additional note on 2016:

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Fuck 2016.
Fuck it.

Wow, has 2016 been a shitty year.

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Like, a really shitty year. Holy carp, 2016. Stop. Just stop. For, like, five seconds.

But the sky is pink-purple with sunset, it’s only a little chilly, and it’s time to drag together some positivity and recover.

If it’s any consolation, whilst 2016 was being shitty, I was writing Apocalypse Girl [This is the AO3 account I actually have*! and this is Tumblr, which comes with a commentary. The commentary is me flailing about my own story. Just go with it, I guess.] It’s pretty dark, which is why it’s in different spaces. And there are warnings all over the place. Read them.

Also, in the UK, Mr. Kipling has released Toffee Terrible Whirls. That’s a shortcake sandwich of something creamlike and toffee. A box of six for a pound. How can I be upset about anything when I can get those again? Mm, toffee…

There has been thought, my dear non-existent fans. Thought and rumination. There has been gardening… and patio gardening. Which did okay! For a year with terrible weather. I have Plans for next year. Muahaha. There has been the Drawing of Maps because apparently I definitely draw maps now. By hand, because I have to be inconvenient. And the writing group, of course. That is a thing I have been a part of for a worrying amount of years…

There are a handful of Dust things that are not quite attached to Dust, and some of them can be posted. I’ll work on it.

But right now, I just want a cup of fruit tea. Ciao.



S. A. Jinks



* It’s in Original Works. I’m not against fanfiction in any definition of the term, I love to read it** but really suck at writing other people’s characters. I’ll stick to what I’m good at.

** But if we’re talking about fanfic of Dust, my completely non-existent fanbase, let’s talk about that at a later time***.

*** That will probably never happen because I will never have a fanbase, let’s face it.

Dust at the Wall: 3.38

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Blood over water, stone over sand.

Heinmast family motto.


In the underground headquarters, Gregor sat, and Ionas slouched against the wall. Oh, he missed that salve. Standing for an hour, and already bruised muscle pulsed agony at him. He needed to sleep…

He needed to find Sarea. But I know where she is. He pulled a face. Right where she shouldn’t be.

Tolle Range ducked through the passage in the corner, red faced. “No sign of Mae in the bathhouse or her rooms,” he said. “No one’s seen either of them since yesterday. Do you know what Edith Aldhouse did? Pushed her around until the poor girl snapped! That damn woman.”

He stopped in the middle of the room.

“I have people searching her known hiding places,” he said, “But the odds aren’t good. Mae’s assigned to a long term scouting mission.”

“The West Side, Gregor rumbled, and frowned.

Ionas shivered. Of course she’s there. “Sarea would volunteer,” he muttered.

“And two mothers were visited by Commander Jorge himself,” Tolle said, hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. “But no Instigators have been recalled.”

Gregor rose. “We must assume he has them. Strike now.” More


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I am a terrible, terrible person. So dreadful. Let’s just go with: the brainweather got stormy, roughly in alignment with the weed pollen season; I do have my suspicions about the trigger of that bout of probably-anxiety-or-something, indeed. Sigh.

A-hah! But I can produce something fun to be read whilst I… uh… get my house back in order. Be up shortly.

I fucked up.

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Mistepped, majorly, in the story, and stalled because everything felt wrong. But – it’s fixed now! And maybe this will get back on track! Hello, internet. One terribly-organised-irrepressibly-pantsing writer is back. Again.

Sorry about that.

– Jinx


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Hi. This is me. Taking the break I should’ve taken between parts two and three.

‘Tween more than enough low-level stresses and pollen and some vague malaise I can’t even name, writing is going amazingly slowly. For the next month, I’m taking one piece of low-level stress out: the schedule.

In other words, see you 7th of July.

Sorry, but… *helpless shrug*


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Look, thinks I. I have 3.27 done, and most of 3.28. I’ll post 3.27 on friday and catch up one of literally twenty six week’s worth of missed posts! I’m sure I can finish 3.28 in two days.

Cue migraine on Saturday.

Best laid schemes of mice and men…

3.28 will appear this week. Not tomorrow, sadly.

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Some days are like this:

It’s 11am, you’ve got everything to do but it’s warm, sunny even, and you feel good. So you pack a small picnic and a couple books and head out. But there’s nowhere you really want to go. So much choice, but you’ve been to all the local parks each a dozen times this year, it feels like, and it’s nearly May. So you get on a bus and read.

The sun’s heat through the window is gentled by a breeze from the open windows. Voices rise and fall around you. Sometimes you look out the window and see a church, or houses, or shops. In your ears, Coldplay sings this is all I ever wanted from life.

Back at the bus station, it’s nearly two. A bus station. You look at the destination and think, I haven’t been there in ages. It’s local, but a lot of places are. It has house, too, and shops and green spaces, but in different combinations.

You get on the bus.

This time you see birch trees with canopies like umbrellas, little roads and lawns full of clover. Streets called The Dell only lead to yet more houses if you get off the bus and look. You stay on the bus and imagine. The sun is still warm. The sky is blue, littered with candy floss clouds. And then there’s a brief burst of fields. Spring fields, full of green, and loved orchards. You pass Deadmans Lane and wonder.

You’re the only one on the bus. The driver pauses to have a smoke. A nearby clock could tell you the time, but you don’t pay it any attention.

By the church, you decide. You’ll give the dead some company.


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At goddamn last.


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Or something similar enough to Spring that I’ll bloody take it!

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