Responses to prompts from a variety of sources: Pinterest, Instagram, TikTok, Google, other blogs, and my own curated list. Explore how different prompts inspire creativity across mediums.
“Your Warmth”
I wish you had
thought to
breathe your quiet
warmth inside of me,
one last time.
Before you said
goodbye.
I wrote this poem after an account on Instagram posted the challenge. We were instructed to use “breath,” “quiet,” and “warmth” in a poem. This poem should be 20 words or less. Now I’m challenging you to do the same.
Share your responses in the comments, by tagging me on social media, or by emailing them to poeaxtry@gmail.com.
This piece is the second of ten short stories. I will share these periodically across some of my platforms. Each story in this series stands alone, but together they form a broader examination of the systems that shape us. These works are released intentionally over time, allowing space for reflection rather than consumption. This series blends literary fiction with social commentary. Here I spend time focusing on lived experience, psychological impact, and the long shadow of decisions made for us. New entries will be published as they are completed.
I opened my bag and retrieve, a moist yet crusty purple journal, as soon as I get to my bed. I found the decrepit thing earlier this morning, in the dew right before my morning hike, and for whatever reason it has been on my mind all day.
The following is a full and direct repeat of what I read.
If you found this, send help!
The date is January 1st 2054.
I’m sorry, I do not know the address or even the country I’m located in.
I do know the following things.
I have been underground for over a decade. Our rations are stored in numbered crates, each stamped with a date at least a decade old, yet somehow still intact. The Earth above us is solitude. It consists of a one-lane-dirt road and trees stretching for miles on end on both sides. Stay silent so you can hear the electrical activity, then you will know you’re near.
The United States Government has the ability to implant whatever thoughts they please into all of our brains. This has been planned and in the works. Silently executing moves behind the facade of American propaganda since before the first Independence Day.
If we do not form some sort of super revolutionary army, I fear life as we know it will never be the same.
Yet, sadly, we will have not a single clue. America’s king and royal family have an enormous list of thoughts they plan to effectively erase…
Say goodbye to being able to create a thought that wasn’t filtered. Free thinking they all but threw away. We cannot even fathom anti-royal family ideals, if we wished to.
I know you are afraid, but you are about to be terrified for the future of all humans worldwide, are you ready?
With this power we’d never know laws, history, anything like that could be deleted or changed. They can control and erase the very pieces that make me, and you separate, individual and unique. That’s their entire goal.
Intentions to erase everything we have gained.
Slavery will be back as if it never forcefully packed its bags.
Queer rights? Sadly, right back down the drain.
Transgender people aren’t even allowed the verbiage to admit they exist.
The natives will lose the little bits of sacred space they were left.
Sadly, people who have disabilities lose it all.
The women? Won’t be allowed bank accounts any longer. Please women, don’t try to drive your cars you legally can’t anymore.
Divorce? The thought is on the illegal list, right along with consent. They no longer exist. Birth control? You’ll never know it was a thing.
I know you probably think I am insane. I tried to convince myself I was too. That’s so much better than the truth.
My entire time here, I’ve been subjected to daily mind control testing. We are lined up and marched into narrow white rooms. Here we are screened before being released back to our quarters. Everyone underground with me goes through it. We were the ones they erased first, taken in the night without warning.
Together we compiled all these notes and formed an antidote. Thought I can’t risk writing it out in case this falls into enemy hands! I will gladly provide it to you upon my rescue!
Please come and save all of us here in the underground testing city.
The world is running out of time.
I closed the putrid journal, flipped it over in my hands, and looked at the date in the front again. 2054? It’s 2026 now, yet I can feel the truth and the weight of this situation as it reverberates.
Thank you for reading the second story in the series. I hope the journal gave you pause, stirred thought, or echoed something within your experience. More stories will be released periodically across WordPress, Substack, Wattpad, and other platforms. These will each explore the pressures that shape us. Follow along, and check back soon to continue the series. There is more to come. If you are just tuning in, take a look at the first story; Aaron has a lot to tell you.
Comment below and tell me your thoughts about the journal. What would you do if you found it? How would you react?
