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sarandipitywrites.bsky.social
SarandipityWrites
@sarandipitywrites.bsky.social
69 followers 51 following 120 posts
They/them | Nonbinary | 30+ | SFF Author
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sarandipitywrites.bsky.social
No 'responsible' for today's #WIPSnips, but Vy certainly feels responsible for what's happened up to this point in Spark Signature.
✨📚🍹
#AmWriting #WritingCommunity #Writers #WriteSky
So they do the only thing they can: they grab that bottle from the shelf and they make a drink. They throw that shit in a shaker and let the ice numb their fingers and they pack this feeling—regret or remorse or guilt or all of it—into a box and put it on the shelf.
December 28, 2024 at 5:32 AM
sarandipitywrites.bsky.social
Today's Spark Signature #WIPSnips is a knockout (for Vy, anyway)!
✨📚🍹
#AmWriting #WritingCommunity #Writers #WriteSky
Vy knows better than to take that hand, to let the stranger help them up. But they take it anyway. As they return to head-spinning verticality, their first thought is that they’ve got to have a concussion. Their second thought is that this stranger, with the park’s lonely streetlamp painting his horns in sunlight and his skin burnished bronze, is stupid gorgeous. Their third thought is that this stranger is, at least by some definitions, not a stranger at all.
December 27, 2024 at 4:40 AM
sarandipitywrites.bsky.social
Here's today's #WIPSnips from Spark Signature—enjoy!
✨📚🍹

#AmWriting #WritingCommunity #Writers #WriteSky
Nobody knows Seattle better than Vy’s feet. In their long and celebrated career of wandering around the city with the express purpose of getting lost, they’ve mapped every sidewalk, byway, park trail, and desire path from Latona to Montlake. As their feet carry them north and they languidly spin and shake and flip their thermos of coffee, the brown vial weighs on them like a pocket of stones. Jules has been acting like a right bastard. There’s no arguing about that, regardless of his intentions. But how much bastardry is enough to justify nonconsensual empathy usage? Is ‘bastardry’ even a quantifiable measurement? And would it even *work*? Empathy needs a deep emotional connection to get anything out of it beyond vague sensation, and for this spell to be worth it—the invasiveness, the illegality, the goddamn *impertinence*—they need to get the good shit. Vy still feels it. That much is fucking obvious. But him? Vy huffs and retrieves a cigarette and their lighter from their bandolier. At least they’ve got the eight miles between them and ‘lost’ to figure it out.
December 26, 2024 at 5:43 AM
sarandipitywrites.bsky.social
Today's #WIPSnips is from a further along in Spark Signature! ✨📚🍹

#AmWriting #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #writers
Vy flinches back. The crackling growl of the barrier thrums behind them, keeping them in place. Lupe's fingertips brush Vy's throat; chills skitter across their skin, prickling their scalp. Its fingers hook around the aged leather strap around Vy's neck.
December 23, 2024 at 5:23 PM
sarandipitywrites.bsky.social
Featured in today's #WIPSnips is Vy's first visit to Julián's tattoo studio in Spark Signature!
#AmWriting #WritingCommunity #writers #WriteSky
It’s full of pieces Julián has done—all the books are, now that Vy’s looking. And Julián’s got a style: eyepopping color, cartoonish characters, and splatters like spray paint. Some of them, though, have something a little extra: delicate lines, hidden under the colors like veins under the skin. Swooping arcs, geometric designs, some small enough to fit the back of a hand, some spanning the subject’s entire body. The specifics differ—this one with more whorls, this one all angles—but all those tiny lines feel intentional. Calculated. The unholy amounts of *math* that must go into those designs makes Vy’s head spin. This guy probably knows calculus. *Calculus.* There’s a reason Vy sticks to bartending.
December 22, 2024 at 8:34 PM
sarandipitywrites.bsky.social
The only 'refer' for today's #WIPSnips is, unfortunately, as good as cut already. Maybe I'll be able to work it back in for a different scene 🤔
#AmWriting #WritingCommunity #writers #WriteSky
Jules snorts. “Shut it, Regan MacNeil.” “Regan…?” Rune rolls xir eyes. “Old movie reference; ignore them.” “He should *not* ignore me, and *The Exorcist* is *not* old; it’s a classic.” “It’s so old, you can’t even watch it in omniscope.” “*Because you’re not supposed to.*”
December 22, 2024 at 2:23 AM
sarandipitywrites.bsky.social
Spark Signature doesn't have a ton of 'snack' references for today's #WIPSnips, but we do have lots of potions! Tasty, tasty potions.

