faced towards Temple Square. Xivo climbed the wall, landing in the little oasis where Pavera let close friends and favoured customers drink their coffee in the day. The air in the small garden was heady with lavender and rosemary.

Xivo climbed the wall of the building using a wooden trellis for handholds, careful not to disturb the reluctant grape vine that clung there—he didn’t want any grief from Pavera over damaging it.

The doors of the balconet were open, as expected. Pavera’s curtains shifted a little in the breeze. Xivo smelled smoke on the air, and as soon as he’d climbed over the rail to safety, he turned and looked out over the rooftops. Dawn was still a long way off, though the sky was greying, beyond the curved roof of the City Temple.

Above Peel Road, though, the sky was stained orange. Xivo couldn’t see flames, which was a strange kind of relief. The idea was to hurt and scare the stingy baker, not to set ablaze to Dassos’ busy streets.

“Did all go well?” Pavera asked sleepily. Xivo turned to see her crossing the room barefoot, wearing a cotton and lace shift. She was only a few years younger than Xivo’s departed mother would have been, nearly twice his age. Still, she was shapely and full of a sensual grace that captured Xivo’s mind surer than any of the giggling virgins that his father sent his way.

Xivo glanced down at his hands. Blood had got under his nails. “Not exactly, my love,” he said, grinning sheepishly.

“You’ve lost your shirt.”

“It didn’t have anything on it by which I can be identified. I had to… I think I killed a man tonight.”

Pavera reached out and cupped his chin with her slender fingers. A tress of her black hair slipped free and caressed the slope of her breast, bare above the neckline of her undergarment. All of a sudden Xivo wanted her badly. The headiness of the urge made him blink, suddenly dizzy. “Did he hurt you?” Pavera asked.

“No. Yes, my shoulder.” It was still tender.

“Will you be found out?”

“I don’t think so. They might pull him from the fire…”

Pavera looked past him to the glow over the rooftops. “I hope that isn’t burning down any of the places I like, my stripling.”

Xivo shook his head, ignoring her use of the nickname he hated. He thought of the fire-boy who had seen his face—maybe—and felt a spike of doubt. There would be rumours at least. Papa would hear of them.

Xivo shoved the anxiety aside and reached for the shoulder of Pavera’s shift. She watched his hand brush the filmy material down the slope of her shoulder, her dark eyes twinkling. Firelight. Xivo shook his head, banishing the thought. His fingers brushed the material until the shape of Pavera’s shoulders no longer held it up, so that it fell, first from one shoulder, then altogether to the floor, pooling around her feet.

“Xivoli,” she whispered, using his proper first name in that way he loved, but his lips stopped her from saying more, and hers returned his passion with unrestrained liberty. Her hands were already tugging at the lacing of his trousers. He abandoned all thought, his eyes closed, hands free to do as they wished, mouth full of the taste of her, mind overtaken with Pavera—her shape, her scent, her taste. Her desire responding to his own.

It wasn’t until the morning, when the sun lit up the pale yellow wall of her bedroom and woke him, that he remembered the blood under his nails.
Introducing Xivo - work from 'Warprince'
Part of a chapter from the sequel to Gravedigger.
Introducing a "Son of the City" one of the privileged youths in Dassos, the setting for the book.
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I used to hate Hip Hop. It was outside of my cultural bubble, and materialistic rap was dominant when I was growing up, which I still can't dig.
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You're here to become men at arms, sworn. The Company of the Horned Moon takes all who can and will serve, Pactor, peasant, lord’s son, reformed knave. Your oath today will not be a Pactor’s oath, though some of you may one day come to that. I hold you to the account in the name of no deity, and to no sacred code, save my own.

Honour is a tool you will use, but it was forged for man, not the other way around - despite what you may have heard. You will love honour, but you will love your own lives and the lives of those we protect more. If fighting fairly will see you dead, then live instead.

But you will know the difference between combat and slaughter. Fight like demons at the former, but do not kill those who cannot, or who will not seek your deaths. The unarmed, the incapable, and those are no present threat are not yours to kill. You will glory in this restraint when other men would not - our wildness, our ferocity, is well renowned. But it is ours to command. Do not let it command you.

