Nadia Amatullah King

@nadiaaking.bsky.social

188 Followers 332 Following

Writes Spec-Fic, Dark SF, & Horror Multiethnic of the African Diaspora is probably an alien đź‘ľ https://linktr.ee/nadiaaking

Large tree budding in early spring
Tortie cat sitting in an empty suitcase. 2+ weeks ago before I traveled for the holiday
A basket full of persimmon fruit in the sunset
Home page is a minimalist dark-blue, gray-toned background with a circular pfp in the center. Beneath it is my name (Nadia Amatullah King) and a tagline that says "author of speculative fiction and dark sci-fi." The navigation consists of only three, minimal icons with no words. The first is a crescent moon and star highlighted for the home page. The second is an open book, and the third is an artsy geometric symbol.
Tortie cat with a deadpan face, sitting comfortably on my Inkheart book on my bed
Photo of the book Inkheart by Cornelia Funke, sitting on my lap while in bed
Photo of persimmon fruit hanging in a tree, most of them red as they start to ripen
A closed Obscolescence book box from Shortwave Publishing
Simple watercolor sketch of a purpley pink thistle
Sketch of a cluster of trees. Main tree has short dead branches, and some long and leafy ones. Bush-like tree to the left corner (cedar perhaps?)
Yellow flower bush in the sunlight
A photo of the Split Scream vol. 7 cover on my tablet, sitting on my bed with a finished cup of tea and a hardback as a coaster.
Poem that reads: 01.23.25 | NK They talk about the grief of loss, but never of age. When you lose the one you love as their mind begins to fade. I've said it once, twice, and three times before. But you'll forget it again when you step out that door. The more you step forward, the more you turn back-- to the child you once were, now in the body of Man. The clock was too slow; the clock is too fast. Too late for a pause; too late to make it last. Slow down. Take a break. Take a breath. Take it slow. Revert the clock before it's your last.
Night scene of a driveway and small field covered in snow, with dark tree silhouettes framing the scene. Across the field is a streetlight making the snow glow and the trees backlit. Ominous yet calming.
Snowy trail through the forest with birch trees still holding their orange leaves. Snow is partially melted already, revealing autumn leaves, meaning it won't last very long.
Photo of Bird Box (novel) by Josh Malerman
Loose abstract landscape done in watercolor. I often feel imposter syndrome being on this platform with so much "good art" everywhere, as if there is little room for mediocrity... But it's cathartic to create for its own sake. And this one in particular... well... I really enjoy moody color palettes. The sky is blue-toned gray. There's a distant mountain range in dark brown-toned gray. And something like a grass field and lake combined in blues and greens - also toned with gray.
Left: Abstract pattern of lines pointed in various directions. Right: Broken horizontal lines of thick and thin pattern
Untitled Poem: I'll keep you alive in my memory. And they'll call me crazy when I see your eyes and play make believe, that the world is still spinning and I'm still here breathing as if I'm not with you in the afterlife. (Photo of my scribbly handwriting in a sketchbook using a brush pen.)
Choking you wake, unseen smoke clogging your nostrils and drying your eyes. It is thick and dark and tasteless yet it clings. Ever tightly does it cling. Dripping and running in rivulets down cheeks and chin. It is around you, on you, inside you and all the glory of dawn dies in its hold.
10.28.24 | NK Tick tock tick tock tick-tick-tick. There is something waiting for you– Come see! Come see! Lost inside a fun house– It's you! It's you! Don't be scared! Nothing's here! Except the monster in your mind– Have fun! Have fun!
Two persimmon fruit in my hand. One is full and round. The other is half-eaten, showing seeds and the inner fruit.
Luna moth on tree, wings partially closed
Liminal Planes The softness of home & the color of sunsets a whispering song, a breath, a moment. Floating in the space between the ticks of the hour, Lulled by the drift of the glassy waters. - Nadia King
Mushroom growing on a tree stump, almost looks like a flower.
“Long before I wrote stories, I listened for stories. Listening for them is something more acute than listening to them. I suppose it’s an early form of participation in what goes on. Listening children know stories are there. When their elders sit and begin, children are just waiting and hoping for one to come out, like a mouse from its hole.” —Eudora Welty