samuelsimauthor

[samuelsimauthor]

PJO is only $45cad (plus shipping)

[samuelsimauthor]

NEW BOOKS ADDED!

PErcy Jackson and the Olympians and The Twilight Saga HAve been added to the site.

Enjoy 20% OFF your next purchase when you click the link below or use code: WELCOME20 at checkout!!

[samuelsimauthor]

TL;DR: Seeking help/donations to lease a space for my bookstore. :)

I've thought about posting this several times in the past few weeks, but have always felt kinda guilty asking strangers on the internet for money, but here I am.

Who am I? I'm a trans man and y/a author from the Canadian Prairies. I write, edit, and publish my own books (and hopefully other people's once I get a proper store). I have wanted to run my own bookstore for a few years, but the time never felt right. I've spent the last year and a half trying to get this off the ground to no avail (where I live is dumb about small businesses)

I run an Indie Queer/Used Bookstore out of my home and am looking to rent a storefront in the coming year. Any amount helps, and I know that times are tough. If you don't feel right donating, purchasing something from my shop also goes towards helping me with this. I'm working on getting the rest of my inventory photographed and listed this weekend. :) Links to donate and to the shop are below.

Thank you, if you decide to donate or purchase.

Samuel Sim

Owner of Mischief Raven Book Co.

P.S. if you know of any resources that are actually helpful, feel free to comment or reblog.

[samuelsimauthor]

I love the Phandom so much, this is so chaotic and such a close call

Best RPF Ship - FINAL!

[samuelsimauthor]

'What did you read a fucking thesaurus?'

- me after reading something pretentious

[samuelsimauthor]

Hiya! This is an ask game created by awesomely-alfy!

- List 5 things that make you happy, then put this in the askbox for the last 10 people who liked or reblogged something from you!

Sorry I suck at answering these things.

1. My husband

2. Writing

3. Being outside (I know it sounds cliche, but being outside - even for a bit each day - really helped my mental health)

4. Art. Whether it's creating it or going to galleries I just love art

5. Weed. I'm a stoner with chronic pain and it helps so much.

[samuelsimauthor]

After many months of trying to find a site builder that works for me (and doesn't cost a fortune) I finally got Mischief Raven back up and running. We are now accepting submissions for publishing and we have my books up as well.

Where have a crow:

Also here's the link:

[samuelsimauthor]

[samuelsimauthor]

I'm Curious, sue me:

I know we lump him in with the Slytherin Skittles and have him dating Evan, but I've seen a surprising amount of him being a really bitchy Ravenclaw, so speak now!

(Reblogs for a larger sample size are greatly appreciated)

[samuelsimauthor]

After many months of trying to find a site builder that works for me (and doesn't cost a fortune) I finally got Mischief Raven back up and running. We are now accepting submissions for publishing and we have my books up as well.

Where have a crow:

Also here's the link:

[samuelsimauthor]

This is the first chapter of the novella I spent 3 years writing. I don't think I'm going to post more than the first 2 chapters here. The link to purchase (Etsy and directly from me) will be in my pinned post. Thanks for coming to my Ted talk

If this gets more than 50 notes, I'll post the second chapter. :)

21 September 1745

In the span of the last hour I have been berated by a British General twice, charged at by fellow clansmen, and had my freedom and life threatened. All I want to do is go home to Inverness and forget about this horrid day. The British army has dwindled in size with over 300 men killed and countless others taken prisoner by the Jacobite army. I wish I was one of them, at least then I would have a chance at returning home. Cope summons me.

-Alasdair Fraser.

The air around me is stale and unseasonably hot. My fire-red shoulder-length hair sticks to the back of my neck in matted waves from a mixture of blood and sweat. I inhale the iron filled scent of dirt and blood all around me. The battlefield is riddled with bodies. Some were civilians who wanted to join the fight. Others were fellow clansmen and soldiers fighting to put a Stuart King back on the throne. The sea of tartans and blood flowed like Loch Ness, still and weary.

