Madison Rye Progress
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makyo.bsky.social
Madison Rye Progress
@makyo.bsky.social
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Author! ✍️ https://makyo.ink - Profile: Cadmiumtea
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makyo.bsky.social
Living through the end of the world — at least, as one knows it.

Kaddish is being released serially at read.post-self.ink/kaddish/
I remember little else from that night. Or I remember it, but through a dream-fog of panic. I remember how Rav From Whence sprung immediately into action — or, rather, how she was already a whirlwind of motion and emotion, there in the thick of it all, and how the instance beside me, one who had existed to track our discussion, merged down as soon as she saw what was happening, and I remember how Rav Sorenson dashed in to help. The both of them had soon forked several times over and were corralling the crowd into knots of smaller groups that they might speak more easily with them, working on the level of family, perhaps, or friend-group. I remember how I stood, once more, just as What Right Have I#Coffee had done, gawking at the pandemonium I remember most of all, though, the first wail — the first recognition of loss and the first wail of despair and pain that rang out into the night — and the bright arc of a firework soaring into the sky, bursting, and then the sudden disappearance as the show was canceled. I remember hearing the wail, seeing the sparks and then sudden dark, and then stepping to my room to hide under my desk, letting flow tears of confusion, frustration, and terror.
November 7, 2025 at 4:35 AM
makyo.bsky.social
You can assume things about True Name. It will be fine. She is a stout lass, she can take it.

(Art: @marqosias.bsky.social )
Post your OC and let people assume things about them. A kind looking portly skunk with glasses and a dandelion behind her ear. Her tail is fucking enormous.
October 23, 2025 at 6:57 PM
makyo.bsky.social
Book...
A stack of books: Arcana Rum and Coke Eigengrau Restless Town A Wildness of the Heart Ally Qoheleth Toledot Nevi'im Mitzvot Clade Motes Played Marsh Idumea
October 7, 2025 at 8:57 PM
makyo.bsky.social
I am curious.
Post this and let your followers decide what you're most known for.
September 30, 2025 at 7:11 AM
makyo.bsky.social
[increasing size of domino meme, with the small domino labeled "God curses Job" and the big domino labeled "furries creating new characters to explore gender"]
Gustavo Gutiérrez, in his investigation into the Book of Job On Job: God-Talk and the Suffering of the Innocent, posits that Job exemplifies disinterested religion — that is, a non-transactional faith that holds even when there is not a direct benefit or punishment. “[The author of the Book of Job] believes it to be possible, although he undoubtedly knew the difficulty that human suffering, one’s own and that of others, raises against authentic faith in God. Job, whom he makes the vehicle of his own experience, will be his spokesman.” (Gutierrez, n.d., 1) While I find this argument extremely compelling as a way to describe the entirety of Job and its role in both Judaism and Christianity, my own thesis does not necessarily have anything to do with theodicy. Rather, I’d like to posit that there are at least two possible outcomes for Job after the events of the book. On the one hand, Job might follow the path of Qohelet in the eponymous book (called Ecclesiastes in Christian bibles), or he can follow the path of Jonah. That is, he can maintain his disinterested faith, or doubt can overtake him. He can become the wise, if perhaps jaded, author of a text that argues “there is nothing better for man under the sun than to eat and to drink and to make merry.” (Qohelet 8:15, NRSV) Or he can become the reluctant prophet who says to God upon saving the stupid Ninevites that he is “angry enough to die.” (Jonah 4:9, NRSV)
September 19, 2025 at 6:09 AM
makyo.bsky.social
Show me a picture from your phone that has your energy. Not a selfie.
September 19, 2025 at 5:51 AM
makyo.bsky.social
Picnic...
A sunny day and a meadow looking out over mountains.
July 24, 2025 at 9:42 PM
makyo.bsky.social
Today on my Patreon: Quakers processing the end of the world.

www.patreon.com/posts/134763...
He took a deep breath and continued. “We were all messed up, and I was wondering how we’d be able to leave any room for silence. Surely we’d all be clamoring to speak, trying our damnedest to wait a minute or so between each message. “But no. We just…sat there. Twenty-fucking-five of us, two clades, and we just sat there in silence for the whole damn hour.” He scuffed the heel of his palm against first one cheek, then the other. “That’s not even that rare. Once every…I don’t know, fifteen, twenty meetings or so, we’ll have a fully silent one. No messages. No speaking. We all just sit there like a bunch of fucking idiots and it’ll be the most impactful thing to happen to us for months to come. “You don’t really think of it, but fifteen weeks is a long time. More than a quarter of a year! And here we are, spending months thinking about sitting, silent, in a room for an hour or more. This is why I say idiots. You put it into perspective, and it seems so stupid.”
July 23, 2025 at 10:13 AM
makyo.bsky.social
Okay but why
Apparently, St Louis atheists followed me
July 21, 2025 at 10:40 PM
makyo.bsky.social
B o o k
A bunch of books on display at a convention
July 19, 2025 at 6:37 PM
makyo.bsky.social
I'll be at Geek Fest West tomorrow at the Cloud City Bookstore with all of the Post-Self books (and hopefully more besides).
July 19, 2025 at 5:28 AM
makyo.bsky.social
Midnight strikes.

