✨ Grace is Querying ✨

@writingwithgrace.bsky.social

74 Followers 101 Following

Speculative fiction writer. She/her. I also will talk your ear off about knitting, crocheting, and fountain pens (bonus topics available as unlockable content). Be excellent to each other.

A screenshot of a tweet from birdsrightsactivist @probirdsrights which reads: “I been working on my summer bod: it the same as my regular body, but this time more popsackles in it.” End ID.
A blue sky with a few wisps of cloud and two green tree canopies
“They expect me to leave her in there,” Credence said. “You should have seen her. She believes that Enis cares about the greater good. She thinks Seraphs are saving lives, that those things they fight…” he sighed. “She wanted so badly to go back, to help people. Even once she started to see what Enis really does to its people.” “She was raised to believe. They have to make them zealots, loyalists. If they weren’t so insulated, so fervent in their faith in that depths damned company, we wouldn’t have to go to these kinds of lengths to crack one.”
Screenshot of a tweet from Carrie Fisher, which reads "See?i don't know how to write someone privately.....Help me obi Juan whoever the fuck you are.... You're my only ho"
White text against a dark space background: "This has to end. No more lives expended because the death payouts are cheaper than the equipment that would save them. No more worlds forcibly affiliated to avoid annihilation by the alien predators. No more children stolen from their families and raised to fight. I can end this. Can I live with the cost?" Under Compliance by @writingwithgrace.bsky.social
What if there was nothing I could do to stop it? No plan this big could hinge on me alone. The wheels of the great machine were already in motion. Throwing my body in its path would not so much as cause a bump.
“Oh, sure, sure.” They seemed to have started warming to me. Maybe it was seeing proof that I wasn’t a fool, maybe it was seeing proof that I was exactly the kind of fool they gravitated to. “Yes, exactly,” they said, when I had finished re-assembling the components. “You understand?”
Gif of Tim Curry in Red Alert 3 saying "Space!" in a dramatic fashion.
“Yeah, yeah, get in here and see this,” said Dev. “Ops, we’ve got six dead aliens here, no life signs, no obvious cause of death.” The vacuum of space was an obvious enough cause, but the skip had been sealed. The filmed-over insectoid eyes of a Vylar drifted past me, pinning me briefly in its sightless gaze. “Copy, squad leader. Standby.” Standby. That meant even the Handlers didn’t know what to do here.
“Ah—oh. Coming back online? One more try then—say ‘fuck’ as loud as you can.” The same voice. Annoying. “What the fuck,” I muttered, my throat thick with disuse. “Not quite,” the voice lamented. As my sight returned, I could see that it belonged to a wiry man with a graying beard and startlingly gentle brown eyes. “You gotta try it louder,” he said, grinning. “Where am I?” The clouds in my mind were burning off slowly, drifting apart bit by bit, my memory shining in pieces like wildflower blooms scattered across a meadow. Slowly, I began to gather my memory flower by flower. I shifted my body, the weight of it too heavy. I wondered if something was wrong with the grav. “Where were you expecting to be?” The man laughed. His smile went all the way to his eyes. Genuine. I liked that in a person. I didn’t like his cavalier attitude. “Spa,” I said, too groggy to deflect or lie or tell him to take this seriously. Had I hit my head? I had done that before. It had felt different. The man laughed again, loud and careless. A few heads around us turned to look, briefly. Their eyes were too exhausted to consider the disruption further, though, once they could tell nothing dangerous—or interesting—was happening. Then the last piece of information floating around my brain slipped snuggly into place, and I remembered. The dock, the bot, my ID. “I’m not supposed to be here,” I gasped.