#not neopronoun short stories

[neopronouns-in-action]

This is a poll.

Poll question:

Do you think that editing posts where you've misgendered someone to correct the misgendering, *after explicitly being asked to do so*, is a requirement for being a true ally to trans and nonbinary people, and other gender outlaws? Please read all options before choosing.

Options:

1: No, leaving the misgendering is fine as long as you don't do it on new posts

2: No, because other people's feeling shouldn't police how you run your own blog

3: No, because misgendering isn't a big deal and fixing it is a waste of time

4: No, you should keep misgendering people to hold yourself accountable

5: Yes, because more people will be hurt the longer you misgender someone

6: Yes, you were asked to fix them, so you should to respect people's feelings

7: Yes, leaving the misgendering in place when you know better is disrespectful

8: Yes, because misgendering people is wrong. End of discussion.

9: No you should keep misgendering people out of spite for being asked to fix it

Edit for clarity: Keep in mind! You have *explicitly* been asked to edit the specific posts where you are misgendering someone. The posts are new, not even a week old, and editing all of them would take less than ten minutes total. It probably wouldn't even take five. That's how easy it'd be.

**Edit for clarity:

The "misgendering people is wrong, end of discussion" option excludes when you are asked to misgender someone for their own safety. I would have put that in, but tumblr's character limit for poll answers is annoyingly limited.

For this question, imagine that the posts where someone is being misgendered are only a day old, not months or years or even weeks. It would take literally less than ten minutes for all of the posts to be corrected.

I added multiple yes options so people could pick whichever of the main reason they would be picking at the moment, I promise it's not a trick question. It would have just felt weird if there were multiple no options and only one yes option.

There is no wrong yes answer, pick whichever one you feel is the most important consideration for this scenario.

=====Results (rounded/aproximate):

Overall:

92.7%, or 749 out of 807 voters said yes, that editing posts where you've misgendered someone, after being asked to edit them, is a basic requirement for being an ally to gender outlaws.

7.3%, or 59 out of 807 voters said no, editing posts, even when explicitly asked to do so to stop misgendering someone is not a requirement for being an ally to gender outlaws.

Specific options:

42 out of 807 voters said it's okay not to edit posts when asked to do so, as long as you don' misgender the person in the future.

9 out of 807 voters said it's okay not to edit posts where you misgender someone, even after being explicitly asked to do so, because other people's feelings shouldn't dictate how you run your blog.

1 out of 807 voters said that it's okay not to fix posts where you misgender someone, even after being explicitly asked to do so, because misgendering isn't a big deal, and fixing it is a waste of time

0 out of 807 said that you should continue misgendering people to hold yourself accountable

25 out of 807 voters said you should edit posts when asked to, because more people will be hurt the longer you misgender someone.

230 out of 807 voters said you should edit posts because you were asked to fix them, so you should fix them to respect people's feelings.

197 out of 807 voters said that leaving the misgendering in place when you know better is disrespectful

297 out of 807 voters said that you should edit the posts, because misgendering people is wrong, end of discussion.

4 out of 807 voters said that you should purposefully continue misgendering someone out of spite for being asked to correct yourself.

[lazylittledragon]

what do you mean youre technically a detransitioner cause of terf bullshit?

it's a v long story but i detransitioned for a couple of years when i was 16/17, for multiple reasons but mostly because i fell into the blaire white/kalvin garrah chamber of "you have to be This way to be trans otherwise you're not real".

i was already Deeply insecure about myself and my 'passing' and i was led to believe that i couldn't want to wear makeup or skirts, and i couldn't choose not to have bottom surgery, and i couldn't do anything but bind for 12+ hours a day to the point that my ribcage is still misshapen. basically i thought that if i wasn't suffering enough doing 'feminine' things, i couldn't really be trans, so i should just go back to being a girl and suck it up.

the terf bullshit is because i'd seen a lot of terfs/detransitioners talking about the 'dangers' of testosterone and how it would turn me into a horrible ugly evil monster and how there was nothing worse than wanting to be a man. which combined with 'you need to fully medically transition to be valid at all' creates some very dangerous and upsetting feelings to cope with.

it also came from trying really hard to put myself in a little box before i realised that my sexuality/gender are very fluid and it's FINE for me not to have a label and just do whatever i want. when i was 19 or so i went back to using they/them (and eventually he/him) and changed my name again because even though i like doing 'feminine' things, i don't want to be seen as a woman.

tldr: i was conditioned by transphobic/terf rhetorics to think that i was being trans the 'wrong' way so i couldn't be trans at all, so i believed i must actually be a girl if i still wanted to do 'feminine' things. nowadays i am a transmasc who does feminine things because i don't give two shits about what any transmed prick thinks of me anymore.

[rjalker]

Here's a story idea. The main character grows up always knowing for as long as they can remember that women can't shapeshift. That is a blessing from the gods reserved only for men. Every man this character has ever known has been able to shape-shift, and none of the women have ever been able to, so they grow up believing that this is true, accepting it it's just a fact of reality. Women cannot shapeshift as a punishment from the gods for disobeying their husbands in the ages gone by, when things were better, so now all women must be perfectly humble and subservient to their husbands, and maybe someday the gods will forgive them and let them back into paradise.

And then one day while the protagonist is out foraging alone, the sky breaks open with a roar like a waterfall, and a stranger falls through, landing almost on top of the protagonist where they were standing in the river, and throws the protagonist's entire world upside down with the revelation that yes, women can shape-shift, everybody can shape-shift. There's literally just a spell cast over the protagonists village to prevent anyone the leaders have decided is a woman from shape-shifting.

Now the protagonist has to decide whether to stay and try to convince their family and friends of the truth, pretend they don't know anything different and try to go back to life as normal, or leave with the stranger into a world that is apparently so much bigger and brighter than they could have ever imagined.

[autumnalwalker]

The Melts

Author's Note: A while back I had a bit of a ramble on how I wished that it was more common to find examples of human bodies artistically warped into new and interesting configurations presented in a manner other than horror and gave an off-the-top of my head example of a hypothetical episode of a slice-of-life series going on that theme. A couple months passed, and then with Halloween approaching, I decided on a whim to slam out a rough draft of that story over the weekend. So here we are. Summary: What if your entire body slowly melting over the course of the day got treated as being no worse than the common cold and you still have to go to work because you work retail and already used up all your sick days? Wordcount: 5,295 Content Warnings: Descriptions of the sensation of one's body slowly melting into a fleshy pile of goo, various weird anatomical modifications, spider-like creatures crawling all over people, having to go into work while sick.

Mil had the melts.

They became aware of this approximately four and a half minutes after waking up when their hand made an unfortunate squelch sound upon palming their alarm clock’s snooze button.  They held their hand in place in denial for another half minute while their arm slowly stretched and drooped down into the space between bed and bedside table.  They reluctantly opened their eyes and groaned at the sight of the clock’s contour pressing up through a hand whose bones had gone limp and elastic.

It was going to be one of those days.

The thought of calling in sick today briefly crossed their mind, but no, it was close to the end of the year and they’d already used up all of their sick days.  Any more would have to come out of their precious holiday leave time.

