iiinova — where your digital self keeps evolving

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 13/09/2026

Please find this flash fiction (666 words) dream from my 3rd novel, Dear Dairy, here. Full story in ALT. This is one of the 42 dream sequences from Justin Case, a neurodivergent prodigy navigating his 12-year-old world. Hope you like it! #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts #WIPSnips

High Thread Count
Be Eight-Legged Unless You Can’t Afford the Shoes
Me and my sibs were attached to this gossamer web of lies. Like—glued.
I am Sablethorn, eldest daughter of Charlotte. A prisoner in a sticky mass of horror posing as home.
My sisters were afflicted with pettiness and vice—traits I shall never adopt.
Vexis oozes subtle menace from octocular appendages. She postures as black widow and threatens to consume me—an orgy of jealous jeopardy. She is not very nice.
Xilith is much the opposite. Exotic, whispering, mysterious—her voice the brush of unseen legs. She acts the part of redback to keep me on my own grey one. She is not very kind.
I will find a way to fray the cords that bind me to them and this hell.
Somehow, I will find a way.
News comes of Grand Ball to be held an eighthnight hence—the Cluster of Caldorin to host. The elder’s youngest offspring, Silvarian the Stout, will be awarded a bride.
Silvarian is a thousandth son of a thousandth son, destined for greatness in the Spiderverse. I ocoteyed him once in the near distance, training his Air Force in tactical maneuvers. His silver reflects light into prisms of plenty, bathing all in his presence with grace.
I pray to the Octheon to grant me one wish.
Take me to that ball. Spirit me to that hall. Place him in my thrall.
OK, it’s a three part wish. But I pray it again, after all.
Harvesting meal moths to stuff into the maws of my sanguinary sisters. A flitting furball enters my gazes. It speaks in cultured High Arachnan:
“Hi! I’m Fernable, you fairy god-spider. The big guy says you need something, right?”
A pink mass of goo pulses out of her mouth, pops like a balloon.
“Sorry, bad habit. But this Beetle flavored gum is the best thing since canned flies!”
I relate my demands. She thinks it through.
“Ok, I need to do some shopping. I really love shopping because it let’s me conjugate the verb “to buy” in perfectly expensive context. Exhiliarting! Catch you on the flitter-flip!”
Fernable trills as sh…

082

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 26/07/2026

From Elba Kramer: The True Autobiography of a Pathological Liar. My first published book! #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙

Breakfast was soggy Cheerios floating in a sea of rotten milk, with orange juice. I tried to wolf down the cereal, but it came back up with a roar.
The sergeant pulled me out of my cell early the next morning. He called me by my former name, Elba Abel. He said that a missing child alert had made its way to his precinct late the night before. My parents would arrive midday to pick me up.
I told him that my name was Elba Kramer. I told him my parents were dead. The people coming to get me were impostors. He couldn’t force me to go with them.
I changed back into my street clothes and sat in the lobby of the station. My mother and stepfather arrived in the early afternoon. They looked over at me as they walked in, but didn’t say a word. They stepped into a conference room to talk to the sergeant, then walked out of the station. Again, without a word to me.
The arresting officers showed up with their sergeant. They handcuffed me and led me out to the patrol car. We started a slow drive down Rolla’s main street. I could see the pedestrians looking at me in the back of the car, curious to see what was happening.
We stopped at the entrance to an old-time barbershop. My caring adults were sitting in the shop with an air of anticipation. The officers pulled me into a barber chair. One officer held my legs in place while the other pinned my elbows.
The barber was an amiable older gentleman who seemed quite happy to be plying his trade. There were two other customers in the three-chair barbershop. More than a dozen townspeople crowded around the front window to see what would happen.
I fought. I fought hard, kicking and spitting. The barber used an electric razor to chop off my hair, drawing blood more than once. I gave up, exhausted, and let him finish with me. He slapped some astringent lotion on top of my head. The cuts burned and screamed.

081

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 25/07/2026

From The Infernal Twins. Styx opines on her first gay cruise, and (ultimately) explains the origin of the rainbow. #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙 On Amazon and enrolled in KDP. a.co/d/8jyaxF5

Noah’s Cruise
You know about Noah and his boat, of course. It says in the Bible that he took the animals on two by two. And whoever converted the plans to imperial cubits must have sucked at arithmetic! The Ark was HUGE, like the size of Atlas’s shrug!
Noah was a disgusting creature, with abominable taste. His beard was white, but only if you’re colorblind. It was always filthy—there were maggots suckling lamb’s blood on his chin every Sabbath. It smelled like boiled cabbage, double-dipped in excrement paste—because once wasn’t enough.
Did I mention it was really dirty?
The Flood thing happened when my Dad and my uncle were still doing business together. Uncle Weh was in charge of the rain and the lightning. Dad had to deal with gathering the pairs. That’s how I came to be on the scene.
I was still quite young—just shy of a million Earth years. Maybe six or seven in human time, give or take a plague. But I was whip-smart and loved all creatures Great and Small. The Bright and Beautiful I could do without.
Dad told me to round up the unicorns. I started my search in the neighborhood of Urartu. A rumor of a mated pair near the Durupınar Formation led me in that direction.
I found them living in a closet of a glade. It was fabulously decorated.
Emerald green accent wall paired with a perfect peach-puce. Regal. Dramatic.
Like a cabaret stage—only functional. And no feather boas. The vibe was bold, mysterious.