#AmWriting #WritingCommunity #writers #WriteSky
Ahead, the roof ends. Vy draws a potion from their bandolier and drinks it in a single swallow. The periwinkle tonic goes down crisp and sweet. Then the spice hits. It inflames the back of Vy’s tongue, licks up and down their calves and thighs. Muscles tear and mend and bulge; bones thicken and calcify. Vy grits their teeth against it. They don’t try to make the jump to the next rooftop; the potion needs a few more seconds. The drop to the pavement buys them. They touch down, shockwaves shuddering up their legs, hardened bones groaning. They leap, clear over the edge of the roof, legs pumping through the air. Another landing; a dent in the metal. Vy keeps running.
December 20, 2024 at 7:20 PM
sarandipitywrites.bsky.social
Today's Spark Signature #WIPSnips is from chapter 1!

#WriteSky #AmWriting #WritingCommunity #writers
“Hey, I’ll be right back, just gotta—” Vy grabs their tray off the bar, along with a bottle of chilled hibiscus flowers and a kettle. They hurry around the back of the bar, onto the lift, up to the second floor, and into the hallway. They’ve almost made it—_almost_—when the bathroom door swings open. “Shit!” Jacqui’s fast; she pushes the kettle back onto Vy’s tray before it has a chance to jump ship. The flowers aren’t so lucky: the blooms land in a scarlet flurry across her lap. The bottle clatters to the floor, unbroken. The hollow sound of it rolling across the vinyl plank echoes between them.
December 19, 2024 at 5:26 PM
sarandipitywrites.bsky.social
A little late, but here's today's #WIPSnips for Spark Signature!
#WriteSky #AmWriting #WritingCommunity #writers
The door opens easy, ushering them in. Inside the studio, the light is soft—gentle enough to ease the transition from night into dusk, but bright enough that Vy can finally see without squinching their bad eye shut. A minibar stocked with coffee, myriad teas, and a spicerack’s worth of flavorings dominates the left side of the waiting area. On the right side is the seating: plush couches and armchairs surrounding a coffee table stacked with art books. Then there are the masks. On the left hand wall, mounted on every available surface, masks stare down at Vy with empty eyes. Artistic and ceremonial, masks for actors and masks for cops. The collection must’ve come from every corner of the world. It’d be impressive, if those blank eyes didn’t make Vy’s skin want to shed from their bones and slither out into the street. They resolutely turn their eyes down and away, locking instead on the front desk. It draws them forward on a tether, straight to the touchtab mounted on the desk. The left side of the tab’s screen reads: *‘Available artists: Julián (he/him).’*
December 19, 2024 at 7:00 AM
sarandipitywrites.bsky.social
Another bit of Spark Signature for today's #WIPSnips!

#AmWriting #WritingCommunity #writers #WriteSky
“Vy Huỳnh.” The voice behind them is distorted; all cops’ voices are. “You are under arrest for suspicion of murder.” Footsteps coming closer. “You have the right to remain silent.” Hands on their wrists; warm flesh chased by cold metal. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.” They’re pushed to their knees, to the pavement. Hardened glue presses into their cheek. The earthy musk of comfrey swirls in Vy’s sinuses, in their head. “You have a right to legal counsel…” They don’t resist. The cops lead them, silver eyes winking in those black titanium masks, to the squad cars. Vy doesn’t resist; they’re still seeing the impossible. A person—living, breathing—ensnared in alchemical glue. No room to cast a spell; no hand to reach for solvent. Then, nothing. Gone. Impossible. The car door slams behind Vy. They fall back against the plastic seat as the vehicle lurches into motion. Out the window, faintly, a retinue approaches the alley, the imprint. The car picks up speed; the cops shudder and blur and fade into gray walls and neon lights flickering to reluctant life. Vy turns and stares through the dividing grate, out the windscreen. The cabin reeks of blood and magic.
December 17, 2024 at 6:44 PM
sarandipitywrites.bsky.social
From chapter 2 of Spark Signature...