Mistakes will be corrected and forgiven. If the correction is refused, forgiveness ends. I will let the King's Law take any who fail to learn from failure. For those that wish to leave after taking this oath, if the decision is measured and given in a time of peace, you will be released in peace. But betray me, your brothers, or the people we serve, and the King's Law will not have you. I will. Until your death we will hunt you. That is part of our oath.
Company of the Horned Moon Oath Speech
A scrap of monologue for my long-term epic fantasy project, delivered by Fostr Avail to men about to swear fealty to his Company of the Horned Moon.
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Hi everyone,

I've been almost silent and nearly completely absent on here for too long.
Just so you know, this journal is going to come around to an upbeat perspective, but it's gonna dive deep and dark first. Okay? A long absence deserves a proper explanation. I never left you, dA. Never.

The reason for this is summed up by a shitty couple of years taking their shots at me and my wife.

A few years ago, we were homeless, living with friends. Then we moved in with Cet's family. My wife has a difficult relationship with her parents at times, so that wasn't great, but it saved us. I will always set out to believe in family.

Throughout this general period of our lives, four of our friends attempted to take their own lives. Two of them sadly did. Two are still with us

A couple of Novembers back I got a job at a school, which has become a job I love at that same school. It got us out of Cet's folks' and into the city, lodging with a friend of my family. Cet also got a job some time after that, and it looked like we'd finally be able to get on up into real independence.

Cet's job made her sick. Violent assaults, lack of training, lack of support - and then came the day that they fired her. They lied about her in their report and it looked very like my wife was going to lose her clearance to work with children, which she had trained to do since she was a teenager. Cet got very sick after that. Depression with suicidal ideation. It felt like our world was being crushed bit by bit.

Not long after they fired her, the place she'd worked at got shut down for being unsafe. No surprises there, but not much consolation. Thankfully, my wife began to recover, and she is in good recovery now. She proved so strong when the next blows came that I'm still amazed.

My family lost their house to the mortgage people last October.
We lost our lodging in the city in November, without any warning (not my friend/landlady's fault, just unavoidable) so we were homeless too. I'd just helped get my parents out and to friends, and now we were moving too. The same day we had to leave the city, Cet got a job just down the road from there.

So, the Winter of 2017 and Spring of 2018 were spent commuting between the coast and the city, both of us working and hanging on. My family squeezed in with us at Cet's folks' again. It was stressful, but there was grace in it. A hard Christmas, especially for Cet, though. My mental health was.... a bit frayed at this point. We were conscious that because we were both working, we were in a position to save for our own flat deposit for renting - a step up, for sure, but we felt like we'd gone backwards.

Anyway, here we are, been living in our flat in the city for over a month now. We found the place, got in with help from friends and family, and it feels like the nightmares are receding a bit. Some days are still difficult, but we can cook for ourselves and keep house like fucking adults for the first time in a very long time. My family moved down to the West Country (Devon) like pioneers or refugees or a mixture of the two. We are still here.

And I'm back. Throughout this homelessness, my PC lived at a friend's. I've got it back now. I'm reconnecting with things that got stolen from me - not just my writing, but my communities. I'll understand if many of you aren't expecting this journal, if nobody reads it as a result, but I'm going to build dA time back into my routine. I grew up with this place.

Yeah. I'm back.
Heart I love deviantART! Heart 

---
I think I've fainted. 
Sorry to get all heavy, guys! A new Maker's Bloodline book is coming soon, so watch this space, cos I'll no doubt be plugging it here like crazy. In the meantime, I'm working on the sequel to Gravedigger, and I expect I'll put sample chapters up here if people are interested.

Huge love.

