Everett Linden Clark [he/him]

@everettwrites.bsky.social

915 Followers 409 Following

Tired, trans autistic oddball writing SFF stories about others like him. Loves animals. The slowest cyclist in Minneapolis. 🚫 AI. Currently editing adult fantasy, THE KING IN THE MOUNTAIN.

EMILY WILDE x BURY OUR BONES A century removed from a catastrophe that nearly destroyed humanity, Silas, like everyone else, is living on borrowed time. But rather than spend his life researching renewable energy or farming the land, all Silas has ever wanted is to discover a coven of vampires to study. When he finally gets his wish, however, he is only allowed to stay on one condition: their leader, a former king by the name of Nicholas, tasks him with researching how vampirism works… in the hopes of learning more about the mysterious death of one of the coven members, centuries prior. But when the prime minister shows up to the manor with a smile and a mission, Silas realizes that there is more to the coven than meets the eye – and that Nicholas is only one of many historic leaders being preserved through vampirism for a time when humanity might need them.
A Google search history showing most recent searches as "what can you use instead of groan", "frown synonym", "hovering synonym", "punishment synonym", "strides synonym", "interiority synonym", and "minutiae"
The "distracted boyfriend" meme, with "me" as the guy, who is checking out "the sequel" over "the book I'm supposed to be editing"
A screenshot of a title page from Scrivener. It reads "The King In The Mountain" (subtitle): Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying and Love the Vampire Penetration. And then in parentheses below it says "the TEETH, OH MY GOD I MEANT THE TEETH"
A picture of a TV screen playing a cutscene from Octopath Traveler 0. An unnamed blond man points at someone else, saying "you are but a lowly writer. Know your place".
“Besides,” Ansel continues, “We barely kill any more these days. That guy they found in the swamp was asking for it, but on the whole his majesty likes to keep it humane, and that’s fine. I’m not about to complain. It’s not like any of us ever loved killing. It’s not fun, it’s not sport. But that’s how it goes. Humans kill to eat. So do we.” That’s certainly one way to look at it. It’s a way of making sense of their existence, and it doesn’t exactly disagree with the stories, just frames the distinctly human perspective. No trapper sees themselves as a monster, but if rabbits could tell fairytales all of the villains would probably be human. “Right.” Silas says, ticking down the bullet points on the page. “All that to say,” Ansel says, “We’re not all falling apart at the seams or brooding in dark corners lamenting our miserable existence, or whatever. I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this — but eternal life is just life, but longer.”
A screenshot from Scrivener, showing 100,287 words written out of a new goal of 120,000.
A large round brown tabby cat sits up against a baseboard. An arrow points to the space just behind his big round butt and says "the air vent".
A screenshot from Scrivener that reads 90,125 out of 100,000 words written.
Someone in a party hat stands in front of a projector, doing a presentation. The projection reads "the greatest research skill you can have is being a nosy bitch who wants to find out".
A picture of the northern lights above an urban neighborhood.
A screenshot from Scrivener showing 80,250 words written out of a goal of 100,000.
A photo from the Stardew Valley Symphony of Seasons concert, with a large crowd inside of a theater and an orchestra on stage preparing to play.
A still image of George Costanza (Jason Alexander) from Seinfeld with a firm, resolute expression on his face. The caption reads, "I gotta focus. I'm shifting into soup mode."
A screenshot from Scrivener, with the 'new project' option highlighted...
When he thought he wasn’t listening, that other man in the (Coven? Family? Polycule?) house referred to him as his majesty — true. Could just be a weird sex thing. Could also be one of the hallmarks of a coven, relaying respect and deference to the head, oftentimes the maker of the other members. Whatever it is or isn’t, his gut tells him something very strange and very interesting is going on there — true. But Silas hates trusting his gut. Making life decisions based on feeling over evidence is a fool’s way to live. Connor swallows audibly. “You’re really lost in thought over there. What are you thinking about?” “I met someone,” Silas says. Connor’s eyes widen. “You did? That’s great! What’s their name?” Rudely jerked from his train of thought, it takes Silas a few heartbeats to realize that Connor thinks he means he met someone of romantic interest. Hence the excitement, which he now dutifully tries to smother. “It’s not like that. I think he’s a vampire.” The devastation that visibly washes over his best friend in the ensuing seconds should be photographed for its sheer magnitude. Under his breath, Connor murmurs “Silas.” As if he’s just admitted to some terrible thing. “I know that you don’t believe. That’s fine. But I have to find out more about him.” And then, “You asked why I was lost in thought, and that’s the answer.” Connor’s eyebrows knit tightly together. “Listen, I…” he’s going to say I know how you get about vampires. He’s been saying that since he was fifteen and Silas was sixteen, and Connor was the more grown up of the two of them. Instead, he takes a different turn. “How long have you known this guy?” “I met him last night.”
a screenshot from Scrivener which reads 70,455 total words written out of a goal of 100,000.