#WIPSnips #WriteSky #WritingCommunity #AmWriting
It’s vintage: an Arietis Meteor in candy-apple red, with cobalt-tinted chrome detailing. They were popular back in the 210’s, fell out of vogue by the 20’s with the debut of the Nova. These days, a working model could be the centerpiece of a collector’s showroom, even though you *can* find a busted one in a junk heap every now and then. Even if you did, you’d be out of luck; most shops won’t fix it for you. They aren’t in the habit of training their mechanics to operate on extinct species. Finding someone with a working Arietis Meteor means you’ve found someone who isn’t just willing to get their hands dirty—you’ve found someone who’s willing to learn the motorbike equivalent of a dead language. Vy’s not that ‘someone.’ But they used to know her.
December 16, 2024 at 8:44 AM
sarandipitywrites.bsky.social
✨SPARK SIGNATURE🍹

Faced with uncovering a decades-long plot and stealing a magitech corp's most sinister assets, most witches would employ their magic, advanced tech, and a highly-skilled heist crew.

Vy Huỳnh doesn't have any of that. They've got their D&D group.

#WIPPIT #SFF #LGBT #FBW
A moodboard for Spark Signature. The background is a map of Seattle, overlaid with an electric pink filter. From top to bottom and left to right. Image 1: Spark Signature, written in a handwritten, graffiti-esque font. The font is white with a purple neon glow. Image 2: A subway tunnel with pink lighting. The walls are covered in graffiti. Image 3: Dice of various types sit on a roleplaying game character sheet. Image 4: Seattle at night. Image 5: A motorcycle on a beach at dusk. Image 6: Shotglasses containing alcohol or magic potions sit in front of a lit red candle and an open-mouthed skull. Image 7: A skyscraper with mirrored windows extends up into the hazy sky. The top is not visible.
December 14, 2024 at 7:03 PM
sarandipitywrites.bsky.social
Today's #WIPSnips comes from Spark Signature!

#amwriting #writingcommunity #writesky
Jules paces the kitchen, running his hands along the countertops, over his arms, through his hair. His voice—a low, constant murmur—fills the air like haze, clinging to every surface and making Vy’s hair stand on end. He doesn’t even seem to hear the door open, doesn’t see Vy at all. Not until they’re standing across the bar from him, a world and an island and a foot-and-a-half away. He blinks—slow, catlike. “…Vy?” The surreality, the incongruence, the *wrongness* of it all dries Vy’s mouth, coats their tongue in sand. But they have to say something, do *something.* “You, uh… you okay?” “Fine.” He crosses his arms; his hand wraps around the flexed muscle of his biceps and he flinches. A moment of hesitation; he props his hip against the bar instead, tail lashing. “You’ve been out for a long time.” “Just. You know. Working.” What is *wrong* with him? Does he know where Vy’s been, that Vy *knows*? Sure, Vy came back to tell him, to ask him what the *fuck* he thought he was doing, but that’d been when Vy thought they’d have the upper hand, the first shot, not that Jules would be lurking around the apartment, all— “You smell… strange.” Okay, what the actual fuck? “I… took the maglev?” “No. Strange like *blood,* strange like…” His nostrils flare. His wings twitch. Not that nervous twitch, that *Jules* twitch. This feels… preparatory. Predatory. “What did you see?” The answer comes out like thinking, like breathing. They couldn’t hold it in if they tried. “You.” It hangs in the air between them, a ghost of what Vy’d witnessed, what Jules had done. When he says nothing, they continue: “That person—Dr. Poole—what happened? What’d you *do*?” “*Nothing.*” It’s not a word; it’s a hiss. A baring of teeth. “Nothing they didn’t deserve.”
December 14, 2024 at 4:16 PM
sarandipitywrites.bsky.social
My latest #ShortStory is up on my #Ko-Fi! Meet Nora and her slightly unusual friends—it's free 😉
#amwriting #writingcommunity #writesky