It was fine, they told themself while throwing back the covers of their bed and pointedly ignoring how that arm curled back around on itself from the momentum.  It was only a mild case and it would probably clear up by the time their shift was over.  Enough to be annoying but nothing worth making a fuss over.  Unless it was a severe case, but that almost never happens.

As a small mercy, Mil’s legs weren’t as melted as their arm so they only almost fell over immediately upon standing up on appendages that bent and swayed in spots that don’t have joints.  Thank goodness for counterbalancing tails.  People often called their look basic, but Mil preferred to think of it as classic.  Feline ears and tails had been among the first reshapings to see mainstream adoption and Mil had personally always found more complicated additions of prehensile limbs and sensory organs to be a nightmare of overstimulation.  Plus, the ears and tail were a nice aid in emoting to make up for the difficulty Mil usually had with expressing themself by voice and face alone.

By the time Mil reached the kitchen they’d found a workable rhythm to their unsteady gait that managed to keep them mostly upright.  No time for anything complicated for breakfast, and probably best to keep away from the toaster in this state, so cereal it was.  That had its own complications of course - grip the spoon too loosely and its weight would stretch their fingers down and apart, but too tightly and their whole hand would roll itself up and try to retract back into their arm - but several minutes of grumbling around mouthfuls of wheat byproduct and dairy tree milk where enough to convince Mil that it wasn’t really all that bad and that they’d be able to manage at work today.  

They pointedly ignored the ensuing contrary evidence that came in the form of their legs getting stuck on the inside of their pants and rolling up into lumpy balls until they gave up and went with a skirt.  They’d already spent all the time they normally would have devoted to their morning workout on trying to pour themself into a tight turtleneck while getting the right body parts through the right holes.  Supposedly wearing snug-fitting clothing like this was an effective way to hold your shape relatively solid in a bad case of the melts - which Mil definitely (probably) didn’t have - but in practice it was not as useful a tip as its popularity would suggest.

But hey, they were fed, dressed and out of the house almost on time, so that was a victory.  And it meant they were almost on time to catch the tram before it left.  Oh.  Wait.  

It’s fine, they told themself while fiddling with the straps on the mask they’d donned on their way out the door.  It would only be a few minutes until the next tram scuttled up.  They’d only be a little bit late to work.  Everyone would understand.  Afterall, who hadn’t had the melts before?  In the meantime it gave them a few extra moments to try to get their mask to squeeze their head into a less embarrassing shape.  If Mil had to go in sick, it was the least they could do to try not to spread it.  But if they could be considerate while not having their skull get squished in the middle into the shape of a peanut, that’d be great.

A few pats on the side of the face, a push on the the top of their head, some hard nodding, get their fingers untangled from the mask straps aaannnddd…. A plop and a dizzying snap as Mil felt their jaw distend and the lower half of their face slide fully into the mask just as the next tram arrived.  Checking their reflection out in the tram’s shiny carapace confirmed that their head was an acceptable shape.  Maybe a little bit snout-y, but they could write that off as being part of the feline look.  So long as no one saw the mess under their mask.

The good part of being out at the end of the line like this is that Mil almost always got a decent seat on the tram and plenty of time to listen to their audio books.  It almost made up for the long commute.  Of course, today one earbud kept falling off the top of their head every few minutes from that ear not holding its shape well enough and the other one was worming its way uncomfortably far into an ear that seemed to be trying to swallow it through a series of expansions and contractions that mirrored Mil’s breathing.  By the second stop Mil gave up and shoved both earbuds back into a skirt pocket, resigning themself to ride stewing in silence.

That silence only lasted one more stop when the bulk of the other commuters started to pour in.  By the fifth stop Mil was firmly wedged between a shell-backed construction worker and a twelve-armed switchboard operator who had enough respect for personal space to keep those arms wrapped around zemself but not enough to not press three different elbows into Mil's ribs.  Mil tried not to hold it against zem.  It was the morning rush hour.  Getting pressed together was to be expected.  Even if that meant winding up half a foot taller and considerably flatter.  Mil tried not to think about how many people they were spreading their melts to.

At the ninth stop Mil extruded themself from the over-packed tram and toddered over to a bench to catch their breath.  If they were going to be late anyway, what was an extra minute or two to let their shoulderblades stop overlapping and left and right halves of their ribcage stop interlacing?  Just a few deep breaths to puff their torso back out and they were good to go.  They could fix their hair later after they got into a restroom to wash the public transit funk off their hands.

Walking into the store’s employee entrance a couple blocks down the street, Mil was greeted with the terrifying visage of their manager, Baroft.  The smile wasn’t terrifying because of the fangs (Mil had been considering getting some themself for some time now but couldn’t quite justify it with how little meat they ate), nor because of the extra pair of slit-pupiled crimson eyes (pretty standard for those who could adapt to the extra sensory input), nor even for the contrast with the face’s second mouth that wasn’t smiling (that one never smiled, it wasn’t the customer service voice mouth).  No, that smile was terrifying because if Baroft was happy - even worse, relieved - to see them walk in the door late for work, then that could only mean one thing.

The store was short-staffed today.

Mil would have to deal with customers.

Mil was - generally speaking - not good with people even on the best of days, and today was - as the flesh of their hand pooling at their fingertips under the force of gravity like ripening fruit would attest - not the best of days.  Most of the time they got by on trading duties with coworkers to spend as much of their workday as possible on the backend duties; stocking inventory, cleaning, feeding the weavers, updating displays, etc.  If one good thing could be said about Baroft it was that after seeing Mil awkwardly stumble through enough customer conversations and fitting attempts, yt had realized that putting them in a customer-facing role was more likely to lose the store money than earn it.

But now Baroft was complaining about Rangel being out on jury duty at the same time as Kalei being unable to come in due to thons kid pupating, and Paras from the evening shift had called in sick, so Mil could just imagine the sort of morning Baroft has been having, and Mil was going to have to be a team player and pull through just for today all the way through until closing time, and yes there would be overtime compensation once they made up for arriving late, and what’s Mil complaining about it’s just the melts, if they were able to get here then obviously isn’t that serious, now no attitude and best behavior in front of the customers, it was already bad enough that yt had had to call Leolani and ask eir to come in early today.

That last part cut through Baroft‘s blizzard of words and caused Mil’s heart to skip a beat.  Leolani usually arrived just as Mil was getting ready to leave for the day so they didn’t know eir all that well, but the handful of brief conversations the two of them had shared always left Mil wanting to change that.  It wasn’t a crush per say, only that everything about Leolani struck Mil as indescribably cool and made them wish they could be friends and hang out.  Eir jacket covered in punk patches that ei left draped over the chair in the employee breakroom that no one else dared claim.  Eir perfect eyeliner.  The way ei could multitask taking one customer’s measurements while uncoiling eir twelve-foot neck over to help another customer pick out a suit off the rack.  Eir taste in music that had made the basis for the longest interaction Mil had managed with eir.

Under other circumstances, the opportunity to spend the day commiserating with Leolani over being the two youngest employees by a wide margin and how awful the holiday rush that started earlier every year was might have almost made up for having to work late.  Now though, they were suddenly feeling self-conscious about the way their spine had started to go limp in places and force them into a slouch.

