You’re turning into a woman, my dad said to me as he held a pair of pink pumps in his hands, staring at me, expressionless. When I say expressionless, you should know that later that same summer, he stared at me, also expressionless, as I stood before him dressed as a literal gay fairy, wand and all, rainbow makeup And all, flowing flower rainbow print chiffon. At which point he said, your jaw is masculine, words that would very nearly haunt me the rest of my transgender life.
No, dad, I’m not turning into a woman. Major eye roll. Does he even understand the gender spectrum, or identity politics, or non-binaryness? Eye roll. Did he even take gender studies in college??? Eye roll.
I’m a androgynous non-binary trans feminine gay mixed race AMAB, GOD! isn’t it obvious? Clearly over it, I grabbed another box out of my car and let him take in the bag holding my 23 pairs of shoes. Would a WOMAN even have a wardrobe like this??
If he’d seen me in the basement of my childhood home where my grandma lived, he would’ve seen me wearing more than just heels at the ripe age of four. I added in wigs and dresses, too. But maybe that’s just what young kids do. Go through grandmas closet.
If he’d seen into my mind, me in the basement of this same house I was moving into thirteen years prior, he would know that in the gay muscle porn I watched, I always imagined myself as the bottom, the penetrated, as we would say in my gender studies classes. And I was watching muscle daddies fuck twinks because I saw myself in those scenarios.
If he saw me my first year in college, he would’ve seen the booty shorts. It’s just a better cut, me and my girls would tell each other.
By my second year, I was wearing makeup at dance parties, naturally. My community dying for a chance to beat my face.
In my third year, I was wearing heels regularly. DIDN’T YOU KNOW THEY WERE ORIGINALLY FOR MEN?
in the year that was supposed to be my last, my hair began to grow out. I later cut it for work. And even later, upon planning to move back to Portland from New Orleans , I began growing it out again.
Gone for 8 years, my sad now saw the effects of a liberal California college, a loving queer community, and countless New Orleans costume parties later (requiring all sorts of debaucherous outfits, complete with corsets and fishnets).
Being transgender is not a series of external, superficial choices, I told myself repeatedly. Sure, I could be non-binary, feminine, and embrace androgyny as a man-ish person. But being transgender was more loaded, to say the least.
And certainly, I wasn’t becoming a woman, right?
A few years later, taking my first estrogen dose sublingually, I figured my dad may have been onto something. The tablets would help round out my hard body, smooth my muscles, soften the hair And skin.
Somehow, step by step, I’d stumbled my way into a sort of transhood, as if those pink pumps I’d donned all those years were taking me somewhere more than just my neighborhood dive. More than just into the fantasy realm I’d once occupied for the straight men Who paid me to dress up.
So I guess we were both right. I was embracing my full femininity . And as a non-binary person, I was becoming something else entirely, making it easy to refute what my dad was sure he was witnessing after almost a decade apart.
Straight faced, he helped unload my heels and a closet full of debauchery that sunny day, and an assortment of identities years later, and a lifetime of war inspired toxicity in himself.
I moved home so he could see all of me, for the first time since I was a kid in my grandmas closet. I moved home so he could finally see His child before dying. I moved home to give him the chance to love me, and not a finely tuned performance of me. I moved home so I could love him better, with my entire self.
She dashed under the foot of the mountain god, barely making it within its protection, the wolves stopping short of making the venture and eyeing her.
“We’ll be safe here. No shifter or soother would risk the life of the pack, nor anger the god above.” The wolves snapped their fangs just outside the giants shadow, the sunlight on their fur making their prickled haunches glow white.
Legends spoke of entire civilizations being wiped out beneath a giants step. Lakes and craters emerged where once there were plains, and hills and cities crumbled as if dried bark.
If the giant decided to finish Her step tonight, their crew would be squished like bugs, but the alternative was to face the Pack outside. Besides, night was falling soon enough, and finding unoccupied safe shelter on the open plains would be near impossible. Now that others had heard their battle, everyone would be on high alert for strangers, especially a tall woman from Waterlogge.
The impossible length of the giants mountain stone foot created an impossible bright horizon that seemed forever away in almost every direction beside the direction they’d come. It was pure darkness except for a solid line beyond, the foot bottom about 3 times her own height above. It didn’t look quite like the pure stone she had expected, and there were intricate lines. Her step was close to complete, an earthquake impending.
“We have to rest. We don’t have the energy to go on. We will be safe here tonight, as long as the fear of the legends can protect us. Not that we have much of a choice.” There was combative brainstorming for alternatives, but without consequence.