Consider sharing “Moist. Crunchy. Purple.” with someone you think would enjoy reading it as well.
This piece is the first of ten short stories. I will share these periodically across my platforms, including WordPress, Substack, Wattpad, and other publishing spaces. Each story in this series stands alone, but together they form a broader examination of the systems that shape us. These works are released intentionally over time, allowing space for reflection rather than consumption. This series blends literary fiction with social commentary. Here I spend time focusing on lived experience, psychological impact, and the long shadow of decisions made for us. New entries will be published as they are completed.
The story follows Aaron, who was born a healthy biological girl. Just to be immediately assigned a male identity by her parents and doctors. In this society, a child’s body is treated as a “public object” to be shaped and corrected by others. When Aaron reaches puberty, described as a “blood-red warning siren,” he is placed on hormone blockers to prevent him from developing into a woman.
Aaron was born on an uneventful morning. The air carried the smells of lemon disinfectant and rain-soaked Las Vegas asphalt. A healthy baby girl, the doctor would have said. He would have been pleased with the symmetry of her limbs, the steady thump of her heart, and the decibel her shriek could reach. Her mother cried, and her father laughed too loud. They chose the name Aaron respectfully. Names were not meant to make sense in this world until later in life. So Aaron, the healthy boy, was born, though boy was already a stretch.
They wrapped him in a blue blanket and told him he was perfect, at least for the time being.
The photos would later show a calm baby, eyes open, unfocused, already tuned into something deeper beyond the love in the room. Aaron would never remember the warmth of that blanket or the way hands passed him around like proof of success. What stayed, buried deep and wordless, was the first lesson of his life. His body was a public object. It would be shaped, discussed, corrected, and inevitably made into what they wanted it to be.
Puberty arrived like a blood-red warning siren.
A single pimple at first, angry and bright on his chin. Then another. Leg hair darkening, spreading in thin lines that felt illicit, something to hide. His chest stayed flat, his voice stayed level, until one red drip from between his legs met the cotton lamb chop character briefs he still wore. The signs were enough.
The nurse smiled too hard when she called Aaron’s name. His parents sat straighter.
The first dose of hormone blockers came in a white room that smelled faintly of lemon, eerily similar to the day of his birth. Aaron was told this was kindness. A pause button. A gift. A way to prevent him from becoming something unacceptable. His mother squeezed his hand and asked if he was excited. His father nodded as if excitement were mandatory, like consent was already signed.
Aaron said yes, of course.
Inside his head, there was only stillness. No sense of rescue. No feeling of alignment. Just the quiet knowledge that nothing about his body had ever felt wrong until the world began insisting that it was. He liked the way his legs carried him. He liked the way he played with makeup in secret. Likewise, he liked the softness of himself, unaltered and intact.
But liking it was dangerous, not allowed, even illegal.
He learned quickly to perform relief. To thank doctors. To rehearse lines about dysphoria he did not feel. Silence became survival. Every unspoken thought was folded smaller and smaller until it fit behind his ribs, where breasts would never be allowed to bud. The world always called Aaron, him, and he did not correct them. At first, he did not even understand the concept of not being transgender. Correcting meant punishment.
Time skipped forward the way it does when nothing belongs to you.
At seventeen, Aaron’s mother drove him to the spa where they checked in the night before his eighteenth birthday. The building was all soft lighting and stone floors. Water murmured behind the walls like something alive. It was dubbed a “wellness retreat.” Aaron was handed a robe, a schedule, and congratulations on becoming a man. He barely managed not to scoff at the final “gift”.
The bed was too clean. The sheets were tucked tight enough to trap him.
He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to his breath. Tomorrow his female body would be permanently altered. Tomorrow the performance would become irreversible. He thought about the acne that never got worse, and the leg hair that never spread the way it wanted to. He thought about the mirror, about how familiar his reflection still was, and mourned how briefly he had been allowed to know the her he felt he was meant to be.
Excitement would be painted painfully on his face in the morning.
For now, horror sat quietly with him in the dark.
He pressed his hand to his chest, feeling the steady beat that had been praised at birth, never once defective, never once confused.
And in the silence of his mind, he finally admitted what he had always known.