Mil’s trip to the restroom to straighten up in front of the mirror was a perfunctory one.  They might have arrived late to work, but no way were they going to be late to feed the weavers on schedule.  Elam - in early and still in nir fall look of leaf-like orange hair and skin covered in gray keratin growths mimicking tree bark - gave a marginally less brusque than usual greeting when Mil pushed aside the heavy curtain separating the dim tailoring room from the shop, even going so far as to offer nir sympathies for Mil’s melts.  Mil’s more solid hand glorped over one of the nutrient slurry canisters on the shelf as they insisted that they were fine.  Just a minor case of the melts that would clear up by the afternoon.

Elam raised a skeptical woody eyebrow and offered to handle the feeding duties today, but Mil declined and stepped into the weavers’ enclosure.  The way Mil saw it, they were something like an apprentice to Elam who had finally promised to teach them how to direct the weavers once the new year rolled around, so any chance to prove themself… well, it wasn’t so much welcome as not something they could afford to pass up.  Experienced weaver handlers were always in demand (as evidenced by Elam being able to afford four full-body reshapes a year just to keep up the image of a tree changing with the seasons), and honestly it was the closest thing Mil had to a career advancement opportunity.  

Besides, Mil genuinely liked working with weavers, they thought as the small swarm of arachnoid bio-tools began crawling all over them to get to the nutrient slurry.  It was important that the weavers were well-fed in the morning before any clients came in for a fitting lest they get either too tired or too carried away with their purpose.  As it was, a few of the weavers must have failed to recognize Mil’s scent and shape due to their illness and mistaken them for a client, forcing Mil to gently shoo the engineered creatures off before the threads of their turtleneck could be unpicked and reassembled into whatever pattern the weavers had last been installed with.  Most of the chittering swarm sloughed off to feed once the nutrient slurry had been dispensed and Mil was able to encourage the stragglers to depart from their body heat without too much trouble.

To Mil’s chagrin, once they stepped back outside of the enclosure Elam leaned over and plucked a weaver off the back of their neck that had pushed their unusually pliant skin into a little bowl to nest in.  Mil’s stammering apology was met with a laugh and an encouraging slap on the back that made their whole body ripple unpleasantly.  Better than a reprimand.

Back out in the main store, Leolani had already arrived and engaged with the first customers of the morning, signing at one with eir hands while stretching eir neck over an aisle of racks to explain the fitting process to another.  When ei caught Mil staring, ei sent the second customer their way.  The next few minutes constituted the first grueling attempt of many that day to talk someone who wasn’t really all that interested (whether due to boredom, intimidation, lack of intent to buy, or just wanting to get their stuff and get out) through pricing options on bespoke versus alterations by limb configuration and fabric type.  Or failing that to sell something off the rack, even if it was just an expensive pair of socks with the store’s monogram on it.  Or failing that at least collect an email address for a mailing list.  This is what made the holiday rush so awful.  The rest of the year most of the store's customers were regulars who mostly had a specific goal upon walking in, but for the next couple of months traffic would surge with only a minimal uptick in actual sales to show for it.  All the same, everyone that walked in had to be treated as a potential new regular just in case.  As if it wasn’t already anxiety-inducing enough to deal with people whom Mil possessed at least a passing familiarity with.

By noon Mil’s ears were pressed flat back against their skull.  In part, this was an expression of their mood, but mostly it was a matter of the ears’ swivel muscles losing cohesion and getting stuck in the last used position.  It was making it a little bit difficult to hear clearly, but they had long since learned the hard way that making a rough guess and sticking to a script tended to be received better than asking people to repeat themselves.  At last the lunch-time lull arrived and Mil was able to steal off to the break room for a reprieve.  It was blessedly quiet in there save for the hum of the refrigerator holding the protein shakes Mil had stashed for days too busy for a proper lunch.  Mil dipped into that stash today.  Their melts were getting worse before they were getting better and the prospect of trying to wobble down the street in their current state to their usual lunch spot where they would surely be recognized struck Mil as lethally embarrassing.  And exhausting.

They took the opportunity to examine the patches on Leolani‘s jacket (draped over eir chair in undisputed claim as ever) while they struggled first with the shake’s cap and then with their mask.  Their fingers weren’t cooperating much at all now, between having gone mostly limp and being plumped up with all the flesh their normally-flatteringly-body-hugging turtleneck was now squeezing out of their torso and arms and into their extremities.  At least one or two of the patches on the jacket had to do with bands, Mil was fairly certain.  Would it make for a better conversation starter to ask Leolani about those bands, or to look up and listen to the music up themself first in order to have something in common?  Mil mulled the question over while nursing their shake.  Better than thinking about the similarities between their lunch and the weavers’ breakfast.

As Mil threw their head back to drain the last few drops from the protein shake’s bottle, they felt their spine come loose and their head just kept going back.  And down.  And around.  Until it bumped into the back of the low-backed chair, upside down and just above their own waist.

They had folded themself.

Mil took a breath, held it, let it out, and came away even less calm than before.  Lungs not making up their mind where they should be will do that to a body.

It was fine.  This sort of thing happened.  Annoying, but nothing serious.

Mil tried to swing themself upright, but it was the sudden lack of back muscles that got them into this position.  They tried grabbing the chair and pulling themself up into an unbent vertical, but the strain just stretched out their hands.  They tried to do the obvious thing and just stand up, but folded like a wet, heavy towel as they were over the chair’s back, they couldn’t get the proper leverage and just scrambled their feet, scooting the chair along the floor with a teeth-itching squeak.

Mil heard Leolani walk in before they saw eir.  Not that they could see much besides the floor behind their chair.  Leolani asked if they were alright and Mil’s mind raced with enough potential responses that it might as well have gone blank.  But then fear of getting stuck won out over pride.  There was no salvaging this one to come out looking cool.

Mil asked for help.  Just a little bit mind you.  They’d be fine if they could just get themself unfolded.

Boots made for digitigrade feet stepped into Mil’s inverted view, followed by a round face with perfect eyeliner that then rotated to match their perspective in a motion that suddenly shifted the impression from serpentine to owlish.  A light joke about the view from down there was quickly followed by a warning that came at the same time as a pair of hands gripping (very literally) into Mil’s shoulders and lifting.  Once ei had them upright ei asked if they were good.  Mil said they were and then immediately slumped forward, overcorrecting and refolding in the opposite direction.

Leolani, neck now coiled up over and around eir own shoulders like a scarf, told them to hang for a minute and then came back with a mop handle and a roll of duct tape.  A comment about a friend of eirs once having done this for eir and an apology about this feeling weird was all the warning Mil got before the Leolani began working the mop handle up the back of their shirt.  Ei called it the scarecrow method of stabilization.  After producing a pair of compression gloves from eir messenger bag and helping Mil get them on, Leolani let them apply the duct tape in private with a reassurance that it was the cheap stuff and would come off after a decent soak in a hot bath, if not sooner.

