Eryn McCee
LightNews LightNews
banner
erynmccee.bsky.social
Eryn McCee
@erynmccee.bsky.social
3.2K followers 740 following 10K posts
Writes dragons. Eats metaphor. Occasionally human.
British soul, German soil, haunted playlist.

#HorrorWritersChat co-host

https://Linktr.ee/Eryn.mcconnell
Posts Replies Media Videos
erynmccee.bsky.social
Here we go #HorrorWritersChat!
Please, promo your stuff. Shout loud about what you've got on the boil. Tell us about your latest release.
However, please also: repost mutuals and those here tonight.
And if you could, repost some of Matt's books, who founded this chat and nursed it from its infancy.
there is no algorithm here, so visibility depends on engagement with others. hit the questions, use the hashtag, share other writer’s stuff. finally, have you got something to shout about? Now’s your chance.
November 19, 2025 at 8:13 PM
erynmccee.bsky.social
Q4 is up. Ten minutes to outro and the promo: I am still working my way through. You're all wonderful busy bees today and I adore you!
This one is a little easier. No archetypes!

#HorrorWritersChat
What scares your male characters the most - and what does that reveal about the masks they wear?
November 19, 2025 at 7:54 PM
erynmccee.bsky.social
Q3. I'm doing what I can to answer everyone, and repost, so bear with me. So I don't keep you waiting, I'll throw out 3. Interpret this one how you like. I know many queer folks like me do not align masculinity with man shaped. And with horror, we love to subvert our tales.

#HorrorWritersChat
When you write men in horror, do you lean into masculinity, subvert it, or weaponise it? Share one moment where you made it matter.
November 19, 2025 at 7:36 PM
erynmccee.bsky.social
Well then, #HorrorWritersChat. What's an archetype anyway? I jest. We're all writers here... after alllllllll....
What’s your favourite male archetype to corrupt in horror - and how do you twist it until it becomes something monstrous or tragic?
November 19, 2025 at 7:14 PM
erynmccee.bsky.social
Here we go, #HorrorWritersChat!