Izzy


  • Listening to: Flobots
  • Reading: Oathbreaker by Brandon Sanderson
  • Watching: Grimm/Safe/Stuff on Youtube
  • Playing: Just Cause 3
  • Eating: Saucisson sec avec reblochon
  • Drinking: Grape soda

deviantID

Autumn-Hills's Profile Picture
Autumn-Hills
Michael-Israel Jarvis
Artist | Professional | Literature
United Kingdom
I've been a member of DeviantArt for over eight years. In that time, I more or less grew up and learned to write at the same time. I completed a First Class BA Degree in Creative Writing, with Honours; but it was DeviantArt that fostered my first writing. It was DeviantArt that gave me my first taste of feedback, encouragement; and criticism.

Since University I've independently published three books, two of which were born here, on DeviantArt. You can find Osric Fingerbone and Gravedigger chapters in my Fiction Finder over on the right, in draft form, unedited and unimproved. Meanwhile, I've signed with the Publisher Booktrope, that offer an entirely new model of publishing.

As a result, I'm now working with a professional team to republish my books. I dreamt of this kind of progress over those eight years. I am still dreaming of the successful future I hope I have in writing books, and selling them to people who want to read them. It's that simple for me.

DeviantArt is still here. So will I be. I will always owe this community much.

My books are available still in their indie form, here: www.amazon.co.uk/Michael-Israe… (UK link) and here: www.amazon.com/Michael-Israel-… (US Link)

Gravedigger will be republished within the next couple of months.
Interests

Wishlist

Grass River view by SivrajStudios Grass River view :iconsivrajstudios:SivrajStudios 1 0 Gass View Wind Mill by SivrajStudios Gass View Wind Mill :iconsivrajstudios:SivrajStudios 4 0 .MISSING YOU. by evol1314 .MISSING YOU. :iconevol1314:evol1314 88,887 9,514 Cthulhu Cthucks by salshep Cthulhu Cthucks :iconsalshep:salshep 547 288

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:iconyokoboo:
Yokoboo Featured By Owner Jun 3, 2018  Professional Digital Artist
Thanks for the watch!
Reply
:iconautumn-hills:
Autumn-Hills Featured By Owner Jun 3, 2018  Professional Writer
You're welcome! I've just read through every single page of Daughter of the Lilies. The moment I saw you were on dA I just had to Watch.

Awesome stuff.
Reply
:iconberkleydown:
BerkleyDown Featured By Owner Mar 23, 2016  Student General Artist
Your poetry reminds me of Shane Koyczan's - please take that as a huge compliment.
Reply
:iconautumn-hills:
Autumn-Hills Featured By Owner Jun 30, 2016  Professional Writer
Thank you. I'm not familiar with Koyczan. Will check him out.
Reply
:iconcarryn:
Carryn Featured By Owner Apr 22, 2015  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
Hey, Michael, what a small world!  I didn't know you were on Deviant.  This is Kandi Wyatt from Booktrope!  I'm not keeping up with Deviant as much just due to life and I seem to be able to keep track of one social media at a time, but I thought I'd drop by and say hi. 
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:iconautumn-hills:
Autumn-Hills Featured By Owner Apr 26, 2015  Professional Writer
Hi! Nice to meet you in this form! Yeah, I have a set of tabs that are always open and I try to run through them methodically, but dA is sadly often last on the list. Twitter is demanding! I'm trying to maintain a basic presence at least on deviantArt, as it was so formative for me.
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:iconcarryn:
Carryn Featured By Owner Jun 14, 2015  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
I know what you mean. It is where I started drawing from my stories. Then I improved my writing and wrote some back stories in here. I just found a play that I thought I had lost and it was here on DA! I am so excited. I can now download it and have a copy for myself and to put up on my author web-page. Right now I should be editing, but I am so sleepy, I turned here instead. It's probably the first time since April when I comment on your page. :)
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:iconautumn-hills:
Autumn-Hills Featured By Owner Jun 15, 2015  Professional Writer
Crazy lives, eh?
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(1 Reply)
:iconchimeradragonfang:
ChimeraDragonfang Featured By Owner Nov 3, 2014
Birthday cake  icon 
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:iconautumn-hills:
Autumn-Hills Featured By Owner Nov 11, 2014  Professional Writer
Thank you! :D
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