Trying to walk with the improvised back brace was awkward, but better than the alternative.  Mil shambled out of the employee break room, wondering how much longer their legs would stay semi-solid, just in time to see a regular they recognized but couldn’t put a name to walk in.  Somehow additional legs were far less popular than additional arms, so this regular’s centaur pattern group body configuration stuck out.  Not that Mil knew for sure whether it was hooves, feet, or claws beneath those patent leather shoes and it would be rude to ask.  What Mil did know at a glance was what xe was here for.  The regular’s bat-like wings (aesthetically impressive and flexible enough to clasp in the front and fold into a cloak, but almost certainly not flight-, or even glide-rated) hadn’t been present on xyr last visit to the store.  Now here was something that was as close to Mil’s comfort zone as anything got.

They greeted the regular and went through their mental script for this sort of interaction, making the appropriate vague inquiries about xyr wellbeing, complimenting xyr new wings, trying not to drip on anything as their melts slowly got worse, guiding xem through the booklets of fabric swatches and catalog of styles, and dancing around the fact that they couldn’t remember xyr name for the life of them.  Once the regular made their selections, Mil led xem back to the tailoring room where they handed the selections off to Elam.  Strictly speaking, Mil should have left it be from there and returned to the main display floor of the store, but they liked watching this next part and were even more willing than usual today to take any excuse for a break.  If anyone asks (no one will) they’ll say that they were taking notes.  Or would saying that they were assisting sound better?  Whatever the truth would be on most days, this time Mil simply leaned on a wall for support and watched Elam type in a console to install the selected pattern on the weavers, guide the regular into the weavers’ enclosure, and start speaking in the language of clicks, snaps, and command phrases the bio-tools had been trained on.  What before had been a disorganized collection of individual lab-created arachnoid creatures became a precision swarm washing over the regular (who had been through this enough times not to flinch too much), taking xyr measurements by touch with sensitive legs able to estimate and account for offsets due to the regular’s clothes by pressure and texture alone.  Once each of the individual weavers was in position on the regular’s body Elam snapped nir fingers to send the swarm skittering into a different position, held for a few seconds of processing, then snapped again for a third configuration.  A larger swarm could have generated a full three dimensional scan of a target’s body in one go, but the upkeep costs on swarm size wasn’t generally seen as being worth it just to shave off a few seconds.  A final command word cleared the swarm back into the corners of the enclosure.

Like most customers, the regular elected to come back later in the day to pick up xyr new suit and have any last-minute alterations made then.  As opposed to partially undressing and allowing the weavers to weave the new suit directly on.  Supposedly the latter option would get a truly amazing bespoke fit, but for most it wasn’t worth standing still for an extended period of time with bug legs crawling all over you and working miniaturized biological sewing machines millimeters away from your exposed skin.  Maybe one day when Mil had Elam‘s job and income they could find out for themself.  For now though, Mil simply offered to lend nem a hand with loading in the fabric feedstock to get the assembly process started.  It seemed that pinstripes were making a comeback this season.

The next few hours were, all things considered, not too bad.  A decent portion of customers were regulars rather than randoms, Mil got to watch a couple more sessions of the weavers at work, the one song that they weren’t tired of on the station the store had been running on loop for the past three weeks came on, and - most importantly - they’d managed to keep up something like an ongoing conversation with Leolani in between customers.  Now if only their melts hadn’t been getting steadily worse instead of better.  By the time Mil’s normal shift would be ending they were having trouble standing up for more than a minute or so at a time.  Elam even offered to talk to Baroft on nir way out - ne still got to live at nir usual time today - about letting them go on home.  Against Mil’s better judgment, they turned nem down, citing the appeal of overtime pay and silently fearing that leaving might reflect poorly on their performance or attitude.

So, of course, two hours later Mil’s skeletal structure gave out altogether, reducing them to a fleshy puddle on the floor.  They’d felt it coming on and had just barely been able to make it back to the breakroom and out of sight of customers.  Leolani came rushing in moments later, having seen their attempt at a distressed and hasty exit.  If there was a silver lining to the gross (they were on the floor in a public building) and embarrassing situation, it was that their skirt had flared out enough to preserve some semblance of modesty and mostly cover up the skin-covered blob slowly spreading across the linoleum.

When Leolani asked if they were alright, Mil’s response came out garbled and bubbling.  So, no, not so much.  

After several rounds of “One blink for No, two blinks for Yes,” Mil managed to first turn down an offer to call an ambulance (it might be a severe case, but it was still just the melts; they would sleep it off and be fine by morning) and then to direct Leolani to retrieve their phone and its neurolink adapter from their skirt pocket and attach the adapter to Mil’s forehead (or at least a spot on Mil’s increasingly amorphous form slightly above their eyes).  Neurolinks like this one were a clumsy technology, still in its infancy, so Mil had to concentrate on a single letter at a time for a second or three apiece to make words appear on the screen, but it beat the alternative.  From there the two of them were able to talk - after a fashion - and settle on the plan of laying Mil out in the tailoring room, out of sight of both customers and Baroft.  If Baroft asked where they were, Leolani would cover for them and say that they were handling some task or another that Elam left for them.  Afterall, with Mil only being able to sort of writhe and flop around, it’s not like they were going to be able to get themself home, so may as well just sleep it off here.

Unprompted, Leolani input eir contact info into Mil’s phone before leaving them in there.  Being able to exchange text messages made lying there barely able to move in the dimly lit room for the remaining hours until closing time considerably more tolerable.  Almost pleasant even, despite how exhausting trying to type with the neurolink for extended periods of got to be.  The white noise of the nearby weavers’ chitters and skitters helped.

And then, as the store’s closing time was approaching and the last customer left for the night, Leolani offered to take Mil home instead of leaving them in the store overnight.  Mil could keenly feel the spike in their heart rate at the question rippling through their not-quite liquefied form.  The added clarification that Leolani had realized about an hour ago that the two of them both lived roughly the same part of town with the same tram stop so it wouldn’t be much of a detour for eir to drop them off at their place quickly dispelled the wilder fantasies (terrifying and idealistic alike) that Mil’s mind had started jumping to.

Mil was aware, objectively speaking, that they didn’t really know Leolani all that well outside of the off-and-on conversations about hobbies and interests they’d been having most of the day and that letting someone like that know your address and handing them your keys wasn’t really the smartest idea.  Subjectively speaking however, Mil was tired, young, and platonically infatuated with their cool coworker whom they seemed to be hitting it off well with.

A few minutes later Mil heard Leolani‘s and Baroft‘s voices outside the backroom’s curtain and caught snippets of Leolani offering to close up the store for the night and lying that Baroft had just missed Mil leave a minute ago.  Another minute or two of silence followed before Leolani pushed aside the curtain and strutted over to Mil carrying a large bucket.  It took some doing, but ei got them to fit.  The melts made flesh as compressible as it made it elastic.

Somehow being scooped up, poured into a bucket, and pressed on until they fit was not the most embarrassing experience Mil had been through that day.

Leolani was able to lift Mil’s bucket with relative ease.  Surprising at first, but on second thought, Leolani must have had some manner of musculoskeletal reinforcements for strength and balance if ei was walking around with all that extra weight from eir neck sitting on eir shoulders all the time.