A screenshot from Scrivener. It reads: "“What is your specialty?” Silas asks the next day. He and Nomsa are together alone again, across from one another at her desk. She is bent over a textbook and he is bent over yet another quiz. Silas hadn’t failed to notice that the line behind him was even shorter this morning. A long moment passes, and he wonders if she heard him. Finally, as if coming to some sort of conclusion she hums and says, “Time magic.” “Time magic,” he repeats. Every book on magic he’s ever read — which admittedly isn’t many, but a few — has included time magic as a footnote at most. For a long time it was strictly theoretical, and then sometime just before The Expansion some mages started making their stopwatches pause on command. A whole lifetime of work, to make a second hand stutter. “Really?”"
A screenshot from Scrivener. It reads: "In the heat of the moment, in a single impulse he lets run wild out of desperation and fear, Silas pretends to miss his footing on the single step down into the foyer, and lets his pen tumble out of his limp hand. “I’m so clumsy, sometimes,” he says, “Goodness.” “Careful now,” Ansel’s expression is a curated calm. He looks at Silas for a moment too long, but then pulls the front door open. “Have a good evening.” “Good evening, my apologies again for the trouble,” Silas says over his shoulder. The door shuts. Distinctly, he hears the deadbolt turn."
A screenshot from Scrivener. It reads: “The night is young,” Ansel says, “And I think it’s high time you started to fulfill your purpose here.” Silas glances down at his notebook. He is at maximum five pages deep in it, but already it feels heavier in his hands. “I’ve already taken plenty of notes,” he says. “No, no, your purpose to us. This is an exchange, remember? You take notes and never publish them. We harvest your blood.” The contents of Silas’ stomach turn to cold, swirling jelly. “I — yes, of course.” That was the agreement. Out of desperation that it was his only option, Silas agreed. Rourke, for the first time in the short time Silas has known him, immediately seems interested. He stands up off the wall, chin tipped up curiously. Between the two of them, Silas suddenly feels much less like one of those intrepid anthropologists speaking with a different culture, and much much more like a cornered alley cat surrounded by dogs. “I — can I ask for only one at a time?” “Of course,” Ansel says, “It’s only proper.” The door slams shut. Two voices clamor up the hallway — one woman and one, distinctly, being Nicholas’. Silas feels his blood pressure spike.
a meme picture of Ben Affleck standing outside with a cigarette in his hand, looking exasperated and exhausted with the world.
A screenshot from Scrivener, reading 60,077 words out of a 100,000 word goal. 386 words written today, out of a 2,000 word goal.
A screenshot from scrivener. It reads: Weeks pass with Silas mostly keeping himself occupied. Nicholas and the others make themselves scarce, and he sees them for brief moments every other day or so. He’s given permission to use the television whenever he’d like, and he can use his phone so long as it’s outside, so in the end it feels less like being picked last in school and more like a somewhat lonesome vacation. The sole exception seems to be Adelaide, who gets into the habit of being at the kitchen table every evening when he wakes up, sometimes with a small baked good just for him and a pot of tea to share. She deflects any attempt he makes at interview questions until he is forced to take the hint, and since she seems to prefer small talk, that’s what they engage in. Under normal circumstances Silas hates small talk, but when it’s your only face-to-face social interaction of the day it’s perfectly bearable. The scripts are always easy to guess in advance, and they rarely differ. The weather for the evening. The weather for the next evening. What Abagail’s been up to lately, as she seems to be the darling of the household now. In spite of her rebuffing any deeper conversation, Adelaide still lets slip little reassurances that Silas carries with him. Well, Nicholas seems to like you. Ansel thinks you’re hilarious. You’re the smartest donor we’ve had, for sure. Donor, that’s what she calls him. Apparently that’s the term, although Rourke may call him a blood bag, she warns him. But it’s just his way of trying not to get attached. Or so she says. “In the old days, we called them vassals. I think I liked that a little better.” “Ah,” is all Silas says, and bites into his cinnamon bun. If he tries to ask her what exactly she means by old days, he knows he’ll only get a swift change in subject anyway. “Vassal does sound a little cooler.”