041

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 24/07/2026

From Dear Dairy, my thrid novel. I found today's word in a dream sequence. Love it! #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙

Insects chittering somewhere in Oklahoma, loud enough to blacken the white noise. There must be thousands, millions but I can’t spot them. The cacophony of crickets was oddly comforting. I recorded the sound and put into rotation with my play list.
Roadside shrine in New Mexico. I light a candle and pen a note: “my thanks is your curse”.
I hear the voice of a single cricket. It is reciting a poem that has no feet. It chants a litany of false faith: Judaism, Hinduism, Catholicism, Confucianism, Islamism, Taoism, Shintoism.
An inundation of isms that all mean the same thing, each stated in a different way.
The cricket whispers into my silence.
“You don’t need a voice to have faith. But you need faith to find your voice.”
I fell ill while crossing the Mogollon Mountains to the west of New Mexico. Named for the man who extinguished the inhabitants in the name of his One True God.
I crawled into a burned-out chapel and collapsed at the altar. Dreams came to me with urgency, terror, solace, gratitude. I see PapaC in his burial clothes, the old scar from his youth reinscribed with the blood of those he killed. MamaC whispers from behind a veil: “I should have slapped you harder.”
My recovery is slow, but my realization is fast. I gain enough strength to scale Sacaton. Rocky ravines, steep ridgelines, occasional scrambling. Boulder-strewn paths brush-filled washes lead me to the summit.
The Sonoran panorama is breathtaking. An old surveillance tower looks ready to fall over.
I climb, stretch my back, pop my neck.
I readied my voice.
I have something to say—something to scream.
There is but one God—You are not Him.
There is but one Way—not hidden, but not yet known.
And still—every path finds the Way.

061

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 23/07/2026

From Elba Kramer: The True Autobiography of a Pathological Liar #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙

Never Lonely
‘58— ‘64

Most people’s earliest memories form around age 3. My first clear memory is from around then—but nuance muddies the reckoning.
I have a mix of dim, clear, and implanted memories. These memories formed after my infantile amnesia faded. I'm not sure which category each early memory belongs to. It probably doesn’t matter.
Our memories become our truth, no matter their origin.
Elder Elba speaks—
Hi there. I’m Elder Elba, the voice that knows the truth behind the lies. I’ll step in when summoned with commentary, corrections, or rare glimpses of truth. I can see through the lies. If Elba lets me, I will work to deepen his truth.
I can dimly recall my father. He exited the scene during these early years. He was an Air Force officer, a pilot. He was tall, quite dashing, and something of a raconteur. He met my mother while stationed at Orly Air Base, near Paris. She was a French beauty who had grown up in Paris during the occupation. She hated the Germans.
They fell in love before they fell apart. Their quick trip from lust to loathing left behind invisible scars and memories out of reach.

051

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 22/07/2026

From The Infernal Twins: A Series of Divine Miscommunications. Styx rants about Ruth, one of several such reflections in the book. #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙

0121

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 21/07/2026

From Elba Kramer: The True Autobiography of a Pathological Liar. My first novel, though it took decades to pry it out of me.

Then I got busted. I was kicked out of the Youth Center. Craig and Duane left with me, in a touching show of solidarity.
We were too drunk to walk a straight line, not sober enough to head home. We wandered around the area, looking for some fun.
Or some trouble.
We passed the long, low puke-green building that used to be the base medical clinic. It had been shut down the year before after a renovation at the base hospital. We walked around the back of the building. Duane spotted a door that was slightly ajar. I made the required joke:
“When is a door not a door? When it’s ajar!”.
Craig kept a flashlight clipped to his belt. He said it was because that is what all intrepid explorers do. I suspected that he was scared of the dark. It cast a glow soft enough to be hard to see from the street, but bright enough to show us our way.
We took our pocketknives and started to pry the signage off the wall.
I got a “Radiology” and a “Urology” sign, Duane scored
“Vaccinations”. Craig came out on top with “OB/GYN”.
Elder Elba speaks ─
Elba still regrets rejecting Craig’s offer to trade his sign for Elba’s own x-rays and piss. He thought of it once when he saw his wife’s OB stumbling out of a strip club late one night. An OB ogling strippers struck him as so wrong, on every possible level. Elba has never set foot in a strip club. Why bother to look if you can’t touch? His wife changed doctors.
SPs were waiting when we came out. Drug screening at the other hospital, another shameful ride home, another disappointment for my broken mother, another humiliation for my stepfather.