He was cisgender.
He was a girl being forced to become a man in a world where refusing transition was the only unforgivable thing.
The anesthesiologist walked him through counting backward from one hundred.
One hundred.
Ninety-nine.
Ninety-eight.
Ninety-seven.
Aaron drifted off just as he pictured himself in a dress for the first time.
Thank you for reading this first story in the series. I hope Aaron’s journey gave you pause, stirred thought, or echoed something within your experience. More stories will be released periodically across WordPress, Substack, Wattpad, and other platforms. These will each explore the pressures that shape us. Follow along, and check back soon to continue the series. There is more to come.
Comment below and tell me what you think about my first short story. How would you feel if you lived in Aaron’s world? Does this make you view body autonomy a little differently?
Consider sharing with someone you think would enjoy reading my first short thriller in my upcoming free-to-read collection, “The Scars of Fitting In: A Collection of Short Psychological Thrillers.“
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A stranger offers you one wish, but it must be selfless: what do you wish for?
If I could make one selfless wish, it would be for equality, freedom, and equal rights for all humans everywhere. In a world so divided by wealth, power, and privilege, imagining a reality where everyone has the same opportunities, protections, and freedoms is not just idealistic… it’s essential.
Equality isn’t about giving everyone the same thing; it’s about removing barriers that prevent people from living fully. Freedom isn’t just the absence of oppression… it’s the ability to pursue one’s passions, speak one’s truth, and exist without fear. A selfless wish like this could ripple across generations, changing lives in ways no single person could imagine.
This wish may not be simple, but it’s universal. It’s for the person struggling in silence, the family denied rights, the communities still fighting for recognition. It’s for the world we can choose to create if empathy, justice, and courage guide us.
Selfless wishes force us to look beyond ourselves and consider the collective good. Asking, “What would I wish for if it weren’t about me?” challenges us to imagine a better world, and more importantly, to work toward it in our everyday lives. Today, my selfless wish is equality, freedom, and equal rights for all. And a reminder that change begins with vision, empathy, and action.
If a stranger offered you one wish but they told you it had to be selfless what would you wish for? Make your own list and tag me or tell me here in the comments.
National Coming Out Day isn’t just about one announcement. It’s about every version of ourselves we’ve had to reintroduce to the world and to ourselves.
This is Part 2 of my coming out story. The first time, I came out as a lesbian. This time, I came out as me.
I was 19 when I met an out trans man for the first time. It was at a wedding, and he came up to me like he already knew something I didn’t.
He said, “Oh my god, it’s so cool to meet someone like us in public.”
I glitched. I remember thinking, What does he mean, “like us”? I didn’t think he was right, but I also couldn’t stop thinking about it. I wasn’t aware he was trans I just saw a cis man and I was so confused.
It was one of those moments that doesn’t make sense until years later.
Fast forward to when I was 21. I was in an online community space surrounded. This man was filming a Q&A video, answering random questions, when it just… hit.
I started asking the influencer questions about t and transitioning etc.
And I thought, Wait a minute. Maybe that guy was trans at the wedding.
I laughed it off at first. Said thing to myself like, “No, bro.” But, Deep down, I knew something had shifted.
That’s when I realized: I wasn’t a lesbian who looked masculine. I was a trans man who had finally found the words for what had always been there.
At the time, I was in a long-term relationship with a lesbian partner. I didn’t say anything right away. I didn’t feel like I had the space to explain myself.
My identity wasn’t up for debate, and it didn’t need validation to be real.
A little while later, I moved to Las Vegas, started testosterone, and began living fully as myself. Two years after that, I got top surgery.
Now, I’ve been on T for almost 11 years, and post-op for nearly 9.
No spectacle. No huge reveal.
I just made a post, changed my name everywhere, and kept living.
Coming out as a trans man wasn’t some cinematic event. It was quiet, steady, necessary.
It was me updating my social media, me existing without apology, me living a truth that had been simmering under the surface since long before I even had the language for it.
Every year on National Coming Out Day, I think back to both moments. To the young girl who came out as a lesbian, and the man who came out as himself.