A screenshot from Scrivener. It reads: Silas eats breakfast (or, really, dinner) at the cafe on the bottom floor of the hotel. People pass by the windows outside in seemingly endless shifting tides. Just as a rush of them begins to boggle him for the sheer scale of it all, the flow slows down to a trickle. Yawning people in stark business clothes stand together on the way home from work, too tired to comment to each other. A parent waits with a babbling toddler. Carriages pulled by high stepping horses fly by on the street when the light turns, trailed by a leisurely, overloaded trolley car. Even when he was away at school Silas never saw so many people at once. The cramped feeling of the city permeates everything now. Even in the hotel room, seventeen stories up, it feels as if anyone’s eyes might peer in at any moment — how do people here sleep? Or shower? Silas sighs, and takes another bite of his food. Nicholas sits across from him, expertly swirling his cup of tea and taking fake sips of it every few minutes — every now and again they play out an unrehearsed scene in which Silas takes it and sucks down a gulp and Nicholas offers a sly little smile as if he’s just allowing it out of patience and good nature. Silas thinks he probably would, if his biology allowed him to want the tea in the first place. “Are you nervous?” Nicholas asks, on the third time they play out the scene for the waiter and whoever else might be looking. “Your first day of magic courses.” Silas hums. “A little.” Then, when he figures that more honesty is probably warranted, “I don’t want to embarrass you.” “There is no way you could embarrass me.” Nicholas says. “I could, if I get kicked out of the class for being hopeless with magic.”
A small gray kitten curled up in a gray and white blanket, fast asleep.
A black and white home camera image. A small black cat eats wet food from a plate on the floor while a human hand reaches out and strokes her shoulder.
Text from COMPOUND FRACTURE by Andrew Joseph White. Reads "“Dude,” Dallas says, “you’re thirty. You’re ancient. He’s had a day, don’t be weird.” Michael holds up his hands the same way Dallas did. “We’re gonna hang out for a bit.”"
A moodboard graphic featuring images of a medieval court gathered around a table, the sweeping appalachian mountains, vampire fangs, the dictionary definition of 'immortal', an old greenhouse, an overgrown abandoned bridge, and a screenshot of the quote "despite everything, it's still you". The text boxes read "Emily Wilde meets Atlantis". The title is "The King In The Mountain". The blurb beneath reads "an adult fantasy about ambition, failure, and change. What remains of us after we have lost everything? Featuring an autistic, non-binary MC, a two thousand year old secret society, an impending disaster and a hot but awkward vampire king!"
a moodboard featuring images of: three people cuddling intimately, three people holding hands in the dark, a dimly lit hallway with illuminated eyes looking in from the darkness, someone sitting at the bottom of a stairwell in despair, sharp smiling teeth, someone's arm in medical restraints, bloodied hands, a paper sign saying "OPEN YOUR EYES THIS IS THE REVOLUTION" and an image of sharp teeth that says "LET ME BARE MY TEETH FOR YOU". The text on top of the images reads "THE MERCY OF GODS meets DOGS OF WAR". "HUMAN-ISH", "an adult sci-fi dystopia about oppression, passion, and letting people in so you can all break out"
A screenshot from google home nest camera. A black cat looks up at the camera, but with night vision it appears as if her eyes are glowing creepily.
A picture of a tiny gray kitten curled up in gray blankets.
A screenshot from a YouTube short. There is a person with a cat in their lap on the phone, with the caption "sorry I can't go to work today, I have a cat on my lap"
A picture of a tiny gray kitten yawning with her paws outstretched. She is extremely cute.
A picture of a tiny gray kitten curled up in some blankets.
An image of a small gray kitten, fast asleep. She is less than 10 days old and very cute.
A screenshot from Scrivener, showing 50,008 words out of 100,000 written.
An excerpt from The Song of Achilles. "“Ah.” A sly smile spread across his face; he had always loved defiance. “Well, why should I kill him? He’s done nothing to me.” For the first time then, I felt a kind of hope."
Two cats sit at a white and green Cat-It brand puzzle feeder which has a variety of different puzzles with dry cat kibble in them. One gray shorthaired cat sits on the right of the tray to eat while an orange shorthaired cat stares at the camera with a blank expression.
a chart showing the average crown and root lengths of mandibular teeth in humans. The values are as follows: Central incisor (crown length: 8.80mm, root length 12.6mm) Lateral incisor (crown length: 9.40mm, root length 13.5mm) Canine (crown length 11.0mm, root length 15.9mm) First premolar (crown length 8.80mm, root length 14.4mm) Second premolar (crown length 8.20mm, root length 14.7mm) First molar (crown length 7.70mm, root length 14.0mm) Second molar (crown length 7.70mm, root length 13.9mm) Third molar (crown length 7.50mm, root length 11.8mm)
The "Dinkleberg" meme with no text on it. From Fairly Odd Parents
A screenshot from discord that says "Silas: doesn't it bother you? Being on the edge of calamity. Nicholas: I think, if you knew how often and how frequently humanity has been on the edge of calamity you would not worry so much about it."
