SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙

@stevegwrites

Cultivating gardens, butterflies, and street dog second chances in Costa Rica. I write myth‑mischief fiction during my seven‑day weekends. Expat living takes away the sting... but not the stench. stevegoldsmithwrites.com

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SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· 29d

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.

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jul 20

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.”

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jul 19

From The True Virgin. my current WIP. #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙

You thought crucifixion was cruel? You thought a friend’s betrayal stung?
Amateur moves.
You want to know the sharpest blade ever forged by the divine?
Triplicate.
Forms. Paperwork. Carbon-copy soul shredders. Processes designed not to clarify, but to exhaust. To leech the spirit from the willing, the daring, the brave. To grind them down to obedient, compliant mush.
My Dad invented extinction by meteor, sure. But his finest legacy? The celestial filing cabinet. The canonization of mediocrity. The enthronement of gatekeepers whose only power is the stamp that says 'Pending.'
The litany of Rejection. ‘Disapproved. Resubmit in thirty days for final disapproval. Failure to resubmit in a timely manner will result in the levying of fees and fines equal to one-tenth of your personal net worth, or $5, whichever is larger.’
And Herod? Herod thinks he's clever. Thinks he’s the baddest beast at the trough. Nah. He’s just another middle manager. A clipboard with sandals. The most dangerous man in any universe is the one who follows policy while pretending to wield authority.
Remember this, class: empires don’t crumble because of rebels and revolutionaries.
They crumble because some sad-eyed scribe lost the right form behind the wrong parchment.
And that’s how they’ll try to kill Yeshi, too.
Not with hammers. Not with whips.
With clean hands wielding a rubber stamp.
Six hours later.
Inside, Herod’s palace gleamed with the polish of underfed servants and colorblind decorators.
The tawdry trio stumbled through security—well, stumbled after arguing with the clipboard guard for thirty-seven minutes about whether “Caspar” had one ‘s’ or two. One clerk tried to get Balthazar to change his name to Batbizaare—said it was more descriptive. His brother-in-law could file the forms, special pricing for the wise.

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jul 18

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.

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jul 17

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

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jul 16

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?"

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jul 15

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…

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jul 14

From my WIP, The True Virgin #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙

The sand shifted in warm hisses, curling around Yesh’s toes as he crouched in the half-shade of a split palm. A dung beetle rolled its prize across the packed earth, then paused—tilting as if listening. One feeler twitched. Then it reversed course. An elteeb gnud, shoveling dung.
Yesh watched, silent. His brow furrowed.
Yesh: softly “Bug thinkin’.”
Mary, arms full of the new baby James, laughed from the doorway. Thankfully not a twin, she thought.
Mary: teasing “He’s thinking?”
Yesh nodded.
Yesh: serious “He talk sand. Sand say ‘no.’ Sand sound like desert sings.”
Mary smiled. “Of course it does.”
She knew he was a strange boy. But his toddler drivel was oddly comforting.
The beetle reversed again, then spun—tracing its burden across the earth in a looping arc and a sharp line. It left a crude glyph in the dust.
It looked, for one breath, like a cross.
Yesh clapped once. Almost. He missed, then missed again.
Third time’s the charm.
He’d need to work on the whole coordination thing.
Clapping is hard!
Yesh: delighted “Bug dance!”
Joseph glanced at the ground. The marking was already almost gone.
Joseph: low “Just a bug. Just a dumb little bug. Damn beetle, too.”

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jul 14

From Dear Dairy, my 3rd novel. #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙

Phase Shift
G-Alan found him that morning.
Still. Silent. Gone.
He stroked Justin’s forehead. Spoke the impossible farewell.
The silver key around his neck belonged with his diary. He placed it there.
The cord on his left wrist belonged there, too. He moved it.
The coin—Justin’s friend, his lucky charm—was already near the diary. He saw it.
He performed a benediction—a soft kiss to the forehead.
He said goodbye to the sublime. He readied himself for the mundane.
Notifications, funeral arrangements. Grief, mourning, loss.
A new normal no one had imagined. A normal overflowing with emptiness.
An abnormal new normal.
A suspension of faith.
Justin’s mom couldn’t bring herself to enter the room where he died. Brice shouldered that load. She had shouldered every load—never a shrug.
She stood in the doorway and breathed the emptiness.
Justin’s polar bear painting glowed in the morning sun.
His diary was on his desk—key, coin, bracelet.
She keyed the diary. Opened it. Engaged his final words.
She was stunned.
She was shaken.
Then, she was stirred—to action.
She found G-Alan in his study, fidgeting with his pipe.
She handed him the diary.
Brice: “Meet our new friend Dairy. She’ll push Justin into the world.”

