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Dahlya is writing

@dillydahly.bsky.social

Writer 📝 Dog lover zombie enthusiast All things spooky and creepy👻👽💀

9 Posts14 Follower9 Folgt
Wolfe 🪳@wolfehorror.itch.io · 10mo ago

Happy #sludgepit & yes I am still behind with Crushed Plums 🫡 Are you looking for a childhood best friends to undead lovers horromance between a trans woman with rats just trying to get by & her emotional support he/him butch? Arcs coming soon once I recover from the ableist 28 hours of travel🧟🌸

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Dahlya is writing@dillydahly.bsky.social · 9mo ago

Exsanguine Cryptids She must face danger, folkloric monsters, and the government agents responsible for releasing them in order to reunite with her younger brother before the country collapses- or one of them dies. 🥰sapphic romance Stranger>Friends>❤️‍🔥 💕slow burn 🚗 road trip #questpit #W #YA #PR #SF

Exsanguine Cryptids Dahlya Byrne a YA supernatural sci-fi apocalypsePitchA vengeful government set on reasserting its authority through violence and misinformation disrupts the life of 19 year old Xiomara. Armed with nothing but the determination of an eldest daughter, she travels across the US facing folkloric monsters and government agents alike, to reunite with her estranged younger sibling. Along the way, she becomes the unwilling leader to Jada, an old classmate she can’t quite seem to get a grasp on (or out of her head) and Rally, an older, yet surprisingly well equipped, woman with an affinity for conspiracies and substances of all kind. Eight O'Clock in the Morning Ray Faraday Nelson *Subliminal Messages, Propaganda, Lizard People Veil Haven by Anne M. Kelley * Cryptids, Lies & Secrets, LGBTQ+, Diverse The Haunting of Alejandra by V. Castro *Mexican Folklore, Family Secrets, Generational Trauma I walk with my hands stretched out before me. One step. Two steps. Three steps. No wall. Four steps. No wall. Five steps. Nothing. The air feels different. Warmer. Yet, a chill runs through me, prickling from inside my skin. My neighbor had a dog I often walked, Pancho. She didn’t pay much for how bad the dog was. It pulled and pulled on its leash, if not for being the size of a shoebox, it likely would have dragged me along with it, taken off on the hot streets of New Mexico. Dragged me past the dirt roads and onto the concrete sidewalk on the way to the park. My neighbor was old, she didn’t often get to grooming the dog. It was scraggly, fat, with long long nails. Often I would close my eyes as we walked, listening to the birds, wind, and scratching of Pancho’s nails against the floor. The sound emanating from the murk of this alley was strikingly similar. A sixth step forward is not an option. But would the wall behind me still exist? The warmth ahead of me grew to a heat that roasted my skin and made each breathe an effort. Sweat dripped down my face and pooled on my upper lip. How long have I stood here?I’m reminded of the summer heat wave I spent locked outside. I often laid in the yard, too tired, too hot, too thirsty, to move even to the shade of a nearby bush. It grew flowers of a pale pink and muted red. Before that week, me and my mother often picked these flowers to make into tea. I didn’t mind that she would throw my picks to the side, as I could collect them to decorate my dresser top, enjoying the scents every morning until she scolded me for bringing garbage inside and hoisted them out. Maybe the flowers were purple, actually. Yes I remember, the flowers were a deep purple, just like the vase I threw at her head. Just like the blood that spilled out of it. The air was hot like the blood that spilled out of it. It was so hot. Like the air during the heatwave, like the blood of the vase, like the purple of my mother’s head. Like the- I hear a scream I…
Taco Bell Quarterly@tacobellquarterly.org · 2y ago

This is still my advice: Become a writer anyway. Fuck it, do it, it won't save you, but it's still a beautiful dream to write novels and short stories and poems and mingle with other dreamers and make art and laugh in the face of death. And writing is constant death. Live más.