The Jacobite army had attacked just before day break with a heavy sheet of fog covering the field, they had the element of surprise and none of the British had seen that coming, the battle was swift and many a life was lost from either foe. The cowards of the British dragoons retreated so fast that there really wasnae much of a fight, but still, there lay a hill of soldiers on the moor of impassable marshy land.

I do not find this comforting. I find it repulsive to think that I caused much of this carnage. This was a massacre, one that I helped cause. I cautiously removed my sword from the body of the last person I slew and plunged it back into its sheath, still stained with blood.

“Alasdair!” General John Cope hollers across the once peaceful field.

“Yes, General?” I call back with a cold voice, my hands shaking. My mind is run-a-muck with all the faces of the people I had just murdered under his orders.

“Gather what you can of munitions, then report back to me. we are going to go settle in Dunbar.” Cope commanded. I stand frozen, mind-numbingly tired. For a split second I contemplate deserting knowing that if I do, I will become an outlaw and be hunted till long after this war is over.

I begin trudging through the masses of seared flesh, not registering what is in front of me. I wander aimlessly until I am too tired to continue, defying a direct order. My mind is thinking over and over that this is wrong, that I am not fighting for what I believe in. I reach the encampment as the sun is setting, and I begin to feel the effects of sleep deprivation. I stumble my way through the encampment of blood-soaked and mangled men. Their wounds are being treated by a local physician, a Scot, by the red of his hair.

“Alasdair, there you are! We were beginning to worry you had died.” Someone said from the crowd of wounded and dying soldiers. I shrug, not paying any attention to the people around me. My eyes wander over the faces looking for Sir John Cope. I know that I must tell him what has been on my mind.

“John, a word,” I say firmly as I approach the tall, oval-faced man with a blood-soaked jacket. I keep walking into his tent, with him following at my heels.

“What is this about, Fraser? We have to rally the troops and go back to London at first light.” He speaks like many pompous Englishmen do, as if everyone is beneath them.

“I will not be accompanying you back to London. I am going home to Inverness.” My words are firm and decided. Nothing this man says can change my mind. “And before you tell me that ‘it’s an order,’ may I remind you that I am no longer indebted to you nor to the crown. I fought this battle because I had no choice, I was a prisoner, and this battle was not mine to fight. It was only a means to an end.” I find my voice shaking by the end of my tirade. Cope looks astonished at my words like he can not decide if he wants to yell at me or not.

“Well then, you had best be on your way. I advise you to be careful, Alasdair. This world is a dangerous place.” John turns to leave but pauses at the threshold. “Do you really believe this war is not worth fighting?” and he’s gone.

I know the answer to that question, but I will not say it out loud. Not in front of a hundred redcoats and Jacobite traitors. I know in my heart that I am fighting on the wrong side of this battle. I should have been fighting this rebellion with my brother and family, but I had to go and get myself arrested for fighting a British officer, though, in my defense, I did not know he was one at the time he was wearing civilian clothes.

I walk out of the tent and toward the horses. As I am untying a white and brown palomino, a soldier, dressed in the Fraser tartan approaches me with a jaunt in his step. He’s about six feet tall with glowing emerald eyes and raven-like hair that sticks to his forehead with sweat and blood. He has a look in his eyes that makes you wonder just how many people he had killed. And this grin that made you realize he had probably lost count somewhere along the way. I am entranced by how he holds himself, straight-backed and tall. He has a really good posture for someone who just fought a battle and lost.

I meet his eyes through the dark and find myself feeling smaller, smaller than I have in a long time. I am not short, but I am not tall, either. I have narrow shoulders and a slender frame, and when I speak, my voice is fragile, and I have to fight to be heard.

“Are you leaving?” He asks calmly, his voice immediately recognizable, though his face has changed so much over the years.