§

Coming soon. marsh.post-self.ink
23:59. “Practice, maybe,” I said. “But hey, happy New Year.” “Is it time, then?” she asked. I nodded, willed away the drunkenness, took a sip of water. “Alright. I love you, Hanne Marie. I’ll miss you.” She rolled her eyes. “Tell Marsh I said—
June 28, 2025 at 11:39 PM
makyo.bsky.social
This some sort of

Some sort of strange horse or something
A dog who may be a strange horse
June 25, 2025 at 8:18 PM
makyo.bsky.social
Soon...

marsh.post-self.ink
The book cover for Marsh, a Post-Self anthology edited by Madison Rye Progress. A group of six people in heated discussion around a glitchy silhouette of another.
June 24, 2025 at 9:23 PM
makyo.bsky.social
What will become of me? And am I born to die?

×

Idumea.post-self.ink
June 23, 2025 at 4:22 AM
makyo.bsky.social
Coils and coils, and coils and coils and coils.

×

Idumea is available as a paperback, ebook, and free to read in the browser idumea.post-self.ink
The longer we live — and, my dear readers, I will remind you that I am now 323 years old! — the more evident it becomes to us that there is a fractally cyclical nature to life: the years spiral up and the months spiral around and the days spiral forward — weeks are a construct borne out of our inherited faith but perhaps they too spiral — and so we live within a fractally cyclical tangle of time. I know this. You know this, I am sure, on however instinctual a level, for you are clever and bright and you see the world with fresher eyes than I have. You are cleverer and brighter and fresher than your humble narrator who paces the empty rooms of her house and fills them with the quiet muttering of the mad. The Woman knew this as well. When she woke from her nap — for my astute readers remember that that is how this rambling chapter began! — she could now — in a way she could not before — feel and perhaps even see these spirals. She could see the way that her 317 years had spiraled up around her. She could see the way that time bound her, tied her up in coils and coils and coils and coils and coils. She could see these coils — however metaphorically — as they twined around her legs and torso. She could feel these coils — however metaphorically — slowing her down, holding her arms to her side and limiting her reach. They — these coils and coils and coils — obscured her. Ah, my friends, I am struggling. I can feel and see these coils and coils and coils and coils and coils and coils and coils and coils, yes, and am obscured. I am going to lay down, and perhaps I will dream.
May 19, 2025 at 9:06 AM
makyo.bsky.social
Ashes Denote That Fire Was

×

Idumea is available as paperback ebook, and free to read in the browser idumea.post-self.ink
[…] and I do not believe she merged cross-tree with anyone except perhaps Ashes Denote That Fire Was, who is building in themself a gestalt of the clade as best they can. From Dickinson: Ashes denote that Fire was — Revere the Grayest Pile For the Departed Creature's sake That hovered there awhile — Fire exists the first in light And then consolidates Only the Chemist can disclose Into what Carbonates. We have always borne an obsession with Emily Dickinson. For years and years, and years and years and years she has lived within us, a remnant of some stage play we performed with our superlative friend, centuries back now. Is it so surprising, then, that after cross-tree merging had been introduced as an option for us, that the one who would seek to collect within themself the entirety of the Ode clade — those who remain, dear readers! — would take for a name a line of Dickinson? We will be ever ourselves.
May 16, 2025 at 9:43 PM
makyo.bsky.social
Dandelion fields and too much time for one person...