Both were acts of courage. Both were survival. Both were me.
Coming out isn’t a one-time performance. It’s a lifetime of peeling back layers until you recognize yourself: fully, completely, without shame.
I came out twice.
Once for who I loved.
Once for who I am.
And both times, I chose to live.
Because that’s what coming out really is. It is choosing life, truth, and freedom, again and again.
In eighth grade, I told my best friend at the time that I had to tell her something. Before I could even say it, she looked at me and said, “What, you like girls?”
No duh, me too.
That moment was my quiet entry into honesty. It was not a big speech, not a dramatic scene, just truth spoken aloud. I told a few other friends. Most didn’t care, one freaked out a little. You know, the classic “ew, we slept in the same bed!?” comment. In my usual fashion, I just told her, “Yeah, no shit. Doesn’t mean it was anything weird. Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I’m into all girls.”
It wasn’t some grand parade or rainbow banner moment. I just stopped hiding it from all my homies.
I grew up in small-ass Martins Ferry, Ohio. A tiny town, tight gossip circles, everyone knowing everyone’s business. I graduated in 2010, and there were maybe three out lesbians in my class. The rest were “straight in public” or “hush-hush about it.”
I wasn’t loud about my sexuality in high school. But the moment I was no longer a student, I made my Facebook and MySpace say “interested in women.” No more hiding, no more pretending. Just existing.
My mom’s best friend was a lesbian who came out in the early 1980s, so she didn’t have much to say beyond not wanting it “broadcasted” to my little sisters. They were nine at the time. But my younger cousins told them. It wasn’t like they knew better.
One sister said she didn’t care. The other said “ew,” but she got over it fast enough. Kids echo what they hear. And they learn what we show them.
But there was one adult man, a friend of my mom’s. He was much older than me, always joking that he’d “take me on a date when I turned 18.” Everyone would laugh like it was harmless. I knew it wasn’t.
Sure enough, once I turned 18, he messaged me on Facebook asking me out. I told him, “Dude, I’m with my girlfriend. I’m gay.”
He flipped out, said I “lied” instead of just saying no. But I wasn’t lying. I was telling the truth, my truth. But he just couldn’t handle it.
Back then, coming out wasn’t about attention or pride flags. It was about not lying anymore. It was survival in small-town Ohio. And being honest even if nobody clapped for it.
When I think about National Coming Out Day, I think about that moment in eighth grade. The one where I said, “Yeah, I like girls.” I think about every time after that when I had to say it again. Whether that was to friends, to family, to strangers who thought they had a say in it.
This is Part 1 of my story… the first step in a much longer journey.
Part 2 will come later today. It’s about when I came out again, not as a lesbian.
Because coming out isn’t one moment. It’s a lifetime of moments: each one a little braver, a little louder, a little more you.
Today, on National Coming Out Day, I remember that younger version of me. Who was scared, quiet, and honest anyway. The one who chose quiet truth in small towns where everyone knew your name.
I came out as a lesbian first. I came out as myself second. Both are chapters worth telling. Both matter.
Because every story of coming out whether it’s whispered, shouted, or written down… reminds someone else they’re not alone.
Stay tuned for Part 2: Coming Out as me.
Samhain, is one of the most powerful Sabbats on the Wheel of the Year.
Observed from the evening of October 31 through November 1, it marks the transition from the light half to the dark half of the year. Many witches regard it as the Witches’ New Year, a liminal time when the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest.
It is a season of endings, beginnings, remembrance, and transformation.
This resource explores the history of Samhain, its multiple cultural roots, the way people celebrated in the past, how witches celebrate it now, the symbolism and correspondences tied to this sacred night, and ways to practice sustainably.
Samhain comes from Gaelic and Celtic tradition and was celebrated in Ireland, Scotland, and the Isle of Man. It marked the end of the harvest season and the arrival of winter. for ancient people, this was not only the division of the year but also a sacred turning point. Archeological sites like the Mound of the Hostages at Tara show alignments with sunrise around Samhain, suggesting the importance of this moment stretches back even further than Celtic times.