The conversation on the way back home was fairly one-sided.  It was simply too hard to concentrate on typing through the neurolink with all the novel sensations going on.  Sloshing slightly in the bucket as it swung with Leolani‘s gait.  Staring straight up into the night sky (or eir face) while moving.  The uncomfortable warmth generated from being their own folded blanket stuffed in a tight space.  The rumbling of the tram transferred through the floor and sides of the bucket making their whole body quiver and vision blur.  It was fine though.  Mil had never been a big talker and Leolani seemed more than willing to fill the space.  Or was ei intentionally trying to keep Mil distracted from all those other less pleasant aspects of their current situation?  If ei was, it was working.  And it turned out Mil hadn’t even needed to ask about the band patches; Leolani had started talking at length about them all on eir own.  Best of all, stuck looking out of the bucket up at the ceiling like this, Mil couldn’t see anyone else staring at them and could almost pretend it was just the eir and them without the eyes of strangers that had always made them uncomfortable.

And then Leolani was standing at the door to Mil’s apartment, holding their keys.  Ei let eirself inside, carrying Mil’s bucket with eir, found their bed, lifted them from the bucket, and laid them out flat on top of the sheets.  Being exposed to cool air again was a blessed relief.  They would absolutely need a shower in the morning, but for right now they were too exhausted to care.  They tried not to think too hard about how being rather literal putty in Leolani‘s hands felt.

Duty done and aid rendered, Leolani left the neurolink on Mil’s face in case anything came up in the night before they solidified, left the keys on the bedside table, left the lights off, and left the apartment.

On eir way out, ei suggested hanging out together sometime when they weren’t sick.

*******

Mil’s hand made a perfectly normal pap sound upon palming their alarm clock’s snooze button.  Their hand was hand-shaped and none of their bones wobbled.  And why wouldn’t that be the case after a good night’s sleep?

It had only been the melts.

[neopronounhell]

xe/xem short story ·˚ * 🔭 ⋆ .☆

thank you @neopronouns-in-action for the idea to do this!! <3

˚₊ ⊹ 　✦　　‧₊˚✩彡　.　　. 　 ˚　.　‎‧₊˚✩　　 . ✦　⋆ .☆ ˚　　　　 . ★⋆. 　

Xe looked around, anxious. Xe had just been chased down by bullies, and xe was hiding in a closet, shivering from the cold.

The door opened. Xe jumped. It was one of xyr bullies, oh god, xe were done for now–

“Hey, are you okay? What’s wrong?” someone said. Not xyr bully. Okay. 

“I-I’m fine. Why are you in the closet?” xe answered.

The stranger giggled. Xe cocked xyr head at them, and they giggled even more.

“Sorry, it’s just– I’m part of the GSA. I’ve been out of the closet for like, six years.” they said, wiping a tear from their eye. “What about you?”

“Sara and Brittany were chasing me down,” xe sighed. “They found my social media.”

“What do you do on there that’s so bad?” they asked, sitting down next to xem.

“Have neopronouns, I guess,”

“Oh!” They smiled. “That’s so cool! What neopronouns do you use?”

“Xe/xem,” xe said, finally smiling for the first time since xe entered this stupid closet.

“Oh, I completely forgot, my name’s Alula! You can use they/them for me,” they said. Well, phew, I don’t need to change anything, xe thought, and grinned to xemself.

“You can call me Eris,” xe said, and Alula smiled. They got up, and for a second, xe got scared that they were leaving xem.

Xe didn’t need to, though, because they turned around and said: “Wanna come to the mall with me? If Sara tries to harass you again, I’ll kick her ass,” 

They offered xem a hand, which xe took, and they walked out of the closet. And for the first time, xe thought high school might not be so bad after all.

[the-indigo-writes]

They had left the place gratefully, ready to part with such a turbulent and harmful chapter of their life. Though the memories of the spiky words and baseless arguments from those who claimed to be family would cling to them like a perpetual fog, they could leave behind the physical reminders and try to start something new.

It wasn't easy to be living alone in such times, but they managed to find a kind employer who paid well enough for them to afford a place to stay and food to stave off their hunger. Once things had settled down they found that, nourished by safety and contentment, a seed of ambition had finally begun to blossom within them. So in the darkest and richest pockets of night, they allowed their journey- a life once so pained and stifled which had grown into something joyful and free- to flow from mind to quill to blissfully vast parchment.

They created wild images of who they had become, emotions displayed in abstract spirals and faces and carefully patterned bursts. They had never seen art like it; a bouquet of stories and feelings! They signed it with their true name, not the one they had left with the false faces and pressures to hide. They had become exactly who they were meant to be.

But their perfect joy and creation did not last. They did not know how, but someone who lived nearby came to know of who they had left behind. Of who they were running from. The disgust of one man gave birth to a mob of similarly poisoned minds. The anger of blind evil came knocking at their door, then the knocking turned to the pounding of wood and breaking of glass.

"We know what you are," he snarled, and the flames were thrown into their home, landing upon scattered papers on the floor.

They watched, helpless to stop the consumption of everything they had become. Smoke and cruel laughter made a home in their lungs as they watched their art, their one last love letter to the world and their place in it, blacken and curl under the weight of hatred.

---------

Xe was bored at the family gathering. Mostly xe was terrified to be in a conversation with some certain people, and had escaped to the eternally dusty basement of the old matriarch's home. Xe had heard countless times about the move overseas, how many of these mildew-smelling objects were actually relics of the past that collectors would be itching to get their hands on.

It wasn't that interesting, really. How could any of these stories mean anything to xyr?

Xe picked up a leather-bound journal. The cover felt worn and well-loved in xyr hands. Xe slowly opened it to reveal the first page, yellowed and smelling of age and wilted flowers. It read, "Property of-" the name was cut off and angrily scribbled out. Xe raised xyr eyebrow. Maybe something was of interest to xyr...

And then half an hour flew by among the weathered pages. Xe saw so much of xyrself in the words, carefully carved to detail deep pain. Xyr ancestor had felt the same isolation and carried the same guilt. Xe gasped when xe came across the most powerful paragraph:

I shall put aside my own shame in favor of the truth within me. Mother had always described souls as little gardens that must be tended. I know now that what she would view as weeds are the most beautiful wildflowers I harbour, and I have a deep desire to tend them instead of uproot them in favour of the world's artificial colours. I will find a place to keep my lovely garden, and I shall happily water them as the person I know myself to be.

Written beneath the declaration was an indulgent cursive scrawl. Xe whispered to the stale darkness:

"Amaranth."

Amaranth gasped. So it was finally here.

They had never known why they lived on in legacy after their home and art had been burned. Their false name had died without triumph on the lips of their family, who had decided to cease talking of them. That was just fine by Amaranth; they would rather be forgotten completely than be remembered as a lie and a disgrace.

But they had forgotten about the journal they had kept in their frustrated youth. They had hoped it would not survive, but a generation or two after their death, the relic had been packed up with all the rest and shipped off to a new continent. It had been left to rot among all the other clutter of disintegrating tales.

Amaranth was so thrilled to see that their story had landed not in the hands of the same misunderstanding and disgust that had killed them; instead, they had found their way to a kindred spirit.

"Amaranth," xe murmured once more, feeling the weight and cadence of the word on xyr tongue. It had such a lovely sound, and such an incredible story behind it.

Xe decided xe had found something of value in that basement: a name for xyrself. It was a bold little flower, and an honor to the past. Xe took the aged journal and xyr newfound comfort and left the basement.