When she woke, the foot of the giant god did seem closer, but it was almost impossible to tell, especially with only the flickering light of Ember to go by. Several had stayed up most of the night telling legends of the mountain god herself from hundreds of years ago, telling of how people had enraged her, how she had turned kingdoms to dust overnight that had taken centuries to build, and about people who lived on her with houses of thousands of hollow sticks designed to bend with her movements.
She began packing and they all rushed to evacuate their tenuous shelter. The wolves had long since gone, their lives soared by the giants despite a meal having escaped. “We have to go across. If we go back to the plains, we’re as good as dead.”
Oh shapeshifter You taught me To change forms Simultaneously
Blue skinned fighter Somehow you birthed Someone equally queer Nightcrawler An escape artist Just like you For our suffering For a way Out not forward Leaping Leaving
Who are you? Really Who are you? Really
What is authenticity when every seven years the human body’s cells are completely replaced? And yours… Every Saturday morning
Bloody haired lover Somehow you adopted Someone equally queer Rogue Untouchable Angel Just like us For our power For a way Through not around Searching Seeking
Who am i? Really Who am i? Really
You are the first time I saw myself on screen, I cried as you morphed sexes and races and species. Somehow You escaped After a week Of straight bullying
Oh shapeshifter Throughout time They call you Many names For a night They fear you Many times For a year The way you Become another In a lifetime
Who are we? Really Who are we Really
you taught me how to hold a bit too much of others, how to see others so fully that you became what you loved and hated again Slowly revolting Bones bending Churning and convulsing Skin cracked
Oh shapeshifter You showed me To change forms Sequentially
She stared at the hovering orange ball in her hand. It licked the air as she soothed a story of the sun, and a day that had once seemed it would never end. Her dad had still held her hand through the fields, quietly worried that she would run off, yet let her run off anyway, as long as she stayed close. The Sun scared away the shadows, and even the forests edge seemed safer in the day. As long as you don’t leave where I can see, he’d said to her, and she now repeated to the flame. Stay close. Please don’t leave. I can’t lose you. These words echoed in her head as she recounted the story to this small Orange ball, as much for herself as the life of the flame. Her dad had told her this story when she was young, and as the story unfolded in her mind, she remembered that it wasn’t a day she recalled: it was a lifetime, a lifetime of endless days, and a lifetime ago. This was the story of her life, that her dad had soothed and shaped for her, so she could always look back at the sun (and summon it when needed).
Suddenly, her teenage years flickered into her thoughts; the scariest days, when everything suddenly became different. The Sunny days of her childhood, that seemed endlessly long, were gone, Replaced instead by fire eating, a lost art, as her dad had said. He did it, And so would she. The burns on his face, visible only when he chose, would soon be on her.
It started with a candle, which she easily inhaled, and grew to torches, which burnt all her hairs off permanently, leaving her marked. He starved her of all else, until she had no choice but to inhale the flame to tell her body it could be warm again. It had been cold and shaking, and he watched her shivering, even as the charcoal lay ready next to her. It will make the fire eating easier, he nearly commanded. And after a week, she ate it, her water consumption limited so that she did not put out her fire.
Fire tasted like life and death at the same time. Really, what else could it be? She was grateful now that her father had given her both. Each morning was a singed throat, burning hair, washing ash away.
Nias feet dragged on the floor, her body led by her shoulders and limp necked head, now painted with her own dark red blood.
Her eyes fluttered as her consciousness went in and out, and the thoughts available to her darted, incohesive small glimpses of the dim tunnel.
Tatters. My clothes. GrayStone. The tunnel. Faces. Watching me. Wooden. Jail bars. Hands. Gripping tight.
She dug her toes lamely into the graystone, an imperceptible sign of resistance to the men who pushed her onwards. There seemed to be only 3 lanterns in the barren tunnel, one at each far side, And one halfway in between them. But nia couldn’t trust her eyes now, not with blood dripping low past her brows. One cogent thought managed to form itself, Where are my friends, as she relaxed painfully into sleep.
She forced her eyes open, wondering what time it was, trying to recollect the day, and the terrifying night that led her to now. It couldn’t have been more than a few hours that she was out, right? She turned her neck slightly, and was immediately punished. The movement was enough to confirm that she was confined behind the wood and stone jail she had glimpsed as she had been dragged — yes, dragged, those bastards — to her own cage.
