Anne T.

Mechanical Triptych is Out Now on Itch!

Three short stories about Mechs, their Pilots, and the Radio. Mechanical Triptych is a small collection of re-edited (and much improved imo) stories originally posted here, available as pay-what-you-want on my itch page! You can find it here:
https://anneandrogen.itch.io/mechanical-triptych

AND

I've got a website!

After years of wanting one but being intimidated by neocities and all html, I've finally gone and done it. Shout out to Zonelets for doing all the hard work for me.
Find me, also, here:
https://anneandrogen.neocities.org/

The writing side of cohost has genuinely meant a lot to me, and I'm so going to miss you all.

This is the first place I'd ever posted any writing, and getting people who actually read and encouraged me was a life changer for the art I want to produce.

Cohost was just the perfect place to post short stories. The range to post something several thousand words long, alongside the slow paced dash and site culture so that people will actually stop and read your work. And god, the prompts, I appreciate every prompt account so much. Not just as an aggregrator of prompts, but as a way to find so many other writers to read.

So, thank you. Thanks to everyone who's posted their writing here. Thank you to everyone who ever shared it. Thanks to everyone who ever commented. Thanks to all the prompt accounts. Thanks to assc for the website.

I'll be here until the end, and I hope I can see all of you again. Even if it's not all together.

Three short stories about Mechs and their Pilots. First posted here on cohost, but re-edited, newer and shinier then ever!
-Attachments Must Be Less Than 10mb
-Emergency Broadcast
-Kill The Mech Pilot In Your Head
All in one neat little collection.

Mech Pilot who, wait. Where’s the Mech Pilot?

read more of my writing here

I am not naturally so fluid as this. How am I running at such an easy gate? What commands 100 tons of metal to weave between trees? To take a knee behind buildings that barely cover my head, and to be so precise with the aim of my rifle?

It's a vile thing.

My pieces could move only through such an incredible series of physics that the odds of a single step are a million to one. Yet right now I am catching a stumbling comrade in my arms, lowering my sister to lie upon the grass while gallons of oil spill from her severed leg. A blissful non-existence was supposed to be my fate, separate and unanimated. The alloy of my body and mind is a miracle. I should be utterly impossible.

Yet, of all the stardust that boiled into the metal and fluid and electricity that comprises my body, not an atom, not a quark, was ever so unlucky.