And above, the first Amaranth started to feel their edges blur. They exhaled in gratitude. The limbo between deaths was comfortably empty and numb, but the curiosity of the true end had been gnawing at them for hundreds of years. It felt so freeing to leave the world behind knowing that they had, even in their struggles and sorrow, been a gift to one of their descendants. Their last wish was that the new Amaranth carry their story not as a burden, but as an inspiration, and as a reminder that xe would never be alone.

You die two deaths - your physical death and your true death when your name is spoken for the last time. You, a mild-mannered introvert, have been stuck in limbo for centuries waiting for your true death, and finally found out why.

[ghostlylicious]

‘Battle Cry'

An oc drabble by yours truly

⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹₊⋆☁︎⋆⁺₊⋆ ☀︎ ⋆⁺₊⋆☁︎⋆₊ ⊹

Ze never had the courage to give faer a flower, though ze knew what kind of flowers fae liked; roses, daffodils, and lily of the valleys.

But then ze did gather the courage to give faer a flower. A small, yellow dandelion. Within a frenzied battlefield where fae was the tyrant of the other side. Ze reached faer, battered and rage-fueled, just to give this flower.

A distraction? A truce? Fae couldn't tell, for fae had never experienced a gesture like this. So then followed a clunk from the impact of steel on cobble.

And so the king cried.

the ocs that hate me (they need a redesign fr):

[colection-of-chaos]

Whumptober 2024 Day 13: Multiple Whumpees

TW: torture, human experimentation, mild gore

Nothing but staying

Tony was waiting, looking through the bars of the cell he xe was kept in. Afra was leaning on his shoulder, she had nodded of sometime ago. Xe hardly kept xemself from sleeping in as well. One of them should stay awake, though, at least one of them should. Waiting was the only thing they could do for Theo, or each other, when one of them was taken out to their cell for what ever cruel plan their captor had come up with this time. 

Afra had been staying up for xe and Theo the last two times someone had grabbed for one of them in the cell. She had also held Theo back, from thronging themself in the way of the guard, that had been on his best way of grabbing Tony, because Theo would probably die if they were allowed to play the hero one more time. As much as Tony would have liked to avoid being experimented on, or rather tortured, letting Theo die just so xe could avoid it, was out of the question. 

That hadn’t stopped the person barging in to the cell, what felt like an eternity ago, from grabbing Theo, this time, and dragging them away. Afra had even tried to loosen the grip around Theo, beged and screamed, it had just gotten her a slap, so hard, it made her fall to the ground. Tony xemself would have fought for Theo too, but xe had just been brought back from whatever excruciating painful procedure, their captor had tried on xe this time, so xe had just barely been conscious, not to mention able to move when they took Theo. 

They couldn't do anything but wait for them to be dragged back to the cell, if Theo was brought back at all. 

Tony tried xem best not to think about that possibility, tried xem best not to consider it possible, that Theo would die. 

Xe just couldn't stand the thought of losing one of the two people, xe still dared to care for. Even if it was painful, watching them suffer, Tony couldn’t let go of them. 

There was nothing else left that kept them from finally loosing it, other than Afra and Theo.

No matter Theo's stupid hero complex, or how destructively worried Afra was for them, despite being unable to change anything. 

If waiting for one of them to return, staying awake despite pain and exhaustion from their own torture session, so that someone would be there for Theo, when they returned, so that Afra was able to get some rest knowing that, than that would be what xe would do. 

Afra was still asleep when they brought Theo back. It was probably better that way. 

Tony had thought the guards were dragging a raw piece of meat down the corridor, when he first saw Theo. Xe should really have known better, there was no meat that hand’t once been a person ever dragged down this path. 

What was even worse, than the way Theo looked, was that they still seemed to move, only slightly, like it was really painful, and extremely hard. Tony’s heart clenched. Xe wanted to throw up. 

Xe also really wanted to run to them and tell them everything would be fine, it wouldn’t but someone had to hear that. For xemself and Theo. 

The cell door opened with a bone shuddering creak, it always did, if Tony hadn’t been so worried about Theo, xe probably would have shuddered, like xem always did, out of fear of what would happen next and because that noise was really horrendous. 

The guards just threw Theo into the cell, like they actually were nothing but slop of meat. 

The only reaction that got out of Theo was a whimper, that made Tony want to cry. Xe had no idea how to help them. 

Tony made en effort not to wake Afra, while lifting her head of xem shoulder and bedding her on the floor, later xe would put Afra on the corner they had been able to soften a little by stacking up the hey they had found on the floor, it was not good or comfortable, but it was better than nothing, now though, Theo was xem priority. 

When xe finally got to their side, they couldn’t figure out what it was that had Theo disfigured, as much as they had been. Their injuries weren’t the kind of wound caused by bursting flesh from a whip or something similar fast, nor did it seam like the clinical cuts, that sometimes covered their bodies. What xe could determine though was that it seamed to cover all of Theo’s body, but the injuries were most concentrated on Theos face stomach and lower armes. Tony really wanted to help xem cellmate, but what was there xe could possibly do. It wasn’t like there was any kind of medical supplies in the cell. They hardly even had water, except when they got their meals, that xe could use to clean Theo’s injuries. 

The only thing Tony could do, was trying to make Theo more comfortable, and tell them lies. 

“Hay, everything is fine, you will get though this, you always do” carefully Tony moves one of Theo’s legs to get it out of an angel that must have been rather uncomfortable. Xe really wanted to move Theo a way, from the place they had fallen, after being pushed back into the cell, but xe really didn’t want to make the injuries worse by dragging them, though, and xe certainly wasn’t strong enough to lift Theo. 

So Tony just sat next to them and tried to stroke their hair, whispering reassuring words, trying to at least sooth Theo a little. Reminding them that there was still someone that cared, telling them how brave they were, that everything would be ok, even if xe couldn’t be sure about the last one. 

The only thing Tony could do was staying by Theo’s side, trying to be there for them. The same was true for Afra when she would wake up. That was the only thing xe could do to make any of this better, to lessen all the pain they felt, like the two did for xem.

[eli-mendoza-author]

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Incense Zine (@incensezine)

A short story I'm doing for a zine!! Get a copy to check it out :) It's my first like open story on disabled futures in sci-fi, and I might even expand on this in the future.

It's also got plenty of queer characters, including a transmasc who uses xe/xem pronouns!!

[alighted-willow]

I can now quote my creative writings teacher that one shouldn’t focus on the “contents” of a piece of literature when critiquing it. “Politics and values”, she says, “aren’t what we're focusing on”.

I'm making this post because (1) I think her comments are funny; (2) the stories that I've been assigned to read involve racism, famine, power struggles, and war; and (3) even if none of those elements were involved, values and politics are inherent to all media and all art. The only times people ever say “leave politics out of it” is when that person has no stakes in the matter or when they're bending the knee to others so as to dig their heads into the ground in an attempt at a false peace.

[neopronouns-in-action]

All the neopronoun short stories here can also be found on the Pillowfort community Neopronouns in Action, which you can join and submit your own!

Things we won't ever do (including, but not limited to):

- Sell user data to third party advertisers. - Sell user data to be data mined for AI.