“Hey!” A Kurt summoning from the side, a voice a bit too lively for the dank prison. The single word was successful in pinning her consciousness to the real world, but failed to give her the strength to respond or face the direction of the speaker. He continued anyway. “My Name is Coul. Who do I have the pleasure of being imprisoned across from, may I ask?” He was very close to her, she discerned.
She found the last reservoir of energy, she dare not call it strength, not wanting to be impolite. “Nia.”
“Nia, I have endless questions, but I hesitate to bombard you when you’ve so clearly been through enough already today. Don’t feel the need to respond, please. I’m certain we will have plenty of time to acquaint ourselves.” The words flowed smoothly — and in such great numbers — that they were overwhelming, but only a bit. Coul seemed to intentionally take long pauses in between the long string of sentences, as if to give her time to process — which her pounding head happily indulged. “Before you pass out again, you should know that you are in the Gold Kings private prison just outside the castle grounds proper. They will bring you enough food and water to survive, for better or worse, and your trial will pass before the Gold King himself in just under a week’s time, also for better or worse.” A thoughtful pause lingered before he proceeded without a response from Nia. She dared not say anything, careful to preserve her mind. “Even from here, I can see you’ve got an open wound on your forehead that’s mostly stopped bleeding, but nonetheless, you are covered in what I’m assuming is your own blood. They may bring you something to prevent infection, and you should be fine soon enough.” He didn’t pause to add, “I don’t know what you’ve done, but I’m getting clues that it’s worse than almost any man in here, to be that beaten.” Coul realized his last musing may have been inappropriate, and added, almost tenderly, “Sleep, Nia. There’s plenty of time for that, at least.”
The foreboding comment lingered as her consciousness drifted away, her body finally demanding the rest even her in borne politeness couldn’t stymie.
She awoke again, her body stiff, unmoved. She remembered the man, her fellow prisoner, and turned. He was already watching her, which was more creepy than comforting, even as he gave her a gentle smile to welcome her back to the prison.
“Good morning. You can’t tell it, but the sun will have just poked her face up. You’re right on time, as I suspected you might be. I hope you’ve rested well enough. The guard, who I’ve named Tymothie — you two will become fast friends, I’m certain — dropped water and bread to your right. Only the best at the Kings Prison Inn.” The mockery was a bit much for Nia first thing, especially with the headache, but she was glad to know she has food aside her, and even appreciative of the man’s contrasting humor to the situation.
The prior day finally came flooding back to her as she ate eagerly, and she told Coul about it, aware, as well, that the other prisoners were either just beginning to stir or steadfastly asleep. She told him about the farms outside the kings walls, the labor she had been forced into, convincing the other slaves to stop working. Coul was respectfully quiet, only interjecting a nod, an affirming or thoughtful grunt to encourage her story further, or the smallest of questions for details she missed.
She told him everything. His open conversating made it easy to speak, and Nia herself still needed to process, to affirm to her own mind that some sort of sensical events led her here, even if those events were terrifying to recount. She even found herself bragging at points, recalling the ways she took leadership amongst the enslaved, and encouraged them to stand up for themselves. She couldn’t help but wonder where they all might be now, however. Maybe Jaong is in a cell here, as well. Sadness came over her, as she could only imagine the terrible things they might be experiencing because of her. She pushed those thoughts away, knowing they would see each other again, hopefully soon.
I spend most of the day cooking with tv in the background. I want to be ready by 3 knowing my mom will likely be late.
Josh Telling my mother that I’ve tried to give her resources, direction, boundaries with love. She says “we are down here” and “you are up here,” that I am the guiding light.
Being honest: my brother and I experienced childhood emotional abuse. Some physical abuse for him. It seems like she’s letting this sink in. Josh asks if Scobee has ever apologized.
By the time the food is ready, no one is hungry, the kids are in their rooms, and my mom has yet to arrive.
My mother calling herself a grandma for the first time. velociraptor t shirts make good gifts, and great first impression’s
Being late “because of traffic” and having stopped by Fred Meyer for potato salad and macaroni salad
The Brussels sprouts and ham are a hit. The Brussel sprouts came out perfectly. Shane eats a lot of cranberries.
My mom got hit on her hand for leaving the restaurant to watch a TV show. Later, she got punched in the face for sweeping grandpa lees foot. Josh tells her that some parents set a low bar.
She knocked over a Shabbat candle while looking at a picture of us. She doesn’t know about the sabbath. We will find time to celebrate.
The egg salads are delicious but we know we will just throw them away when she leaves.