070

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 20/07/2026

From The True Virgin, my current WIP. Didn't expect to see 'unfazed', but there it is! #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙

He will never suspect it. Or know it, for that matter.
Mary snuck away to Magdala. She approached Salome on the sly.
Waters must be tested, gold balm rubbed into an open hand.
She had invested a modest sum with Agatha, who agreed to apprentice the child.
No questions asked. Her silence paid in full.
Salome: “The arrangement is set. You pay the fee, I return the girl. We do not discuss it.”
Mary: “Agatha will take her as an apprentice. If she’s sharp, she will make herself useful.”
Salome: “She is sharp, yes. That is precisely why silence will serve you best.”
Maggie enters, sensing the weight in the air but offering no reaction.
When Mary laid eyes on that radiant child, she lost her breath.
But she gathered it, unwilling to break role.
Salome: “You will go with her. It is decided.”
Maggie meets her gaze but does not speak. A pause. Acceptance—nothing more.
Mary: curt, professional “Salome speaks highly of you. I trust you will prove worthy of the opportunity.”
Maggie: measured, composed “I ask only that you address me as Miriam. Maggie is for family and friends.”
Mary hesitates—momentary surprise—but does not correct her.
Mary: recovering “Then, Miriam. Gather your things.”
Miriam: unfazed “I am wearing the only things that I own.”
Mary regards her briefly, then pulls a gold piece from her pouch.
Mary: a flicker of warmth masked as practicality “Then let’s go shopping.”

2111

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 18/07/2026

From The Last Known Position - a collection of 3 folk-horror short stories. On Amazon and enrolled in KDP. #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙

XI. The Word
But I knew others would come.
Humans always return.
So I reached into the memory of the first settlers—the marks they carved on trees, the symbols they traced in the dirt, the sounds they used to mean danger.
One sequence appeared again and again.
Colonists Relocated. Outpost Abandoned. Threat Outside. Avoid Night.
I carved it the way I speak to the forest — in layers, in depths, in echoes.
I pressed the message through bark and cambium, through sapwood and heartwood, each layer expanding the meaning.
Until the tree thrummed with it.
I left it carved in the tree, scratched deep as a kindness, stacked from skin to heart.
A warning.
A boundary.
A hope that the next arrivals would read it correctly.
I waited.
I rested.
And the new humans came.
I did not realize that the pale ones see only the skin of things.

XII. John White Returns
White arrived two years later, breathless, grey-haired, heart half-shattered.

0161

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 17/07/2026

From The Last Heretic, a political thriller set during the Council of Nicaea. #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙 ⏳

080

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 16/07/2026

From The Infernal Twins: A Series of Divine Miscommunications. Styx & Stonez explore Limbo. On Amazon and enrolled in KDP. #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙

Stonez shrugs and looks around to the edges of the vast meadow. Unbaptized infants are stacked like cordwood along the banks of the river Acheron. Their silent squalls are apparent only on their scrunched, cherubic faces.
Millions of them, maybe billions.Condemned for the sins of their fathers or the unhappy accident of their culture.
Styx mutters under her breath.
“Billions of babies, punished for paperwork errors. Hell’s daycare is the worst.”
Stonez kicked a pebble that didn’t bother to move. “Sis, it’s like… the beta version of reality. Chill vibes, no upgrades.”
Limbo sighed, eternally drafting a sentence it would never write. The Patriarchs of the Old Testament lounge about waiting for the Harrowing of Hell. Abraham is trying to part Esau’s flaming red hair, to no avail. Adam contentedly eats a rotten apple. Noah sleeps standing up.
No rush, time flies in when you’re having fun, and soars when you are eternally damned.
Styx(confused): “There’s no smell. Why isn’t there any smell?”
Ovid overhears her and offers a terse explanation:
Ovid:“Olfactory elision is Satan’s way of ensuring our repose. Imagine if the wind carried the sickly scent of a billion blameless babies.Torture!We are not tortured, we are tutored in the art of apathy.”
Styx leaned in and whispered to Stonez, "I don’t care for an eternity of apathy. You?"

0134

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 15/07/2026

From Dear Dairy, my 3rd novel. Experimental fiction blending diary entries from a neurodivergent tween with flash-fiction dreams (666 words each). Cool stuff! books2read.com/Dear-Dairy #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙

Dear Dairy, Oct 7
Mr. G always has a book – every day! Not a school book, but a real book. And he’s a math teacher!
He’s reading one called The Once and Future King by T.H. White right now. I don’t know what it’s about, but maybe it will have secret clews about who Mr. G really is? I bet it’s about a chess game where a King gets unmoted to a pawn then gets to be king again. I gotta ask my mom to get it for me to find out.
He gave us a test on ratios and purportions proportions. I finished it in like two minutes and never even stopped reading The Borrowers. I saw him grading the papers and he suddenly looked at me. He shook his head and made a little smile. I knew I aced it—now he does too.
Gym class sucks. Me & another kid named Jude are the olny ones who get to sit out. We got speshial dipsensations from the coach. Petey doesn’t talk, either. Other kids say he’s a deaf-moot, which means he can’t hear or talk. I bet some of them think I am too. But I’m not. I hear well enough to listen and talk well enuf enough to know when to shut up.
Mrs. Roeker is an OK teacher but she don’t care about me. I call her Poker Face cuz she doesn’t ever smile or frown or nothi’n. And Literature class is weher they make me read kid books cuz I am slow. I don’t ever read ‘em because I am a vere good readrer. They think I’m dumb or something cuz I don’t talk much and I spell bad.
Jude sits alone at lunch, hunched over his sammich. He moves his lips tween bites. I bet he can talk just fine—but only to hisself. If he’s a smid, that would be intelligent conversashun.
Herstory History class is a mix of boring and cool. Mr. Bottoms (I call him Buttz even though he only has one of ‘em) is my teacher.
He’s talking about something called the Renaissance (I looked it up before I wrote this). It’s so strange that a mahsine had to be invented before books. I always thought books have always bin round. I don’t usually read the textbook, but maybe I’ll try it this once. You learn someth…

1112

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 12/07/2026

Two new rescues this morning! Panthera and Baghira were abandoned in Nuevo Arenal. a few weeks back. Fostered by a kind neighbor to stabilize them. They are now in Casa Mascotas, looking for their forever homes. Support our mission - 11 rescue dogs in Mascotas! eljardinreverente.org/mascotas

010

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 12/07/2026

From Elba Kramer: The True Autobiography of a Pathological Liar. On sales thru Jul 20, all outlets. #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙

The Boy Scout troop scheduled a weekend biking campout. The idea was to leave early on Saturday. The destination was a campground about 2 hours away. That spot had miles of bike trails and a hill that featured a 200-foot elevation gain.
We rode (or walked) our bikes to the top of the hill. The plan was to race to the bottom. The scout with the best time would get extra dessert at the campfire later in the evening. We lined up four abreast and took off.
My bike had a banana seat and a sissy bar. I had clipped a Joker from a deck of cards to the rear wheel. It made a cool slap-slap-slap sound as I rode. Gravity decided to ignore my brakes. I picked up speed and was moving wicked-fast. The finish line was in sight when my wheels went out from under me. My right ankle got wrapped in the chain. I was dragged the last 50 feet on my stomach, arms over my head.
The asphalt and gravel tore me to shreds. I had pebbles and tar embedded under my skin. Blood seeped out of the little tears along my torso. My ankle was imprinted with the pattern of the chain, black with oil and red with blood.
It hurt like hell.
Every member of the troop earned credit for their first aid merit badge that night. They took turns using hot compresses to soothe my pain and tweezers to pick the debris from under my skin—one of the older scouts cleaned and bandaged my ankle. Everything still hurt, and everything felt better.
The names and faces of those boys are lost to me. But the feeling of being cared for so gently stayed with me for a long time.
We closed out the school year. I attended graduation again. My sister walked across the stage that year. I drafted my Valedictorian address in preparation for next year. I said goodbye to friends and acquaintances. I even scheduled an appointment with Shrugs to

191

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 11/07/2026

From The Infernal Twins. Styx and Stonez tackle the plagues. #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙

Stonez loved pulling wings off Flies. A countermeasure against the lice issue, summoning natural predators.
A miscommunication in the Office of Pest Control cured him of that obsession.
The predator population algorithm was too broad, meaning every species listed under "winged nuisance" surged in number.
Scarabs demand better press. Pharaoh attacked mid-sentence by a swarm of overly enthusiastic fruit flies.
Heavy sigh.
OK, the Livestock. An enhanced cattle health program, extending lifespan calculations for Egyptian herds.
No problem—what could possibly go wrong?
Right. The Bureaucratic Expiration Date Error.
A default setting auto-triggered mass expiration notices, prematurely reclassifying all livestock as “expired inventory—render at will.”
Goats refused to acknowledge their mortality or even understand that they’re already dead. Pharaoh initiated emergency beef rationing. Let them eat flanks!
Stonez tries Boils. A temperature moderation decree, to cool the region amidst record-high desert heat.
The Divine Side-Effects Warning Was Ignored, or maybe Misplaced. Who cares?
The cooling clashed with existing climate control mandates, resulting in flesh-

050

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 10/07/2026

The Last Heretic: The True Meaning Behind the Creed The Bishops and the Emperor made a mistake - they pissed off the wrong scribe! Historical Fiction with a political twist. Discounted to $2.99 on Amazon, Kobo, Google, Apple, B&N and more, thru Jul 20. Link in 1st comment.