ko-fi.com/post/The-San...
Title card for "The Sands Of Time." A single candle in a glass holder sits atop a wooden bar. The backdrop is red with multiple points of light floating behind. The title is written in a golden, handw Beth didn't follow; she stood at the passenger's side, one hand still on the door handle, the other hugging her own waist as she stared up at the building. It was a weird building: with twenty stories aboveground and thirteen below, The Hourglass didn't look like any other place in the city—or anywhere else, as far as Nora knew. It housed several floors of apartments; a couple Fortune 1000s; at least four cafes (Nora was pretty sure there were five, but she could never find that fifth one when she was actually looking for it); an all-in-one shopping center; and plenty of other places Nora hadn't yet managed to sniff out. Christian even lived on the fifth basement floor which, while Nora was almost certain it didn't meet fire code, they always described as being incredibly convenient. Nora went to Beth's side, took her hand, and squeezed. With a small smile, Beth followed her lead and they entered The Hourglass.
December 13, 2024 at 5:36 PM
sarandipitywrites.bsky.social
25-minute speed write (only edited for typos), inspired by agirlandherquill's 4th day of Writemas on tumblr!
#writeshare #writingcommunity #flashfiction #shortstories #writing

www.tumblr.com/agirlandherq...
She had always lived in the tower. From its very peak, her queendom would stretch out before her: clouds, a floating, shifting, roiling sea of white. Through it, she would sometimes glimpse something else—something vast. Sometimes a hint of gray or blue would peer up at her through her veil or, very rarely, a high-flying bird might make an apperance. But of all the glimpses she stole through the clouds, she liked the green the best of all. All she could need, the tower provided. Whenever she hungered, she needed only to open a door to find a storeroom full of fresh, delicious food. When she tired, the next door would be that of her bedroom, the linens fresh and smelling of sunlight. Even her boredom could always be slaked by a room of books, of paints, of games she would play alone because her only friend was the wind that whispered and laughed just outside every window. Of all the diversions she found in the tower, she liked the tales of adventure the best of all. Every now and then, she would try to leave the tower. She would start down the stairs and simply wouldn't stop. When she hungered, she didn't open any doors, despite the delicious smells that would come from within; when she tired she didn't stop, despite the promise of rest at every landing. She woud simply keep climbing, down and down, on and on. When she could climb no more, she would find a window to see the progress she had made, only to find herself stll staring down at that sea of clouds. When she would inevitably surrender and make her way up again, she always found herself no fewer than five floors from the top of her tower. Despite everything, of all the floors of the tower, she liked the top of it the best of all. It was there that the sun was warmest, the air coldest. It was where the song of the wind sang the loudest, where she could raise her voice along with it and feel, if only for a moment, that there was another person there to sing with her. It was where she first realized that a stair is not the only way for one to travel downward. Of all the days she had spent in the tower, she liked this one the best of all. She learned that clouds were not warm and soft, but damp and wet; that cold raindrops stung where they struck her skin; that she'd never been able to find the bottom of her tower simply because it'd never had one, the stonework dissolving with the layer of clouds high above the earth. That day was her favorite because that day, everything was different. Everything was different, except for the wind. The wind was still her only friend, and the only thing to catch her as she fell.
December 12, 2024 at 8:12 PM
sarandipitywrites.bsky.social
Hi, all! I've made a #Ko-fi!

#Short-stories will be posted over there for free; the first one's already up! No membership rewards (yet), but tips are appreciated and I'm also open to #commissions! If you want me to write something for you, DM me and let's talk details.