Q1 has arrived. It's international men's day today, and I thought actually that's a good topic. Not the easiest one to build questions around, either. So if I do not hit the mark I am sure you will forgive me.
As usual, no links, no pitches, not till the end.
Tell us who you are, what you write, and the one quality that defines the men in your stories - whether it saves them or damns them.
November 19, 2025 at 7:00 PM
erynmccee.bsky.social
#HorrorWritersChat your one hour warning
Horror writers chat Happening today... at the usual time... 7pm GMT 2pm EST
November 19, 2025 at 6:00 PM
erynmccee.bsky.social
The word of the day was infestation.
I added to it words of regret, and grief-laden promises, and the bitter taste of folding away hopes that were not for you anyway.
And then I gave it back.
They came in quiet, sliding into my rooms, my rafters. They called themselves the Infestation. It was not rats, nor roaches, but thoughts in sweet, scented silk slippers, smiling. One told me I was sweet. Another said I’d always be alone. That I knew that already. They nested behind my ribs, spun webs between my should-haves and my never-will-be’s. They slid past my fear, wound tight behind windows And danced over the regret that seeped quietly in the places where I still allowed it. I fed them little things: a glance, a memory, the taste of his name in my mouth. Now they breed in the marrow, and when I speak, it’s with their tongues. I miss the silence. But even that was never mine.
November 11, 2025 at 2:41 PM
erynmccee.bsky.social
I wrote this, not quite knowing where it would go, but liking her thinking as I wrote it. Make of that what you will. The prompt: remains.
You always asked me Face upturned so sweet To preserve your remains Remember me as I lived, you said So I did - as I always did I followed your instructions to the t As they like to say I bottled you and stacked you up In all my empty glass jars And stored you away Tucked into the shadows behind me Leaving you to rot Just as you did to me I won't forget you But now I begin to live
November 10, 2025 at 8:41 PM
erynmccee.bsky.social
I took putrefy (stupid prompt word, who thought of that? It was me) and added some hope. Because even rotting things have warmth. And I handed it back.
She watched him from afar, noticing how his fingers stilled in sorrow thinking no one noticed how his hopes had rotted in fertile soil. He thought he’d failed. Grief settled into every line as his head bowed, wishes of love putrefying in dead, withered roses. But her eyes saw it all. And as he sank, she gathered her plans, sweeping them up with fresh blooms not yet opened, but blazing with hope.
November 9, 2025 at 12:17 PM
erynmccee.bsky.social
The prompt was spore print. I added a slice of determination and a soupçon of fate. And then I gave it back.
They said that a soul leaves its print like a mushroom leaves a spore print - delicate, invisible, but traceable to the trained eye. In the lecture hall, under stark lights and glass vitrines, the professor explained soul-mapping in neat, academic terms. Most students nodded, bored or bemused. She moved. She walked to the central glass panel. And she placed her hand flat against it, leaving the faintest trace of warmth, of skin oil, of pressure. “Why’d you do that?” her friend whispered, half-laughing. She turned, quiet, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Because I’m tired of waiting for him to find me. I need to leave my handprints wherever I go. Let him track me. Let him know.” Then she walked out, her shoulders squared, her mouth a quiet line of resolve. Her friend followed after, shaking her head with slight amusement. And one man, who had been still the whole time, stood up. He spoke not a word. He pushed up the sleeve of his sweater, exposing his wrist, inked with spirals. He walked to the glass, and put his hand there. He matched it to hers. It was a perfect fit. Left hand to right. Warmth to warmth. He exhaled softly, like something inside him unclenched. He didn’t chase her. He smiled, faintly. She would leave more prints. He would follow. Not to find her. To meet her.
November 8, 2025 at 3:02 PM
erynmccee.bsky.social
Fracture was the word. I added a slice of gaslighting and handed it back.
He liked to smile when she cried. When she said it hurt, he sighed - a happy sigh, not from fear, but joy. You remember it wrong, he’d say. Such a dramatic kitten, he’d sigh - with a smile. And so it went. Until the ice cooled the mirror. A fracture slid across its face. And her reflection rose, whispering the truth. At last, she looked Her eyes opened And his masks fell. He did not smile. He cried.
November 5, 2025 at 4:39 PM
erynmccee.bsky.social
The prompt was mildewed. I actually wrote this into my book this morning. And then forgot I didn't post it. Because it was already with the air.
The bowl keeps its silence And mildew answered Every pause becomes Its own small hunger
November 4, 2025 at 10:12 PM
erynmccee.bsky.social
I was going to write something about rot and decay for the prompt miasmatic. But after the day I had, I wanted something quite different.
Yet, the word requires its tithe.
So I wrapped it in a plane wing of memory, a building near the stars, reverence, and breath. Then, I sent it back.
The air was still sick with endings Even from up here, where the clouds clutched at corners that grazed the sky. Memory still withered here The kind that seeps into brick, slides across forgotten glass. I sat solitary on the roof City spread like a map, wounded, fettered. One solitary plane trailed its miasmatic wing As it breathed what we had lost What we loved too much to keep. Despite myself, my eyes looked in hope A blistered, forlorn hope. Of shoots of green, of something fighting through Of winter leaves and hands, reaching in reverence Of a sigh, a breath, a sign That's maybe how we can go on.
November 3, 2025 at 8:08 PM
erynmccee.bsky.social
The prompt was carrion.
I wrapped it in a Morrigan face, set it in a battlefield and then, I passed it back.
Your name is a carcass That I keep under my tongue Did you think I would discard you? Nay, I leave you to rot there Your blessed purgatory Where you can ride in the warm dark And survey the battlefield Your hopes lie fallow Carrion in the dirt Did you think I would fall easy?
November 3, 2025 at 4:17 PM
erynmccee.bsky.social
Mmmm-hmmmm.
The prompt was spoor. A scentilicious word, no?
I took the spoor, made it sickening, hung it out to dry, and then handed it back.
He tracked me, tireless flickering past every whispered no Slipping through windows through doors I forgot to close he called it love, of course i called it a warning. yet my ribs were spoored by him Callouses blooming dark red my fingers tore at the seams of me itching to drag his scent free but one day i stepped out into light such a simple thing and he burned his breath gone no more cage. no more rot. just me.
November 2, 2025 at 10:05 AM
erynmccee.bsky.social
I just finished a ghost write. And I feel really, fucking sad about it. I will miss those characters. But the client is coming back in February so I'll cope till then.
In the meantime, I've put down 3K on a domestic feminist noir novella about menopausal murderers. You lot are going to LOVE Mavis.
“You did well,” she said again. “Don’t let your nerves get the better of you. Drink your tea next time.” “I will.” They crossed the road in a slow, stately fashion. Mavis kept her head up and her smile in. It was always satisfying to complete a mission, but it would never do to get too excited about it. Murder was a serious business, after all. By the time they reached the station, Mavis was already thinking about what to wear tomorrow. She could dig out her lovely old wool coat that had a deep pocket for her knitting. Useful, that. And maybe, just maybe – she could have lunch at Betty’s after. Madam Chairman would approve, she was sure. It was important to reward oneself after good work. Otherwise, what was the point in doing it properly?
November 1, 2025 at 9:55 PM
erynmccee.bsky.social
The prompt was mycelium.
Love found me there, in the crystalline roots A spiderweb of soft, creeping quiet under the bark It found me there, soft And we did not fall apart, there in the dark We fed our parts to the roots that witnessed us Mycelium blooming between our entwined ribs A forest breaking open It laced the ruin of us, slow, hungry turning rot into memory and memory into bloom.
November 1, 2025 at 3:18 PM
erynmccee.bsky.social
The prompt was Resurrect. I swathed it in lies, snarls and fingernails, clawing its way to the surface, unbreathing: and gave it back.
I woke where my name had already rotted No miracle, just muscle. No god, just want My resurrection was not tidy, nor glorious It never comes gentle, tearing through its own mummified shroud Even bones bloom, if you wait long enough in the dark Unblinking, hardly breathing; I stitched myself from what I’d thrown away, And built a new body out of snarled curses and ash. The dirt held me until I stopped apologising for the dark I rose, not to live, but to remember how it felt to want life The soil remembered what I tried to forget left it buried under my fingernails. My pulse learned to mimic the hum of flies. I didn’t rise. I was dragged upward by what I buried There’s holiness in rot, you see; the saints just never stayed long enough to see it.
October 31, 2025 at 11:01 AM
erynmccee.bsky.social
The prompt was deliquesce. I poured it into a crystal glass of self-erasure, and let it slide into silence. Then I handed it back.
Some burn when they love. Scorch marks rising in the sky Claw marks, lines of possession. They loved, once. And left the scars. I am no stranger to fire. Nor to what it leaves behind But I do not burn. I drown when I love Or perhaps I deliquesce. The devotion that pours from my eyes A tide that carpets the feet of those that I choose Making their path smooth They walk away from me, sated And I prefer that, really. Because I can love, and give, and turn to this An inevitability. A sighing as I subside Quietly, into decline Dissolving into the skies.
October 30, 2025 at 1:38 PM
erynmccee.bsky.social
Here's your cue, Horror Writers Chat folks. Shout out your books.

