makyo

Author, Beat Sabreuse, Skunks

Recovering techie with an MFA, working on like a kajillion writing projects at once. Check out the Post-Self cycle, Restless Town, A Wildness of the Heart, ally, and a whole lot of others.


Trans/nb, queer, polyam, median, constantly overwhelmed.


Current hyperfixation: SS14


Skunks&:

⏳ Slow Hours | 🪔 Beholden
🫴 Hold My Name | ✨ Motes
🌾 Rye | ★ What Right Have I
🌱 Dry Grass | ⚖️ True Name
🌺 May Then My Name

Icon by Mot, header by @cupsofjade

posts from @makyo tagged #serial fiction

also:

← Prev | ↑ First | Next → End of preview! Motes Played will be out early summer~

Motes Played is a new @Post-Self novella, and is up for pre-order as a paperback and ebook over at https://motes-played.post-self.ink. I will be releasing the first few chapters ahead of time here~

Content notes: blood from a fall; an adult character interacting with the world as a child; themes of familial abuse.

Motes Played relies on the plots of The Post-Self Cycle, particularly Mitzvot. It is recommended that you read those works (or the primer) first to avoid confusion and spoilers. They may all be found here as paperbacks, ebooks, and free to read in the browser.

The tilde (~) is the punctuation mark of whimsy and on this I will not be swayed.

Motes — 2362



Next →

Motes Played is a new @Post-Self novella, and is up for pre-order as a paperback and ebook over at https://motes-played.post-self.ink. I will be releasing the first few chapters ahead of time here~

Content notes: an adult character interacting with the world as a child; vague themes of familial abuse.

Motes Played relies on the plots of The Post-Self Cycle, particularly Mitzvot. It is recommended that you read those works (or the primer) first to avoid confusion and spoilers, but you can probably make your way through all the same if you try. They may all be found here as paperbacks, ebooks, and free to read in the browser.

The tilde (~) is the punctuation mark of whimsy and on this I will not be swayed.

She died at play,
Gambolled away
Her lease of spotted hours,
Then sank as gaily as a Turk
Upon a Couch of flowers.

Her ghost strolled softly o’er the hill
Yesterday, and Today,
Her vestments as the silver fleece —
Her countenance as spray.

— Emily Dickinson

Motes — 2362