We have a long conversation about interrupting. This pushes me to interrupt them to explain how these politics work.
I tell them about giving an impromptu lecture about being transgender on the family cruise and being called Emily.
I make a peppermint White Russian. They both enjoy a sip.
She asks to be corrected when she gets my pronouns wrong. I tell her dad doesn’t like to be corrected.
She tells us that at 6, I had an existential crisis of purpose. I threw a fit on my bed, thrashing. I also hugged a lot and was very shy.
Mom shows us her weight watchers app. The bread rolls have left her with very few points and they are all gone now.
She tells of a time in college when she visited. I was an RA and a crisis hotline counselor. A lot of people need a lot of help.
Josh shared about his family story. His dad punched him. The relationship is fraught.
Adam comes out and tries to eat carrots. We re-enact him eating broccoli. He denies the caricatures.
Josh talks about what it’s like for him to raise a queer child.
My mom talks about Scobee’s family and the abuse he suffered.
I blend the butternut squash soup and bring it over. They both enjoy it.
My mom doesn’t understand why family interactions have to be on my terms. I emphasize the progress we are making. She says again that she doesn’t know how long she will be here.
I ask if I should send Scobee a list of things to improve on. She says not yet, we have to go slow with him.
Josh and I realize my mom has no emotional language. She illuminates that her brain works too quickly. We must talk more than once a month.
They talk about Australia. We tell her we want to move to New York
White women won’t weep Of accessories lost and lovers of color Of the shades of nostalgia Most luminous
A ship set sail The lighthouse turns But who the light, who the house, and who the vessel escaping?
Perhaps, questions are queer And her mind, unplagued Or rather, rendered writhing Of Disney paradigms
Care, Karen, care For the laughs gone missing and the heart disappearing That you unknowingly chased Chaste and ignorant And powerful and proximal And weak
Get your man And your brother And your cisters, too Get them off my back And chase them as you must Just stay the hell away from me
What once felt like protection Is now a privileged jab
Vexatious, envious, withholding My friendship not your purse My penis not your pepper spray Do you cry, once friend?
Do you even miss me, and others like me? Do you even know what you’ve lost? Did you ever see my complexity? Can you ever know yours?
I laugh at your existence as You laughed at my jokes and laugh at my existence I cannot fathom how you live as you cannot feel how I’ve felt
How are you scared when I’m the one in danger From people like you and your family
I ask myself if we are too far apart And I ask myself if others will be writing this poem about me The white woman past
Book 1
Part 2 -- mountain, begin embers journey
ember is being held hostage by the golem and used to smelt metals. The golem are chopping down trees to feed to her. She is near the center of the mountain-- it's an inactive volcano that is warmer near the center. She is basically being tortured
clay is picked on and bullied by the other golem, the children of the clan leaders. They have already started their transformation. He gets forced to eat metal and starts under going a transformation. The clan leaders have been corrupted by metal and how shiny it is.
they arrive at the edge of the empire by the end of the book.
Book 2 fortress
Book 3
Sarra looked at jak, studying her. The different eyes. The long brown body. The scar on her back. The sharp jaw. Not quite like anything Sarra has ever seen. Or really, nothing that had ever walked in these parts. They couldn't walk anywhere together without getting attention. All of a sudden, all eyes followed anywhere she went. I like the attention, if I do say so. All of a sudden, her parents were in a frenzy about this new person in her life. Her mother wanted to help, whatever that meant. Her father wanted nothing to do with Jak, practically running whenever she came around. And once Jak was gone, the fighting could begin. The fighting, always in the house. Never in front of others. Sarra would yell at them, tell them how intolerant they were being. She liked her new friends, no matter how different they might look. Sarra was tired of being ignored, of trying to put on jewelry until the other girls paid attention. Now, she had something they could never attain, better than any purse or gem.
It wasn't easy. Her new friends are... Different. She tried to assert her opinion, much to their chagrin. She was just trying to help. Luckily Jak was always their to comfort her, but peri had no time for her. Peri was always with that stag anyway. Jak reassured her that her opinion did, in fact, matter. And Sarra loved jaks long arms wrapped around her, warming her as her tears dried.
She shuddered at the thought of being around peri. His flauncing, and sweet blue lochs. She knew that Jak and him had had issues. Maybe this was her chance to wedge herself in between. She was sure Jak felt lonely traveling with a couple. And she was sure Jak was starting to have feelings for her as well.
When could she bring Jak to school. It wasn't enough for the kids to see them around town together. She needed Jak on the campus. A plan began to formulate.