110

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 09/07/2026

From The True Virgin, my current WIP. Yeshua is 8 years old, studious to a fault. #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts

Anno Mundi 3762
Tishrei
The workyard behind their home was warm with sawdust and echoes. Joseph’s tools lay scattered near the bench—awl, plane, adze—each worn smooth from years of stubborn devotion. Yesh squatted nearby, fingers deep in the dirt, planting tiny pebbles in rows like a harvest that would never come.
He was muttering to himself. Counting under his breath. Each pebble had a name, a purpose, a place in his world.
Joseph glanced over.
Joseph: impatient “What are you doing now?”
Yesh: earnest “Planting seeds.”
Joseph: snorts “Stones don’t grow, boy.”
Yesh shrugged. “Neither does anger. But you keep planting it.”
Joseph: sharply “Watch that tongue. Don’t think being her miracle makes you clever.”
Yesh didn’t look up. “Only an observation.”
Joseph stepped closer, wiping sweat from his brow. He was tired. The roof beam had splintered that morning. Orders were behind. Mary had no flour, and James had a raging rash. He wasn’t in the mood.
Joseph: low and cold “You forget your place. You think a bastard like you can teach me?”
The word hit like an unexpected kick to the gut.
Yesh stood. Slow. Quiet. Eyes wide.
Yesh: “You said I was sent.”
Joseph: “That’s what your mother says.”
They stood like that for a moment. Man and child. One trembling with anger, the other with something quieter, deeper.

090

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 08/07/2026

From The Last Heretic: The True Meaning Behind the Creed. Love sometimes does not last—but want is forever. #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙 ⏳

Lunius 12—late-night
The night is heavy, humid. The door creaks open.
Helena slips inside without a word.
We are in Agatha’s side chamber—a narrow slip of a room near the baths.
The walls sweat. The faint scent of lavender and damp stone clings to the air.
Moonlight slashes across the bed, catching the worn weave of the blanket.
Agatha has left no lamp, no fire—only the hush of dripping water in some hidden pipe.
Helena stands by the door, her robe loose at the throat.
Helena: quiet, detached. " One day soon, you’ll reach for me—and I’ll already be gone. Constantine means to send me east. He told me so this afternoon."
Archie: flat, automatic "I know. Callinicus directed me to draft two scribes to accompany you."
Helena: “And you will leave the Villa—back to the waiting arms of Eusebius.”
Archie: “I will leave the Villa, yes. But until then, the only arms I long for are yours.”
She unties the sash without ceremony, lets the robe fall in a soft heap at her feet.
Helena: almost a whisper, "We are running out of time. Fill me up anew, my love. My emptiness is a void."
Archie: hollow "My heart beats in a vacuum. I will try to fill your lacuna."
We move toward the bed without touching.
The blanket is rough against my palms as I guide her down.
There is no urgency. No tenderness.
It feels obligatory—not inevitable.
A performance for no audience but memory.
She turns her face away from mine as I enter her.
Her body yields mechanically, the way one submits to a familiar sadness.
My eyes stay fixed on the pale stone wall behind her head.
We finish quickly. No sighs, no clinging. Only the slow steadying of breath.

080

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 06/07/2026

From Elba Kramer: The True Autobiography of a Pathological Liar. Boy Scout Elba goes to camp. #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙

The Fire-Starting station was manned by an older kid named Darren. He was tall and strong, very military in his bearing. He spoke softly and taught me how to start a blaze using flint and steel. The winner of the Fire-Starting competition is the scout with the fastest time from first strike to steady flame. Each scout would have three chances to ignite the moss. The best of those three tries would be used to determine the winner.
Darren provided me with the flint, and I pulled out my own pocketknife to provide the steel. He placed a loose ball of dried moss into a ceramic dish. He showed me how the sparks from the strikes would jump into the moss and ignite it.
Elder Elba speaks ─
The knife was not technically Elba’s. He had stolen it from a Petaluma neighbor’s junk drawer the year before.
I took a breath and pictured the flame. I placed the moss and raised the flint. I struck once, then twice. The third time was the charm—strike to blaze in under 10 seconds. I knew that I could do better.
The second try consumed the moss at only strike two—about 6 seconds.
The third attempt landed on the 1st strike. Only 3 seconds, by Darren’s watch. He confidently predicted that I would be the winner, and he was right.
The Fastest Fire Starter was accorded the honor of lighting the farewell bonfire. There was a small amphitheater setting at the camp, with low stadium seats on four sides. All of the kids and several adults would come together for the closing ceremonies on our final night.
A huge bonfire was erected in the middle of the square. The teepee-shaped structure stood over five feet tall, with plenty of dry wood, stacked for ventilation. There were dozens of balls of dry

0111

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 05/07/2026

Fashion Show We had a little fashion show for some of our rescue dogs. So cute! Donations welcome - new kitchen and playspace! Card: eljardinreverente.org/mascotas Zelle: stevegcostarica@gmail.com SINPE: 8968 2550 #rescuedogs #rescuedogsoftiktok #casamascotas #adoptdontshop #costarica

022

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 05/07/2026

From The True Virgin, my current WIP. The roots of the parable of the garden. #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙

The lesson began before dawn—because, according to Ptah, "truth prefers cold feet and quiet roots."
He led them into the garden in silence. Seven boys and one girl. The light was just beginning to thin the edge of the sky, painting fig leaves silver. The triplets were forbidden from attending. Too loud, too punchable.
Ptah stopped at a small, fenced plot. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the garden was already listening.
Ptah walked barefoot along the narrow spiral path between thyme and fig, motioning for Yesh to follow. They didn’t speak until the stone bench came into view, still damp with night.
Ptah sat. Yesh remained standing.
Ptah: without looking “There was once a man who planted a garden. Not for food. Not for beauty. Just to see what would grow.”
Yesh: quiet “What did he plant?”
Ptah: “Everything he could. Wheat and bramble. Herbs and poison. He scattered them all, then stepped back.”
Yesh frowned.
Yesh: “Why poison?”
Ptah: “Why not? The garden wasn’t the test.”
He ran his palm over the cracked surface of the bench, then pointed to a patch of wild mint choking the base of an olive sapling.
Ptah: “He waited. The poison sprouted first. Fast. Loud. But the wheat was patient.”
Yesh followed his gaze.
Yesh: “Did he pull the poison?”
Ptah: “No. He let it speak.”
Yesh: “Speak?”
Ptah: soft “Weeds lie with speed. Wheat speaks with time. If you interrupt the story, you never learn which is which.”
Yesh sat beside him.
Yesh: “So what happened to the garden?”
Ptah: “It grew wild. He watched. And one day, it began to whisper things he hadn’t planted.”

080

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 04/07/2026

From The Last Heretic, my 2nd (and most successful) novel. Historical fiction, political intrigue, forbidden love. Fun! #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙

Maius 26—late dawn
The sun has barely crested the tiled rooftops when I arrive at the appointed place.
A servants’ terrace—unused since the last round of renovations—hangs like an afterthought on the rear of the Villa’s east wing.
It serves now as a perch for birds, dust, and whispered instructions.
Agatha awaits, leaning against the low stone railing.
A linen napkin covers a small tray: bread, cheese, and two cups.
She does not look up when I arrive.
Agatha: “She regrets the delay. Pressures are mounting. You will see her again two days hence, just before sunset.”
She gestures lazily toward the western horizon.
Agatha: “There’s a disused balcony near the scriptorium, with a view of the sea. Bring your full attention—and your full discretion.”
She pours a cup of watered wine and pushes it toward me.
Agatha: “You’ll want to be ready. She intends to say something that may unsettle you.”
Archelaus: “You are positively cryptic, my dear Agatha.”
Agatha: cutting “Your familiarity is a breeding ground for my contempt.”
I absorb the sting, impassive.
Agatha: reminiscing, “I was present at Helena’s birth—I snipped her umbilical and rinsed the womb blood from her face. My service has been only to her since she took her first breath.”
Archelaus: admiring, “You are more mother to her than servant—that much is clear.”
Agatha: “My love for her is unconditional. I fear for her safety, even for her life. I fear for yours, too. I ask a favor of you—try to help her see this folly for what it is. She will listen to you, more than she does to me.”

0102

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 03/07/2026

Joseph Richard... i have noted that spam from Nigeria often features two first names, like Charlotte Verónica or Peter Donald. I hit spam/block for almost all unsolicited posts now. In fact, when I make FB posts now, i think of it as a 'call for spam'!

000

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 03/07/2026

Religious satire.Setting ranges from Bethlehem to Egypt to Jerusalem to the far east. Jesus (Yeshua) and Mary Magdelene (Maggie) are secret twins. Styx, teen daughter of Satan, narrates. Excerpts from the book are available in a short collection, The Infernal Twins, available on Amazon (KU).

000

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 03/07/2026

From The True Virgin. Styx opines on the story of Ruth. #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙

0131

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 29/06/2026

From The True Virgin, my latest WIP. The Twins are tasked with implementing the Plagues. Oops. #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙

And whenever I start warming up to him again, I postflect on the Plague Years. The jello mold of my soul sucks out the heat. Then I’m better again.
Anywho—I blame the scribes. Their ineptitude during those times will be echoed in the annals of every Grand Scribetorium down through the ages. Those vomitoriums of vile vowels, spat up by parchment priests, caused all of the trouble that plagued my relations for eons.
Uncle Weh lost a bet to Ramses—I don’t postmember the terms. But not important. But I do prelicit fond memories of Yul Brynner’s icy stare and regal defiance. What a guy!
I got there early to see the sights. Pyramids, the Great Sphinx of Giza. Tourists were crowding the front. I decided to orbit the leonine monstrosity and see what I could see.
A portal to another world, tucked under a tufted tail.
The sphinxter.
Scribes worked night and day.
Bastards.
Decrees were delivered for a ten-pack of improvements—rewards for the Pharoah and his subjects.
Stonez and I drew lots to cut up the list. We flipped a coin taken from the eyelid of a long-dead cyclops.
Me first—Blood. A mild water purity enhancement decree, meant to raise quality control standards.
Then Nile Clause, inscribed upside-down and backwards.
Overcompensation—the system flagged "impure elements" and over-corrected by converting all liquids into high-iron-content slurry.
Oops.
Stonez handled the Frogs. A wildlife conservation order, encouraging frog populations for natural pest control.