Things we will do:

- Listen to our users and take measures against Generative AI. - Build the best platform for our users we can with the limited funds we have.

Why? Because our community is worth it to us. We have to do what we can to try to protect our community from the alarming acceptance of Generative AI stealing from artists, authors, and creators. Even if that means it hurts our funding (and don't get us wrong: we still really need funded to continue to exist) in the long run. We are very aware Pillowfort's existence is an uphill battle.

But you are worth fighting for.

[neopronouns-in-action]

This is a poll, only for people identify as trans and/or nonbinary.

Question: Trans and Nonbinary people only: Do you think that transmisia or exorsexism, including misgendering, from other trans or nonbinary people is less hurtful than when cis people do it?

Options:

1: Yes it's less bad, because they're trans/nonbinary.

2: Yes it's less bad, TANBP are incapable of being bigots.

3: No, it's just as bad as when cis people do it.

4: No, it's worse than when cis people do it, because TANBP should know better

5: It's the same whether the bigot is cis, or trans or nonbinary

Edit, to clarify for those confused: Transmisia is a synonym for transphobia, but with the suffix -misia, meaning hatred, rather than -phobia, meaning fear, because people with actual phobias aren't bigots, and now people demonize and attack them because they think of phobias as only a form of bigotry, not an anxiety disorder.

Exorsexism is bigotry against people whose genders are not 100% male or female. Exorsexism targets and affects nonbinary people, genderqueer people, and other specific non-white western binary genders.

If you click a wrong button by mistake, let me know in tags / replies / ask and I'll tally your vote with the correct option at the end.

[this-is-exorsexism]

welcome to this is exorsexism.

this is an account to highlight exorsexism, so that more people learn to recognise it when it's happening and we can fight it better.

what happens here is that i will post examples of exorsexism here as i encounter it, as well as submitted examples. this can be stories of exorsexism of offline or online exorsexism. if not immediately clear, i may provide an explanation of how something is exorsexist.

this is also a safe space for nonbinary people to vent or rant about exorsexism.

you can submit exorsexism you encountered to me via submissions or asks. if you send a screenshot of someone being exorsexist, please make sure to crop or censor any identifying information such as their username and profile picture. this account is for educational purposes and for nonbinary people to vent their experiences, not to send harassment to anyone.

exorsexism from within nonbinary and wider transgender communities is also welcome as that too needs awareness.

not sure if something you want to submit counts as exorsexism? submit it anyway and we can talk about it. and if you think your exorsexism experience isn't "bad enough" to be submitted: yes, it is.

credit where credit is due: this account is very much inspired by @exorsexistbullshit who sadly hasn't been active in going on 5 years, as well as casualableism on instagram.

submission rules:

since this is a blog to highlight a form of bigotry and oppression that also often intersects with other forms of oppression, a "no bigotry" rule doesn't make sense here. however, being bigoted towards bigots is not welcome here. this includes calling bigots or bigotry -phobic (i.e. "homophobia"), narcissistic, delusional, lame, blind, cr*zy, st*pid and more.

the key difference here is whether you are quoting bigotry you have encountered or whether you're being bigoted as well.

i am multiply disabled and we don't do that kind of thing here, so if i ignored your ask or blocked you, that's probably why.

what is exorsexism?

in short, exorsexism is the oppression of and bigotry against nonbinary people. it is essentially sexism directed at nonbinary people. furthermore, it also includes the hatred of anything heavily associated with nonbinary people, like certain pronouns. exorsexism ranges from the erasure of nonbinary people to outright hostility. there are many different kinds of exorsexism as there are many different kinds of exorsexism. exorsexism affects the whole range of nonbinary gender identities, including but not limited to agender, multigender, genderfluid, aporagender & xenogender people, as well as androgynes, nonbinary men & nonbinary women.

here's an incomplete list of examples of exorsexism:

- nonbinary erasure, not just erasure of all nonbinary people, but also of more specific gender identities

- forcing nonbinary people into the gender binary or creating new gender-related binaries to force us into (e.g. amab/afab, masc/fem, men/non-men, cis/trans)

- thinking gender can't be fluid

- thinking everyone has to have a gender

- thinking nonbinary identities are new, a trend, a choice, a phase or a way to try and be special

- erasing exorsexism as a specific form of oppression

- thinking nonbinary people have to look a certain way

- centring binary people & experiences in communities that have historically included us

- mocking they, it and neopronouns

- thinking that "everyone is a bit nonbinary"/reducing nonbinaryhood to gender nonconformity

- thinking nonbinary people are just deviations from binary genders, i.e. men & women lite

[rjalker]

free character concept: a winged cat person who is dared to raid the nest of a griffon. They accept because they're an arrogant SOB and can't bring themselves to turn down any claim to fame they can get their hands on, no matter how reckless or immoral it is.

They climb and fly to the nest successfully, and are sneaking back out with an egg, but are caught by the griffon, who curses them to become an unwilling superhero who has the ability to rescue people from natural disasters and other dangers, but physically cannot reveal who they are to anyone, so that all their good deeds go unrewarded and unthanked.

If they attempt to reveal their identity, they find their tongue tangling over the words, their hand twitching or cramping too much to write, and the more they try, the more they will be struck with ever-mounting panic until they either literally pass out from hyperventilating or just flee the situation in terror.

The griffon does not take lightly to people invading its home and trying to kidnap its children.

[queertranshappiness]

A Message To Anyone Who Needs It

An essay of support for any queer youth or people who need it.

(Word count: 1.8k, Reading Time: ~10 minutes. CW: transphobia mentions, however, this does have a hopeful ending.)

Hey there.

To anyone who needs it. Wherever you are, whoever you are. However you identify, whatever name you use, whatever pronouns you use. I have some things to tell you.

It feels like the world is on fire again. Maybe to you, it always feels like that. You’re scared of another attack, of what might happen next. Maybe you’re scared of what bullies or teachers will tell you. Maybe you’re scared of politicians attacking your rights. Maybe you’re scared of how your family might react to your identity. Maybe you’re scared about exploring yourself, scared of what might happen. 

To begin with, I want to tell you that there is nothing wrong with you. You, and your identity, are not the reason for these fears you have to carry on your shoulders. It is not your fault the world can be like this. It is society’s fault for allowing misinformation and hate to breed, and the fault of those spreading it. These people do not define you, or your worth, or your rights. You have a right to be treated like any other child or young person. You have a right to freedom, to self expression. To the healthcare you want and need, to play the sports you love however is most affirming for you. To learn in a safe and inclusive environment, to see your story in people who have gone before, and to pee in peace. In short: to be yourself, in every way possible. 

The people attacking these precious things, no matter how loud they seem, do not represent most people in your country, your city or town, and the world. Most people are kind, and seek to let gender diverse people of all sorts live in peace. It is a minority, who are screaming at the tops of their lungs, as they know they have nothing behind their hateful rhetoric. They are standing on towers of cards that are finally beginning to fall in, and it is their death screams we are hearing. That is not to disregard the damage they are causing in the moment, it hurts, and it is disgusting what they are doing to innocent people like you. However, we are stronger than them, and we always have been.