—

Qoheleth, book 1 in the Post-Self cycle, is available as paperback, ebook, and free to read in the browser qoheleth.post-self.ink
Days passed. The sun rose and set with a frightening hum/utter tranquility. She stood/she stood. Poetry coursed through her, half remembered/perfectly memorized lines from productions long past. Lines from school, from work. “Since then — ’tis Centuries — and yet Feels shorter than the Day I first surmised the Horse’s Heads Were toward Eternity —” It had been centuries for her, and yet each felt shorter than the crash to the ground from out of the perilous heights of the embodied world. Time feels so vast that were it not For an Eternity… Time, which beat against the skies. Time, which hemmed her in. Time, which forced words from her mouth/from her muzzle in breathless haste/unwavering slowness. I fear me this Circumference Engross my Finity — To His exclusion who prepare By Process of Size For the Stupendous Vision Of his diameters — “Oh fox.” She cried again/cried again. Sat on the ground again/sat on the ground again. Plucked a dandelion/plucked a dandelion. Again/again. Always twice over.
May 15, 2025 at 7:07 AM
makyo.bsky.social
"I see motes of memory all scattered about, significance imbued in pregnant silence and insignificant moments."

A snippet from "Columbines", a mirror to "Nasturtiums", by Samantha Yule Fireheart, included in Marsh

marsh.post-self.ink
I remember the court of an abandoned schoolyard overgrown with frosted branches and cast in a blanket of blinding white. I remember the stillness of the air, the chill of that heavy silence that comes when a pressure front has rolled in and your voice carries twice as far. I remember the warmth of a paw on my back through fur, under a coat far too thick for my liking. I remember you sharing the air under my jaw. I remember how you had just nudged me in that deadly way of yours, the consequential buzzing up and down my neck, the way my arms subtly curled in against my chest as if to embrace you despite the weight of your head on my shoulder. I remember the first time we laughed about the joyless droop of young columbines, the way they hung limply from their stems like the trunk of an elephant. I remember how you were tickled by the flamboyance of their frilled hindpetals; by the bombast of ten and then their stamina like so many proud little dicks standing erect for all to bear witness, as if for us to do so was to be some kind of transcendental experience. I remember how wide your smile was that day when, still amidst a fit of giggling, I mused that I may make a garden of them if their shamelessness so attracted you. That brightness melted me; it made me what I am today.
May 13, 2025 at 9:46 PM
makyo.bsky.social
A being of growth.

★

Motes Played is available as an ebook, paperback, or free to read in the browser. motes-played.post-self.ink
For each of those who lived there, the neighborhood was theirs in some specific way, and for Motes, it was hers to paint. Motes had painted it all hundreds of times, of course. She had painted the prairie, painted the neighborhood, painted those who lived there. She had chosen the colors of many of the houses — had even helped paint some by hand until it had gotten too boring. She had chalked up all of the sidewalks — Warmth had conspired with A Finger Pointing and Serene, the sim’s designers, so that colored chalk lines flowered behind her automatically as she walked when she so desired — and she so desired — only to fade some hours later. One could always tell where Motes had come and gone. Thus, when, still sleepy, she trudged out of the ranch-style home she shared with A Finger Pointing and Beholden, colored lines of flowering vines trailed after her bare paws. She guided those vines with her steps or, relishing in a secret pleasure, pretended like they were propelling her forward, pretending that she was a being of growth — that she was a seed, a being of potential — that she was a giant at the head of some toppled beanstalk.
May 8, 2025 at 6:19 AM
makyo.bsky.social
"Stability was *us.*"

A snippet from "Nasturtiums", a short story included in Marsh, out soon.

marsh.post-self.ink
Phys-side got the System up and limping a few times, I have heard, before it was at least up and stable enough. Stable enough! Stability was us. Stability was our lives. Stability was our quiet cottage. Stability was us heading to clubs and dancing until we wanted to pass out — until we did, on more than one occasion, slumped against each other and panting in some corner booth. Stability was the four of us — you and Boss, me and Beckoning — meeting up for dinner every few months and sharing our laughter. Stability was her garden. Stability was the years she grew so much zucchini. Stability was loaf after loaf of zucchini bread, meal after meal of zucchini noodles, the grates of the grill getting weary of grilled zucchini. Stability was the bright border of snapdragons and nasturtiums that bordered the walk. Stability was the few years she got obsessed with marigolds. Stability was the three dandelions she always permitted in the yard — moderation! Imagine. Stability was her green thumb to my brown, it was Motes visiting and calling us ‘her weird gay aunts’, our little Sprout digging her paws into good clean earth beside her while I watched from the stoop with a gin and tonic with too much lime. This is not stability. For me, this will never be stability. She is twice lost, and from this she will never come back. Do not delude yourself, 23 billion of us are lost and will never come back. 23 billion souls forgotten by the dreamer who dreams us all.
May 6, 2025 at 2:51 PM
makyo.bsky.social
On breath.