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jul 12

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

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jul 12

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

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jul 11

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-

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jul 10

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.

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jul 10

From The True Virgin, my latest WIP. #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙 ⏳

OFFICIAL DECREE
From the Bureau of Apprentice Placement & Gender Obfuscation (BAPGO)
Subject: Oblique Identity Clauses & Probationary Shadow Roles
All apprenticeship assignments must comply with Regulation 404.NG (Non-Gendered) and Obfuscation Inclusion Subsection (O.I.S.-1138).
Applicants are strictly forbidden from self-identifying prior to Placement Day.
All identities will be assigned by a randomly convened Determination Committee, using the Dice of Fate™ and a divining rod last seen in Jericho.
If rod is unavailable, substitute a carrot.
(Preferably raw. Do not dip in hummus—causes gender errors in 37.3% of cases.)
MANDATORY FORMS
Form BAPGO-777: Apprenticeship Intentionality Statement
Form BAPGO-999: Gender Nullification Waiver
Failure to file both forms by dusk on
Preclarity Eve will result in default enrollment under the Shadow Track,
supervised by a mentor selected by lottery goose.
BAPGO accepts no responsibility for apprentices
who self-declare, self-disclose, or self-destruct.
Anno Mundi 3767
Adar
Joseph’s tribe arrives in good time, none the worse for wear.
Gazpacho whispered to Joe about a property on the outskirts of town. It’s perfect for them.
(I do a very convincing Gazpacho, I assure you. And if Gaz can convince Joe that Mary’s a Virgin, he’s silly putty in my hands.)
They pile into the small house, triplets stacked like cordwood. Yesh shares a small attic chamber with James. Ptah moves into the study-house, hangs out his shingle:
Manash Ptah, Shaman-for-Hire
Answers available. Path is unpaved.

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jul 9

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.

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jul 8

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.

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jul 7

From The True Virgin, my current WIP. #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jul 6

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

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jul 5

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

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jul 5

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.”

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jul 4

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.”

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jul 3

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

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jul 2

From The True Virgin, my current WIP #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙

Anno Mundi 3774
Adar
An aptly named maqha on Straight Street—the Odiferous Foot.
It means ‘Star of Buxus’ in the local dialect, but translations are what they are, right?
They’d been drawn into the café by music—strings and laughter woven through cinnamon smoke.
Yesh, Maggie, and a delightful Syrian elder spent blissful hours arguing the true name of the architect of the Sphinx. Weighty question, indeed.
The Syrian elder had a beard like a burnt broom and a laugh that made neighbors forgive him things.
“You should visit Mercury,” said the old man, flicking cardamom seeds into his palm. “Lives in Aleppo now. Calls himself a teacher, though he’s mostly a menace with parables and pomegranates.”
Maggie raised an eyebrow. “A teacher?”
“Of a sort. Says he’s the twin of Ptah of Alexandria.”
Yesh and Maggie exchanged an intrigued look. “We know Ptah.”
The man laughed. “Then you owe yourselves the other half of the puzzle.”
He laughed again. Somehow, it wasn’t annoying. “Tell Mercury I said nothing helpful. Then he’ll know the referral came from me!”.
More laughing. Ok, annoying now on the horizon.
By the time they left, Maggie smelled like clove, Yesh had lost two coins in a rigged game, and both had agreed to head for Aleppo.
(Did I ever tell you about the kid from Aleppo who tried to knock me off a bench? I kicked his so hard he landed in Damascus with a bruise the size of Babylon.)
>>Seed: Parable of the Yeast in the Dough<<
She asked the baker how he got the bread so fluffy.
He shrugged. “A bit of yeast in a satchel of flour. Wait. Bake. Pray.”
Yesh nodded, distracted. But Maggie tilted her head.
“It’s always hidden,” she said. “The thing that transforms it all.”