ko-fi.com/sarandipityw...
A banner for SarandipityWrites's Ko-Fi account. On the left and right sides of the banner, bright green conifer needles draw the eye to the center of the image, where they fade into shadow. In the center of the image is a transparent cow skull surrounded by stones and twigs. Over the skull, "Sarandipity Writes" is written in purple text. Below the skull, "ko-fi.com/sarandipitywrites" is written in the same purple text.
November 27, 2024 at 6:22 PM
sarandipitywrites.bsky.social
Day 9 of #30days30lines. The children are fighting. Again.
#amwriting
“Julián Quintana Benoit, you would not be acting this fucking shady if all you did was turn yourself into a weredaemon with fucking *tattoo magic.* So? What else?”
July 10, 2024 at 6:40 AM
sarandipitywrites.bsky.social
Day 8 of #30days30lines! A bit of editing from earlier in the Cyberwitch WIP:
#amwriting
The whining static in Vy’s brain swallows the slammed door, their ragged breathing. They suck down gasping gulps of air as their shaking fingers pick the viscera from their soles and flush it, piece by grisly piece, down the toilet. Sitting on Jacqui’s shower chair, they scrub their feet and rinse them six times. With their feet dry and the shower wiped clean, they grab the old, crappy towels and set to work on the floor between Vy’s room and the bathroom. Each bloody footprint stains the towels deeper, darker. Vy folds the stains into the middle and keeps cleaning.
July 9, 2024 at 7:51 AM
sarandipitywrites.bsky.social
Day 7 of #30days30lines! From tonight's session on the Cyberwitch WIP
#amwriting
“*Trust* you?” Vy forces the question out with all the indignation and fury in their heart; it comes out disappointingly squeaky and wet. They forge on. “How am I supposed to trust you when you won’t hardly *talk* to me?” He finally looks up, his eyes narrow. “It’s for your own good, Vy. It’s not about—” “It is a little fucking late for that when I *lied to the cops for you.* I lied to a *Seeker* for you.”
July 8, 2024 at 6:53 AM
sarandipitywrites.bsky.social
Day 6! Moving right along now 😁
#30days30lines #amwriting
“You should’ve turned me in.” Jules leans forward, elbows braced on the table. His warding glyph, untouched despite his assurance to Maxx, pulses with sanguine light in steady time with his heartbeat. “You had every reason to do it.” His blood-drop eyes are unblinking, unflinching. He hides it all—his rage, his fear, his hope—behind a mask carved by time. Impenetrable—if Vy hadn’t felt it in their own veins. “Why didn’t you?”
July 7, 2024 at 7:31 AM
sarandipitywrites.bsky.social
Day 5 of #30days30lines and I'm... not behind this time? Hurray! I'll actually post a single line and not a wall of text this time:
#amwriting
From behind the fading digital haze, a daemon emerges.
July 6, 2024 at 7:44 AM
sarandipitywrites.bsky.social
Saran in June: I'm going to write so much in July! I'm going to have so much time and energy!
The Universe: ...and I took that personally.
Day 4 of #30days30lines and this is my... second post 😅 Only up from here, right? Here's some editing from the Cyberwitch WIP for you:
#amwriting
The cloak darts from shadow to shadow in the alleys below. It never looks up; it never looks back. Ahead, the roof ends. Vy draws a potion from their bandolier. They drink it in a single swallow; the periwinkle tonic goes down crisp and sweet. Then the spice hits. It inflames the back of Vy’s tongue, licks up and down their calves and thighs. Muscles tear and mend and bulge; bones thicken and calcify. Vy grits their teeth against it. They don’t try to make the jump to the next rooftop; the potion needs a few more seconds. The drop to the pavement buys them. They touch down, shockwaves shuddering up their legs, hardened bones groaning. They leap, clear over the edge of the roof, legs pumping through the air. Another landing; a dent in the metal. Vy keeps running. A ripple of violet darkness below. It doesn’t look back. But it does run faster.
July 5, 2024 at 5:44 AM
sarandipitywrites.bsky.social
Day 2 of #30days30lines. What happened to Day 1? I forgot about it 😁 Was in an outlining/editing mood today, so I reworked the first chapter of the Cyberwitch WIP.
#amwriting
Blood and magic coat Vy’s tongue in thunder. The late fire of sunset catches in the fox’s silver eyes. “You,” it says with a human’s tongue. “State your business.” The fox clenches its fist; its filed-sharp nails bite into its palm. The blood beads across its skin, turning to light and plasma before Vy’s eyes. It’s all Vy can do not to laugh. “I… live here?”
July 3, 2024 at 6:04 AM