×

Idumea is available as a paperback, ebook, and free to read in the browser at idumea.post-self.ink
The Woman’s breath caught in her throat. When I tell you that breath is important even sys-side, you must understand all of the different roles that it plays. We are built to breathe, you and I, and so is everyone else. We can turn that off, sure, but the vast majority of cladists find such uncomfortable. Not breathing still feels like holding one’s breath, yes? Even without the rising CO2 levels in our blood — blood that we must only imagine that we have — it is uncomfortable to feel like one is holding one’s breath for too long. We use breath for speaking, and even though I am not speaking to you right now, I am still breathing. I still feel the warmth of my breath against my paw as it brushes across the page with each line of text. We use breath for gasping, for sighing, for even snoring! So when I tell you that The Woman’s breath caught in her throat, you must imagine the way your breath might catch in your own throat when suddenly you hear something that causes a rising tide of emotions that takes precedence even over that, even over breathing. You must picture the way that you feel when, if you were to breathe, you fear there might be a whine of fear or a moan of terror — or even pleasure, because we are no less susceptible to that. And here, now, The Woman was feeling most of all grief. She feared that, were she to let her breath out, it would be that whine of fear, that moan of terror, a wave of tears.
March 25, 2025 at 5:58 PM
makyo.bsky.social
Not to sleep, but to withdraw to where love dwells.

★

Motes Played is available as a paperback, ebook, and free to read online at motes-played.post-self.ink
As darkness fell, as they planned on bed, she checked up on Motes for herself. The skunk lay tightly curled beneath her covers, a pillow held tightly in her arms, eyes clenched tightly shut. She was tempted to stand there for a few minutes, simply watching her charge, her Dot, sleep. Or…not sleep, but withdraw from the waking world. Better to show what she could. She stepped quietly into the room and climbed up onto Motes’s bed with her, curling behind her and draping an arm across the little skunk. “I love you, Dot,” she mumbled, burying her face against the back of her neck. “I am sorry.” There was more she could say — so much more — but for some reason, words failed her after that. Words and will both failed her, and so she simply lay there with Motes, replying to Beholden’s gentle, inquiring ping with a soothing one of her own. She had told Motes that she loved her, as she never tired of doing so, and that was enough. She lay there until she felt her dóttir slowly relax beneath her arm, heard her breathing slow, and then for a while after.
March 15, 2025 at 1:31 AM
makyo.bsky.social
The Bay of Colors

§

Marsh, the newest Post-Self book, is coming soon, with a novel and several short stories marsh.post-self.ink

Cover art by Iris Jay
The town, while no less visually chaotic than the beach, was at least more heartening to look at. Everything — everything; the walls of buildings, the roofs, doors and window shutters, even the roads — was covered with a blindingly colorful mosaic of tiles. “To Limáni Ton Khromáton is nearly two centuries old,” Dry Grass explained as we started trudging up one of those streets. “When you enter, you are given a single tile — if you check your pockets, it should be in there.” Sure enough, when I dug my hand into my pocket, I found a cerulean tile, a little square of porcelain about three centimeters on a side. The rest of the Marshans dug in their pockets and pulled out tiles of their own, all one shade or another of blue. “Unless you hold a color in your mind when you enter, you are provided with your favorite,” Dry Grass explained. She pulled a golden yellow tile out of her own pocket and flipped it up in the air like a coin. “All of this — all of the mosaic — has been placed by visitors. “Set No Stones told me about this place.” She smiled wryly. “Because of course she did. We are consummate pros at living up to our names. You may place your tile wherever you like, and so long as it is touching the edge of another, it will stick. You will not be able to remove it after, so make sure to place it carefully.” A Mediterranean town with all building exteriors covered in colorful tiles
March 14, 2025 at 7:38 AM
makyo.bsky.social
New Year's Eve, 2399.

—

Marsh, a new Post-Self novel, releases soon. marsh.post-self.ink
Five minutes left. Three. 23:58, and I opened my eyes and smiled. “Well, seems like it’s been a pleasant enough year for everyone involved, though Marsh will deal with all the rest of that later.” “It continues to amaze just how good you are at that.” “What, merging?” She nodded. “It feels pretty straight forward for me,” I said. “I just…remember it all, and when memories or outlooks on life don’t line up, I choose mine.” She laughed. “Still, far better than I am at it.” 23:59. “Practice, maybe,” I said. “But hey, happy New Year.” “Is it time, then?” she asked. I nodded, willed away the drunkenness, took a sip of water. “Alright. I love you, Hanne Marie. I’ll miss you.” She rolled her eyes. “Tell Marsh I said—
March 7, 2025 at 3:45 PM