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jul 1

#WIPSnip #WriteSky #WritingCommunity 🖋️📚💙 From The Last Heretic

Lunius 21—late afternoon
Phyrgias’s house creaks under the evening wind.
I sit hunched near the broken hearth while Festus broods over a goblet of sour wine.
He speaks without looking at me.
Festus: low, dry. "You need a whisper carried. Fine. I’ll find a throat loose enough to pass it."
He stands, stretching until his joints crack.
Festus: "One of the kitchen girls still blushes at your name. The plump one with the quick feet. Sabina, they call her. She’ll want silver."
I toss a small leather pouch onto the splintered table.
The silver inside clinks like brittle bones.
Archie: "Give her that, and a line she won't forget. She’s too seek out Agatha and pass it along."
He cups his hands around his mouth, mocking a whisper.
Archie: "At cockcrow, wait in the labyrinth garden near the eastern quarter. Wear a yellow scarf. Bring a friend."
Festus stretches again, preparing himself for the task. He departs.
No ink.
No paper.
Only a whisper.
Whispers can work miracles.
Lunius 21—evening
Festus’ lodging now smells of wet stone and simmering grease.
I sit hunched near the hearth, the monk’s robe folded at my feet.
Festus returns, brushing rain from his shoulders with a grunt.
He tosses a small leather purse onto the table—the pouch that once held the silver.
Festus: gruff, almost fond "Message carried. Coin spent. Sin committed—self-absolved"

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jun 29

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.

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jun 28

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.

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jun 27

#WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙 From The True Virgin, my current WIP.

Now, you’ve all heard the story.
Chaos led to light, which led to God and Satan, which led to Banishment. Right?
God went on to conduct spirited rape, T-bone crucifixion, and ridiculous resurrection.
With me so far?
Well-none of it’s true.
Except the part about my Dad getting banished—and my Grandpa spinning apart.
The thing about Grandpa…
His name wasn’t Chaos. That’s just a term some old Greek fart came up with to sound scary.
Like Kindergarten.
Or Kaiserschmarrn.
Nothing like perfect high German to give you the jim-jams. Right?
(Ve have vays to make you talk. Ekelhaft! Disgusting!)
Now, the unknown Universe is deeply palindromic. Every oscillating orb etched with the Screed:
Madame, I’m Adam.
Go hang
a salami!
I’m a lasagna
hog.
But the known Universe, where we all hang out, is acronymically inclined.
In the beginning was the Acronym… and it was FUBAR (of course).
My Grandad was a singularity, a MAVEN—Master Architect of Vast Emptiness Nesting.
He styled himself TRUMP—Tonal Rift Under Moral Pestilence.
The story goes that he hated everything, especially himself. So he grabbed the Universe by her p- (ahem) cat-tail root and split himself in twain. His twin sons were named YAHWEH and SATAN.

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jun 26

#WriteSky #WritingCommunity #WritingPrompts 🖋️📚💙 From Dear Dairy, my 2nd novel.

Dear Dairy, Oct 18
I get to spend the weekend with G-Alan and Brice! My mom and dad are going someplace to talk about things. I dunno why they can’t talk at home, but it’s none of my business anyway.
I don’t know what got into me but I talked with both of them a lot yesterday. I guess my A+ and my Gettysburg gave me permission to try. It was hard at first, I was kinda stammering. But suddenly it just felt normal and I almost forgot how it used to be.
G-Alan loved the THUNK from Gettysburg. He called it “The THUNK Heard Round the World” and pronounced it in all capitals. We played a game where he’d say something and I’d echo it back, like “The quick brown fox jumps over the lasy dog”. I had to say it backwards every way I could, like word-for-word left-to-right then right-to-left. The backwords (take it to the bank!) the same way. Like that.
We figured out pronounciation rules and he write them down in a leather notebook for me. Like “fox” is “xof” but pronunciated “zof”. He filled up most of a page with rules for like “quick”, saying “k-k-e-uk” backwards. Get it?
It feels like I can see everything all at once, but still nothing can really see me. Weird, right?
So now I have secrets with G-Alan just like I have with you! Don’t be made cuz I don’t share no dreams, just new stuff.
He took me over to a shopping mall in a big town close to us and bought me a Sony TC-50 casette recorder. One of ‘em actualy went to the moon, but mine never did. I call it my TalkMan.
G-Alan said I don’t have to talk to nobody I don’t want to but I can talk to my Talkman any time and he’ll listen to the tapes if I let him.
I got a dozen cassette tapes and labelled six as G-Alan and six as Dairy. So now I’m gonna talk my dreams and listen to ‘em when I write ‘em down. I think that’ll make my dreams sound better for you, not embarrassing like a coupla weeks ago. And nobody will ever hear those tapes cuz I have special tapes just for G-Alan.
Anyway, my voice sounds really weird when …

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jun 25

Living the dream! #butterflies #botanicalgarden #costarica #nuevoarenal

SteveG ⏳🖋️🩸📚 💙@stevegwrites· Jun 25

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