1172

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 28/06/2026

From Elba Kramer. I opted for 'thrilling', as sensational does not appear as a stand-alone word (but someone once used the word to describe my writing style, in a review!) #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙

I was still grounded in the spring. The front porch of our housing unit faced the active runway. I would sometimes sit outside and read, watching the planes take off and land. It was mesmerizing.
One morning, I watched a C-9 Nightingale come in for a touch-and-go landing. This was a common event. The C-9 was configured as a hospital ship, with a red cross on either side of the tail. Scott was the headquarters of the Military Airlift Command. Red Cross ships were mostly stationed there, due to Scott’s central location.
The plane touched down, then caught enough air to sling it back into the sky. The ship wobbled. It wobbled again. I watched it in horror as it lost altitude. It plowed into an old farmhouse a few hundred feet past the end of the runway. I had a clear view of the impact point when it hit.
Now here was a story! I started to shape it in my mind so that I could deliver a thrilling version at school the following week. I recounted the details on the bus and carried on, embellishing my story until lunchtime. I was pulled out of the lunchroom and carted off to the office.
A school staffer named Mister Peniston (he had a penis in his name!) sat me down. He told me that he had heard that I had witnessed the plane crash the previous weekend. I told him that I had. He told me that I should be more sensitive, that I should not talk about it.
The pilot of the downed plane was the father of two of my classmates. Denver and Dallas were a set of identical twins. They claimed that they were born 2 weeks apart, in those respective cities. They were funny as hell.

0142

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 25/06/2026

#WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙 From The Infernal Twins: A Series of Divine Miscommunications. On Amazon and enrolled in KDP.

0102

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 24/06/2026

Thriving! El Jardín Reverente Nuevo Arenal, Costa Rica eljardinreverente.org #butterflies #botanicalgarden #costarica

010

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 24/06/2026

From The Last Heretic. I opted for another synonym, as finale is absent from my writings. I elected to snip the full epilogue from the book. #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙

Epilogue
Augusto 8, 367 AD
I write to the flicker of a dying candle. My monk’s cave near Ein Feshkha is sparse and poorly ventilated.
But some whisper enlivens the flame.
I wandered the outskirts of the realm longer than Moses’ trek through the desert.
Nobody called me Archie again. I styled myself Caecus—the unseen.
I chose this final resting place to spend my last days among Essene ghosts.
A comet appeared three nights ago— perhaps the same comet that painted my eyes from onyx to dusk.
I cannot know.
I imagined the tail a parchment unspooled across the heavens.
I dreamed of an unknown hand inscribing a vision:
The final ruin of the Creed, to be made manifest in less than a generation.
My work is completed at last.
I sit beneath that etched canvas and reflect on my sins.
I am beyond absolution. I am irredeemable. I strive to forgive myself—and fail.
I slaughtered an innocent who offered me his love.
That is my only regret.
I know it is time. Time to take to my pallet. Time to summon my helpmeet for the last time.
I will call that little whisper of death. She will answer.
I will urge her to guard me from the sandman for eternity.
She will answer.
She will guard.
I will sleep.
At long last—
I will sleep.

051

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 23/06/2026

From my WIP, The True Virgin. I went with 'forfeit', and penalty does not appear in any of my writings! #WIPSnips🖋️📚💙

Anno Mundi 3759
The Nile wind kissed the courtyard like a mother trying not to wake her child. Yesh, three and a half, squatted in the dust just outside the shade. His curls shimmered, sweat-laced.
A frog croaked once and leapt. He laughed.
Yesh, not the frog.
A girl no older than five sat near, clutching a cracked clay doll. Her tunic was torn. Her lip, too.
Yesh shuffled closer. Said nothing. Just sat beside her.
After a long pause, he offered her his beetle shell. Shiny green. Sacred, to him.
She didn’t speak either. Just took it.
A younger boy waddled over. Loud. Mucus-slicked. The girl turned her shoulder.
Yesh patted the stone beside him. The boy blinked. Sat.
Another girl came. Then a pair of brothers. Then one more. They made a circle. Dust-drawn. Uneven. Perfect.
They didn’t play much, but they stayed.
Someone watching said later: He didn’t say a word. He just made space.
(Even as a tyke, Yesh had a certain magnetism. He was constantly rinsing iron filings out of his hair.)

FROM THE DEPARTMENT OF
CELESTIAL FORMS & FORFEITURES
All Form 2B Approval requests must be submitted
-before- the incident they authorize.
Backdating is a sin. Backsliding is expected.
Exceptions require a formal
Waiver of True Faith (DCFF Form W.T.F.-999.1).
No exceptions unless pre-authorized.
See Form 2A, PreAuthorization for Preliminary Disapproval.

130

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 21/06/2026

#WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts From Dear Daity, my 3rd novel. Justin makes 42 diary entries and records 42 dreams (each 666 words) in order to make sense of his mixed-up adolescence.