In medieval Irish texts, Samhain appears as one of the great seasonal festivals. The name itself is tied to “summer’s end,” and in the Irish language, Samhain is also the word for November.
During this time, the burial mounds or fairy hills…were believed to open, becoming portals to the Otherworld. Spirits, fairies, and ancestors could move more freely, and it was customary to honor and appease them.
Bonfires were central to Samhain. Families would extinguish their home hearths and relight them from the great communal fire. People cast stones, bones, or tokens into the flames, sometimes as offerings or as part of divination.
The Ashes and fire were believed to carry cleansing and protective powers. In some accounts, livestock were culled and sacrificed to ensure survival through the winter.
Samhain was also a season of prophecy. Masking and guising also have deep roots here. Villagers disguised themselves to confuse or avoid malevolent spirits, and many went door to door reciting verses or performing small acts in exchange for food what we now know as trick-or-treating.
Samhain’s imagery is steeped in themes of death, rebirth, and liminality. The colors most often associated with this Sabbat are black, deep purples, fiery oranges, and blood reds.
Crystals like obsidian, smoky quartz, onyx, hematite, and amethyst resonate strongly with Samhain energy.
Herbs such as mugwort, sage, rosemary, cinnamon, and wormwood are commonly used in spells and rituals.
Symbols that dominate this season include skulls, bones, cauldrons, jack-o’-lanterns carved from pumpkins or turnips, and keys or crossroads imagery.
Animals tied to Samhain include ravens, crows, owls, bats, and black cats.
Spiritually, this time is connected to deities of the underworld and death, such as the Morrígan, Hecate, Donn, Hel, or the Cailleach, depending on tradition.
Fire and earth are powerful elements here, representing both purification and the return of life to the soil.
Rituals of Samhain historically centered on fire, offering, divination, and honoring the dead. Today, witches and pagans adapt these practices to personal and cultural needs.
Altar and ancestor work are central. Many build altars decorated with autumn harvest foods, skull imagery, bones, and photographs of loved ones who have passed. Offerings of bread, fruit, or herbs are common, left either at the altar or outdoors. Some practitioners hold a “dumb supper,” a ritual meal eaten in silence where a place is set for the dead, inviting them to share in the gathering.
Fire remains an important symbol. Witches may light bonfires, hearth fires, or candles as a way to purify and honor the season. Writing down things you wish to release and casting them into flame is a powerful practice at Samhain.
Divination thrives during this liminal night. Tarot readings, runes, scrying mirrors, pendulums, and dream work are all seen as especially potent now. Journaling or meditating on what must be released and what new cycles need to begin helps align with the natural energy of death and rebirth.
Samhain can be a night of shadow work. Or a time to face inner truths and release old habits. Some may focus on protection and cleansing rituals, strengthening psychic shields, or setting wards for the long winter ahead.
Because of urban living, fire restrictions, and ecological awareness, many witches adapt ancient practices. Instead of bonfires, they light candles. Instead of leaving large offerings at cemeteries, they create home altars or symbolic offerings. Many now prioritize sustainable and ethical practices, ensuring offerings do not harm the land or wildlife.
Samhain’s rituals often involve burying, burning, or leaving offerings, so ecological mindfulness matters. Use biodegradable materials such as paper towel rolls, untreated wood, or natural herbs. Avoid synthetic glitters, plastics, or toxic inks. Reuse jars, cloth, and candles rather than buying new every year.
A Samhain ritual can be as simple or elaborate as you like. You may begin by cleansing and grounding yourself, then inviting ancestors and guides into sacred space. Lighting candles or a fire connects to the ancient communal flames. Offerings and prayers to the dead bring remembrance and connection. Divination, journaling, or meditation help you gather insight for the year ahead.
A practice of release: whether by burning, burying, or composting, is powerful at Samhain. Once you have let go of what must die, you can set new intentions, plant seeds, or carry charms to symbolize rebirth. Close the ritual with gratitude to spirits, ancestors, and deities, then return to the mundane world with renewed focus.
Samhain is a threshold in the year, when endings and beginnings weave together. It honors death as a part of life and opens a space for transformation. Whether you light a single candle, share a feast with friends, or hold a private vigil, Samhain reminds us that magic is not only in growth but also in release. By walking with our ancestors, respecting the cycles of the earth, and practicing sustainably, we carry forward the essence of the Witch’s New Year.