A screenshot from discord. The text reads "first 4 chapters be like" and then a screenshot of a gif of two characters from Seinfeld slapping each other.
A screenshot from discord that says "Idea: what if the monarchs of various warring countries were arranged to be engaged in a polyamorous quad"
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A screenshot from discord that says "Our safe rreom surgery l.neoin food but loopt"
a screenshot from a google search that says "calories in human blood per mL I swear I'm a writer"
A picture of a beautiful, peaceful forest. Over it are the words "you deserve a break. Stop healing. Choose violence. Go bat shit insane. Do it for the plot."
a progress meter from Scrivener, showing 4,670 words written today.
A selfie of a white blond man with glasses and green eyes.
A screenshot of my most recent google searches, which include "location of jugular vein in humans", "new deal FDR", "how much blood in the human body", "outraged synonym" and "what is a fish hatchery called"
A screenshot from scrivener that reads "and once he had proven himself as such… he got a little visit, from a very early society called [insert society name here].”"
A screenshot from Scrivener with a value of -1005 words written.
A screenshot from Scrivener showing current word count of 100,325 words out of a limit of 100,000 words.
a screenshot from Scrivener, of a popup offering to 'go live' on Discord and stream my scrivener screen. Why.
A still image from the Spiderman movie, of Mary Jane about to cry. From the popular "tell me the truth, I'm ready to hear it" reaction meme.
Adler falls forward before he realizes that there was a hand on his back at all — Clinton is the thought he has in the moment it takes him to hit his knees, and then, secondly — that he may not have been brought here as bait after all, but as a sacrifice. Finn takes the opportunity and lurches forward. All the inertia of a train comes hurtling straight for him, and in the instant before impact Adler’s eyes squeeze shut. It takes the feeling of his heart rattling around in his stomach and the realization that he can hear the blood rushing through his eardrums to finally open his eyes. The blade is so close to Adler’s face that it’s distorted, strange and too-wide in his vision. Poised to go straight through his head. If Adler had lived any more of a life, it would be flashing before his eyes; instead all he sees is Finn up the length of the spear, bathed in dappled sun and searching his face as if there’s anything to see. The blade’s edge sang through the air before, but now it makes no sound as it moves. With the tip of it, Finn flicks one, then both of Adler’s ears up off the top of his head and upright again. “Huh.” Finn says, “Almost missed those.”
A screenshot from the video game Detroit Become Human in which the character stands in a subway station while the mission command reads "blend in with the humans"
Adler aches for the pain ahead of him; the long road that Pippin, like everybody else, is going to have to walk down. There’s a lot of pain Adler can’t hurt for him. “She really felt awful,” Adler says slowly, “Last night I mean. But now she’s not suffering any more. So it’s better this way.” That’s what’s fair, he doesn’t say. He finishes with “It’ll be alright,” which is usually a lame way to end anything, but now it feels especially wrong. He’s not qualified to offer consolations like that — he’s collarless, sure, but that’s a lot of nothing. A bullshit station for a bullshit person. “Are you—” Pippin doesn’t look at him, just stands there frozen in a hug so he can whisper and still be heard, “I mean, are we going to—” Alarm bursts in Adler’s chest like a chemical reaction; a grease fire erupting over a pan lip. It’s to his credit that he doesn’t shove Pippin away, just holds him very steadily still and close and says “No. We are not.” Overawareness of where they are floods into his senses. Suddenly he’s hyper conscious of Finn, still standing at the stove, probably looking at them both with a mix of curiosity and unease. Pippin pulls away as if Adler had actually shoved him. “Sorry — I know you’re not, uh,” a pause, while he struggles to find the least offensive word for whatever Adler is, “—touchy-feely.” he finishes on a laugh.
"They’ve only just met twenty minutes ago, and now Adler is bearing witness to what will probably be the worst day of Finn’s whole life. Finn isn’t the first parent torn from their child — or the first child torn from their parent — that he’s watched fall apart. Not even the hundredth. But every time Adler sees it, it’s like unwrapping the same old wound and finding it unhealed. The same old mundane tragedy, over and over again. Adler averts his eyes politely and fixates on the sagging sun instead; looking straight at the raw grief of a stranger feels wrong, invasive, no matter how familiar the scene is to him. The afternoon light dips below the tree tops now, painting the sky above the horizon in shades of amber and coral and violet that he’s never seen before, domesticated thing that he is. Finn weeps in that open-mouthed breathless way, speechless in his grief. Loss has always been the quasi’s lot in life. If Finn had been raised captive in the center, Adler might even chide him for expecting anything more — but coming from this place? It’s hard to blame him. Living every single day beneath an endless sky like this, Adler could get tricked into thinking there’s such a thing as a happy end for their kind, too."