There have been queer and genderqueer people in all of humanity’s history. From the myths of Mesopotamia through to queer characters in modern shows, for thousands of years we have existed, fought to be ourselves, and thrived. You might feel alone, and not have anyone to look up to who is like you, or feel like you’re the only one like this. However, you are never alone. There’s been many times where I have had to be the brave one, stand up and tell the room who I was… and I found others like me in the process. It is scary, but you have so much power in becoming who you are. Never forget that. You being yourself, and being the best person you can be, inspires so many people, in ways you can’t even see or count.

You might be scared now, not sure where to go… but I promise you, someday, you will be looking back and be so proud of your younger self. However, you have to be there to see it happen, and so, I ask you to do one thing for me. No matter what happens, no matter who you meet, who you are, or whatever a politician decides to throw at you… hold on, as tight as you can. It is hard, and it can be painful, right now. But there is strength in the small things. Find the music that makes you feel heard. Find the stories that make you go ‘wait… there’s an adult like me out there?’. Find the people that light up your face, and give you courage and love when you need it. Use whatever labels you want, if you find them helpful. Don’t use any, if you want. Use whatever pronouns make you happy, whether they be a single set, a combination, or a big list of neopronouns that make you feel good. Name yourself however you want, it can be as similar to your old name or as different to it as you want. The most important thing is that it makes you happy, and that is the thing to prioritise. Don’t let someone else’s misinformed hatred decide who you are. By figuring out what makes you happy, you are taking a stand and telling them: ‘No! You will not define who I am, I am here, and I am myself, and no one else will decide that for me!’. There is more strength in that than you will ever realise, as by doing that… you might inspire someone else to learn about something new, or try something new they’ve been meaning to try for ages, but didn’t know how to begin with.

You are some of the greatest and strongest people I have ever known. You inspire us every day to keep on going and fighting for ourselves, you, and those we love, and we will never ever stop. Even on the dark days when it feels like the world hates you, you have millions of people fighting for you, your life, and your happiness. In your school and community, in your city, and in your country, there are people just like you and people who love you and support you, even if you haven’t met them yet. There is no one way to be a trans person. We all have different experiences, we’re all of different backgrounds, and we are all here together for you. I am sure there is another person like you, out there, living the best way they can, and thriving despite the world. You will find them. Alongside that, you will find your chosen family, the people that help you become the person who you’ve always known you’ve wanted to be. When you’re scared, terrified or panicked, we will reach out for your hands and pull you back up. We will restore your courage and your love. We are fighting with all we’ve got to make sure that you will have a happy life, and we won’t stop until everyone gets the happiness that they deserve.

There is, and will be, more to your story than broken systems, oppression, and hateful politicians. There will be friendship, there will be song, there will be the solidarity the community showed you when you needed it. There will be the times when you stood up for someone in need, the power of existing beyond what other people dream of… and most importantly, even if it doesn’t feel like it now… there will be joy. There will be hope. There will, someday, be a better future. In the long term… this is a political bubble. These politicians and hateful people are the last of their generation, and they will fail. Because no matter how loud they are… in the words of a friend of mine, it comes from them being empty cans. There is more of us out there who love you, honour you, and believe in your truth, your happiness, and your lives. And unlike them, we have a reason to fight… and we will win.

Another thing you can do is to try act out of hope, and not out of despair. We naturally, as people, run away from fear and negativity. What would it look like instead if we framed our transitions, and our journeys, not just in that way but in life in general… as going towards joy? Imagine, even if it’s just for a second, your ideal world. Who would you be? What would you look like, if you had everything you wanted? Who would you love, in whatever ways come to you? What would people be like? What would you do day to day? Hold that image in your mind. That is dreaming of a better future, and it is incredibly powerful. The people screaming transphobic rhetoric don’t want you to be able to do that, but they can never take it away from you, no matter what they do. With that world in mind, what’s something you can do, right in this moment, to make that world closer? Something to make the world a bit better, or a bit more free, or to make yourself a little bit happier. Whatever it is, go out and do it, to the best of your ability. Whether that be to do something kind, research a new label, try a new pronoun set, try out a new hobby, make art, or just rest and have a good sleep. You have done something against the oppression of the moment, by daring to believe in yourself when they don’t want you to. Be proud of that, and do it over and over again, whenever you can. This power is hope, and it will never be defeated, no matter what happens. Next time you’re scared, try act towards who you want to be, and the world you want to see, rather than because of the pain of the present. It is much more sustainable, and you will go far with it.

Finally, always remember that you are loved, and you are valued. You are the only person on this earth who can experience life in the way that you do. Every day you wake up and choose life is a victory. You are allowed to be human, to make mistakes, and try new things. There is nothing wrong with who you are, how you feel, or what you dream of. The most important things are letting yourself be, not hurting others, and fixing your mistakes. Your best will always be enough, and remember to rest. Love as hard as you can, both those you love and yourself. Take time to yourself in all that you do, and do the best you can do, in the ways that are right for you and your situation. It is not your fault the world can be so dark as it feels like it is, and someday, it will get better. To get us there, never give up hope. Keep on dreaming of the world you want and the world you know can happen, and do anything you can to bring it closer. No matter what, live on, so you can be there for those better days, even if it’s just the smallest thing getting a tiny bit easier. That is a victory, and you deserve to celebrate it. Celebrate yourself and celebrate your joy. It is a long road… but you’ve got plenty of time to make it to that world, and as long as you don’t give up… victory will come.

[neopronounhell]

kie/kir short story! ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆

Kie was breathing hard, all kir peers frozen in place around kir as kir palms went cold from sweat.

Kie had been able to stop time since kie was little. Stop time. It was absolutely insane. Kie had never told anyone, and what was the point? It wasn’t like kie could bring anyone into the timestop with kir.

Back to the current moment, though, kie had a presentation due right now. Kie hated public speaking, but kie hadn’t known it was this bad. Kie had never stopped time impulsively before.

Time had been stopping for kir for the last week, completely randomly. Kie just figured it was kir powers on the fritz, and this just confirmed it.

Well, until kie saw the person in the corner of kir eye, moving slightly and staring at kir.

“Who the fuck are you?!” kie screeched, and the handsome stranger laughed, extending his hand to shake.

“Allan, it’s nice to meet you, darling,” he smirked.

“Don’t call me that, asshole!” kie said, pulling kir jacket over kirself protectively, and glaring at him.

“I’m so sorry, we seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot. Would you like to restart?” he said.

“Leave me alone, creep.” kie snarled. Usually kie would curl into kirself and panic, but the time stop gave kir a confidence kie never had.

“Oh, c’mon, just let me redo this! I’d really like to be friends, you’re the only other person I know with… this.” he said, sounding almost disgusted.

“You’re the one who’s been stopping time for the whole damn week?! You’re even more of an asshole than I thought,” kie groaned, and he smiled at kir again. It was almost like he was trying to flirt with kir. Gods.

“You’re so kind,” he grinned, and kie scowled at him.

“Listen, I need to get this presentation over with. Will you unpause or fucking not?”

“Why should I? We can spend as much time as we want here. No responsibilities. No laws. What’s stopping you?”

Kir heart stopped. What is this guy saying? Kir heart pumped in kir chest as he stared kir in the eyes, challenging kir.

And time unpaused, and it was time to give a book report.