Want to explore more?
Visit Poeaxtry and the Prism’s Archive Cheat Sheet. Discover all post categories, with a blurb and link to full post archive for each. Then find every post in that category in chronological order.
Right now I am growing a lot of things. Some are visible and tangible. Some are deeply personal and still unfolding beneath the surface.
I am growing a small witchy/ poetry business that reflects my passion and my craft. It’s more than just items or spells. It’s a space for magic and intention I am building step by step.
I am growing collections of poetry, both my own and collaborative works with others. Poetry is a way I give voice to what lives inside me and connects me the world around me.
I am growing a loving nurturing relationship and friendships that bring warmth and care into my life. These relationships are a garden of their own, one that I tend with patience and kindness.
I am growing a career as a poet. While carving a name for myself in the world through words and resistance. It’s not always easy, but every step forward is growth.
I am growing into my skin. As I am becoming more comfortable and confident in who I am and how I show up every day.
And then there are the small things I care for just as much. The pumpkins growing in my garden and the grass in my yard that grows green and wild with the seasons.
All these things be they internal or external, remind me that growth is never just one thing. It’s many layers unfolding and blooming in their own.
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I’ve outgrown my adult best friend. The boy I became a man with. The boy who made it feel like I wasn’t alone in a place where nobody felt like me. For years he was the only mirror I had. The only person who got it. Honestly, I’ve been outgrowing him slowly, painfully, one splinter at a time. I didn’t know how to let go. Not until the rope cut so deep I practically sliced my fingers off just trying to hold on. Now there’s no grip left. Just skin and scar. space and peace. I don’t hate him. Which is usually how I let go when my love turns to hate. I just no longer wish to participate in his delusions or fantasies.
I’ve also outgrown habitual drug use. Or really, drugs in general. At least the illicit kind. I still like my plants: weed, nicotine, caffeine. Those feel more natural to me. Oh, and mushrooms. Can’t forget the little mushroom dudes. Sometimes they’ve taught me more than any therapist ever did. But the rest of it? That chasing? That hole-filling impulse? That’s gone.
I’ve outgrown toxic patterns. The ones I clung to because they felt like home, mostly outgrown. I mean chaos was the language I was taught love in. I grew up watching relationships rot from the inside out and thought that must be what connection looks like. So I repeated it. Over and over. Until I didn’t. I still have my self-sabotaging hiccups but no one is perfect.
I’ve outgrown my clothes. Literally. I dropped over 60 pounds this year. I had told myself I’d do it as my resolution. For once, I didn’t break that promise. My body feels different now. My skin holds me differently. My knees don’t hurt on hikes as quick for sure.
And maybe the biggest thing? I’ve outgrown the lie that my depression controls everything. Some days, yeah, it wins. But other days, a lot of days, it’s a choice. Not to be sick, but to sit in it. To fester in the filth instead of fighting. I’ve started calling myself out on it. Started crawling out of bed even when I don’t want to. Started facing the rot before it spreads. Because healing is choosing again and again not to let the dark devour you whole. If there’s no light in my line of sight I have learned to become the light.
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Dear Sun,
Thank you for the light you pour over me. Oh and everything else that needs to grow. Whether it is the food we eat or the magic some call upon. You lift life from the soil and charge the air with energy. I can feel it while you warm me to my core. I do not take for granted the way you coax the herbs from the earth. Nor, the way your warmth settles on my skin while hiking lost in the quiet wildness.
Thank you for the long days we spend together. When I wander trails as I breathe in the sunlit air and feel myself expand. You give me the freedom to be wild and alive in a way only you can. But I also thank you for the days when you step back. You let the rain move in. The clouds soften the light. The earth drinks deep. I know growth needs balance.
This season, I ask for your continued strength to fuel my journey. Help me carry your fire when the days get heavy. Help me remember that even in the heat, there is rest. Let your light inspire my spells, my words, and my heart. Keep me connected to the land and to myself as I move through the longest days.
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