#HorrorWritersChat
there is no algorithm here, so visibility depends on engagement with others. hit the questions, use the hashtag, share other writer’s stuff. finally, have you got something to shout about? Now’s your chance.
October 29, 2025 at 7:53 PM
erynmccee.bsky.social
Q4, and this is the last one for tonight. Hang around for the pimp your book part of the night in 10 minutes. Please do repost others. Please do go and repost one of Matt's books as well.
Thanks thanks.
#HorrorWritersChat
if we could resurrect one forgotten fear or myth: which one are you choosing?
October 29, 2025 at 7:45 PM
erynmccee.bsky.social
So what does it say about us, as the folklore evolves, and we fear new things, in the dark...

#HorrorWritersChat
we used to fear the dark, and the woods: now we fear the screens and the systems. What next? What does it tell us about us? Or do you keep the old in your stories?
October 29, 2025 at 7:30 PM
erynmccee.bsky.social
Q2, #HorrorWritersChat. Q2.
folklore turned fear into story: a way to explain or control the unknown. What old fear or myth still resonates with you and why?
October 29, 2025 at 7:15 PM
erynmccee.bsky.social
Hola, Horror Writers. I'm going to post and eat as I've pretty much just walked in. But, we're all about it today, so close to Halloween!
Tell me tell me. What scared you as a child?

No links, no hawking books please, till the end. Thanks Thanks.

#HorrorWritersChat
Welcome home, horror writers! Introduce yourselves. What do you write and .... what was your childhood fear....
October 29, 2025 at 7:00 PM
erynmccee.bsky.social
Serial Killer Husbands in the wild. That's all I have to say.
October 29, 2025 at 10:16 AM