“Aye, I am going back to Inverness. Do you want to come with me?” I ask, knowing that it’s his home too.

“Oui, Je ne suis pas rentré depuis trop longtemps. Yes, I haven’t been home in a long time.” His smile calms me and makes me feel less on edge about leaving the others behind.

“J’ai oublié que tu parlais français. I forgot you speak French.” I state as I finish doing up the saddle. “Get on.” He mounts the horse in one smooth motion, and I do the same, resting my arms around his waist as we begin our journey home.

The sun is finishing its descent as we make our way to the main road and continue on, not wanting to stop for anything because we are both afraid that the redcoats will change their minds about letting us go. I tell him about my time in Stonehaven Tolbooth, a wee prison in Stonehaven where I spent my days as a prisoner for fighting a British officer before being sent to Aberdeen. As the night grows darker and colder, we stop to rest and build a fire to keep us warm.

[samuelsimauthor]

I think Imma start posting short stories and snippets of my wips on here. I also have a substack if you want longer stories or full chapters of my books.

[samuelsimauthor]

Hi 👋 I'm trying to make more than a passive income from selling my books and art if you could please click the link below and maybe purchase one of my books or some of my art, that would be great.

[samuelsimauthor]

Hello 🙋🏻‍♀️,

I am Amira, 23 years old from Gaza🍉. I lost my father, my home, my job, and my university because of the war. I fled to the south with my sick mother, seeking safety❤️‍🩹🥹.

I need your support by donating or sharing the campaign link to help us survive this ordeal🙏🏼💔.

https://www.gofundme.com/f/amiras-story-between-hope-and-resilience-a-call-for-soli

🇵🇸

[samuelsimauthor]

Will-O-The-Wisps

Promt: Someone pulling an all nighter.

Date: 27/08/24

Word count: 989

I have to get this done. I only have two square feet left, but there's been strange noises coming from the room down the hall and I keep pausing my work to go investigate. I turn up my music blasting Bach on cello as loud as I can justify without disturbing my neighbors at this ungodly hour. 

There’s another crash followed by a haunting moan and that's all I can take. I groan as I drop my paintbrush on the oversized canvas and wipe my hands on my jeans, not caring anymore if they’re ruined due to years of paint, bleach, blood, sweat and tears. I stumble over paint cans and almost knock over a sculpture that is air drying at the side of the room. I creak the door open, my eyes slowly adjusting to the dark as I peek my head past the frame and try to focus on the still, weary sounds of my grandmother’s old house. I have sworn for years that this place is haunted, but no one believes me. 

“It’s an old house, it makes those noises.” 

“You’re imagining it. There’s no such thing as ghosts, dear” 

“Have you been drinking? Are you high?” They’d say. 

I know I'm not crazy. I promise.  I know what’s going on. No matter how long I've lived in this 150 year old house I can’t shake the feeling of being watched. 

It all started when I was a kid, when i would spend the summers in the middle of boot fuck nowhere, Maine, surrounded by forests and wildlife. Before my grandmama got sick. Before my father decided that I wasn’t enough to stay alive for and he drank himself to death. I have always known that there is more to this world than what meets the eye, I just never expected to not be believed when I would tell people about what I have seen. 

I peek into my guest bedroom/library and there isn’t a single thing out of place so I make my way down the rickety spiral staircase to the main floor and peer into the grand living room, that I had renovated to remove the wall attaching the dining room to give it more space for all my art supplies and musical instruments a few years ago, just after I moved in. All of the furniture is moved against the ornate emerald wallpapered walls and there is a single carnation in the center of the room. I look around, bewildered and slowly approach it dropping to my knees before picking it up with gentle fingers.

READ MORE AT THE LINK BELOW.

[samuelsimauthor]

My poetry anthology about trauma and growing up queer in a conservative town is now available through my Etsy shop.

[samuelsimauthor]

I created a substack in an attempted to make myself write more. Feel free to follow or subscribe.