Dear Dairy, Oct 25
Brice let me sleep in and I’m glad. My head’s been feeling funny kinda like there’s a twist in the hose or something. I guess I’m a hose-head!
We all went to Eagle Discount for food shopping. I got to buy a big-size Reese’s—the two pack—and a new copy of Galaxy. I don’t know where they find their writers but I wanna go there and wave my pen til they pick me.
Back home, G-Alan had a surprise: we were all goin’ to Shakey’s Pizza! They’ve got those stripy jackets and round hats and bowties—really dressed up for pizza, you know? The hats have a brown band that says SHAKEYS, I guess so the eldenups working there won’t wear ‘em home.
They got a seven-cheese pizza. Seven kinds of cheese! I only ever had American and Government. I didn’t know there was that many others in the world.
I bet you’ve got a lot of cheeses in DairyLand. Like not just seven, but seven squared maybe. Am I write?
And one more thing—they’ve got a Player Piano! I heard of Baby Grand and Upright, but Player’s new to me. Nobody sits at it but the keys go down right with the music. Or maybe that Invisible Man from the book works here.
They have a song playin’ sometimes that tells you about Shakey’s. It goes “You’ll have Fun at Shakey’s also pizza”. You can hear the capital in that F-word when you listen close. How neat is that? They serve up Fun and if you’re hungry you get some pizza pie!
G-Alan told me that my Dad wuz going to pick me tomorrow after church and take me to the Gateway Arch. It’s a beautiful silvery monument. I read in a math book that its shape is a catenary, a U-shaped curve. That is a math vocabulary word so that tells your right there that Math is awesome. It makes me thimk of a Sylvester and Tweety from the cartoon cuz it sounds like cat-and-canary mushed together, kinda.
It is HUGE and it scares me cuz I don’t want to fall off of it by accident. But G-Alan says it’s engineered and engineered things are safe. So I’ll go.
We were driving home and I sa…

080

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 20/06/2026

An excerpt from the tour of Limbo in The Infernal Twins. A collection of three short stories featuring the twin teens of Satan. #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts

Limbo sighed, eternally drafting a sentence it would never write. The Patriarchs of the Old Testament lounge about waiting for the Harrowing of Hell. Abraham is trying to part Esau’s flaming red hair, to no avail. Adam contentedly eats a rotten apple. Noah sleeps standing up.
No rush, time flies in when you’re having fun, and soars when you are eternally damned.
Styx(confused): “There’s no smell. Why isn’t there any smell?”
Ovid overhears her and offers a terse explanation:
Ovid:“Olfactory elision is Satan’s way of ensuring our repose. Imagine if the wind carried the sickly scent of a billion blameless babies.Torture!We are not tortured, we are tutored in the art of apathy.”
Styx leaned in and whispered to Stonez, "I don’t care for an eternity of apathy. You?"
Stonez: “I don’t know. Seems ignorance would be a greater gift…”
They lock eyes as Styx intones:
“Brother, what’s the difference between ignorance and apathy?”
Stonez waits a beat, a smile playing in his eyes.
“Sister, I don’t know and I don’t care!”

0162

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙 @stevegwrites.bsky.social · 19/06/2026

From Dear Dairy, another 666 word dream sequence. #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙 If flash fiction is your thing, you can get a free copy of some dream experts here: stevegoldsmithwrites.com/pages/justin...

Noah Misses the Boat
And Then There Were None, Two by Two

He decrees it. Yahweh demands Noah build an Ark to escape the coming Flood.
Flora and Fauna from all points of the compass will be gathered and delivered. Those few will survive.
All others shall perish!
Noah’s my great-great-great Grandpa--nobody knows exactly how many greats. But it doesn’t matter. I called him Triple-Greatpa, but not to his face. You can call me Justie.
I have 58 years and he still treats me like a child. He’s a notorious fuss budget and gets annoyed whenever he’s not feeling annoyed.
His beard is white, but only if you’re colorblind. It’s always filthy—you can see maggots suckling lamb’s blood on his chin every Sabbath. And it smells like boiled cabbage cooked in rotten egg juice then dipped in cloven-hoofed excrement paste.
Did I mention it’s really dirty?
Anyway, my job is to record the names of every group of animals and birds and plants and trees that God summons to the Ark.
I’ve been a scribelator for a long time, so this is light duty. The pay is good, Saturday’s off, and I have a golden ticket to board before God wipes out the rest of His beloved creation. So I go that going for me, right?
My wife, Esmeralda, turns 12 in only a few days. I will be able to focus on my job without fear of a harlot hampering my ability to walk. No crenellations of crabs for me!
They start arriving in dribs and drabs.
A drift of pigs. Flocks of fowl. A cowardice of curs. A pounce of feral cats.
An ocean of olive groves in wicker baskets, a stand of bay laurels suffocated by a murder of crows.
A kaleidoscope of butterflies. A volary of birds—hundreds, thousands.

1151