Knox × he/him × 30I'm a queer black creative who draws and occasionally writes! Currently working on my project, "Practitioners."
Knox is a creative writer, focusing on character driven prose. Their background in fanfiction leads to a wide variety in their works, and it instilled in them a strong desire to experiment. They have interest in a range of genres, from romance and horror, to science fiction, to smut. A common thread between their works is a focus on character— on their thoughts, desires, motivations, and emotions.Publishing work that influences the emotions of others is their goal.
Here are excerpts from some of my work.
People don’t think Narancia thinks about things but he does. He thinks too much, sometimes, thoughts bubbling up until he thinks they’ll leak out of his ears, poured out of his brain for everyone to see.He thinks about how he doesn’t belong, not with family or friends or with anyone. He thinks about his body and how it doesn’t belong, how it doesn’t fit with his brain, how it pushes him into a box he doesn’t want to be in while keeping him from the box he longs to fit into.Narancia doesn’t belong. He lives on the street, under bridges and in boxes and he’s small, he knows; someone once said he was malnourished or something like that, so he’s small and can fit into little corners and alcoves. Those are good things. Sometimes he squeezes into a wall, a small enclosed space that used to be the entrance to a building, maybe a shop or a cheap apartment complex, and is safe for a night. Sometimes he thinks that’s the only place he truly belongs, crammed into tight spots, just his short limbs and his small backpack and a lot of broken dreams.
He doesn’t belong anywhere, except someone picks him up one day. Gives him a meal, medicine, all but throws him into a shower and launders his clothes. And it happens over a long period of time, a time of being watched as he trudged from street to street, picking pockets and rummaging through trash. A vision of blond hair from the corner of his eye as he talks with other homeless folks, the peeps sometimes decades older than him that grumble slurred words and tells ridiculous stories. This happens for who knows how long until one day it comes to a head, Narancia being talked to by some guy introducing himself as Fugo, some guy who’s definitely better off and has no business showing Narancia pity.He ends up at a house a scant few hours later, a house two stories high with white trim and flowerpots and a picket fence. Narancia’s shoes are years old, falling apart at the seams, just a bit too small and definitely too dirty to be stepping into some well-to-do man’s home. But he steps in, and he’s given things, and he’s shown kindness, and though he sleeps on the offered bed with his pocket knife under his pillow he doesn’t have to shank anyone and that is the weirdest experience he’s ever had.Narancia doesn’t belong, not here or anywhere, but a man named Bucciarati offers him a pair of pants too long and a warm pasta dish and for the first time in a long time Narancia wishes he did.
Bucciarati says he cleans up nicely. Maybe, Narancia thinks. He looks at himself in Bucciarati’s mirror and sees someone who looks like a stranger. His hair is clean. It had been matted in spots because Narancia doesn’t own a comb or a brush, doesn’t shampoo regularly, doesn’t condition. His curls are shorter now and falling against his face in a nice way, neat. His skin is clean, complexion light brown instead of grungy, gray, ashy, nasty. His clothes are clean— his clothes are new. Well, thrift store new, but still newer than he’s had in years, all soft threads with no holes, hoodie pulled comfortable over his shoulders.Narancia doesnt belong but he thinks the stranger in the mirror might. He looks the part, looks warm in the right places, looks functional. Like he’s got a brain that can follow numbers and strings of letters, that doesn’t stutter over simple words and doesn’t have the finer operations of a lockpick stuffed close to the front of his mind. This stranger belongs in Bucciarati’s guest room, at the kitchen table across from Fugo, at dinner that’s piping hot and flavorful and delicious.If the stranger in the mirror belongs, then that brings another thought. A question. Who is he, then? Who is Narancia?
*
At the front of the line, for some reason unseen to Ignis, Gladio stops in his tracks. He only knows this because it causes the rest of the advance to halt, Noctis not too far from the front, Prompto not far behind him. Prompto begins to speak, his question rising up and subsequently dying on his lips when he finds his answer in the form of a deep, otherworldly growl. It’s a sound they all know a little too well, unfortunately; the rising grumble of a daemon, clawing its way into existence from whatever black, murky depths it originated from.The moonlight filters in as best it can through the dense forest foliage. It is still, unsurprisingly, not enough to properly see the creature forming. Weapons are summoned and defensive stances are taken regardless, everyone waiting on bated breath for a clear view of their newest enemy. Ignis flexes his fingers over the handles of his daggers, testing his grip, eyes scanning the immediate vicinity. Daemons, while not necessarily creatures to travel in packs still tend to appear in numbers. At any moment, from any direction, they could have another threat. The knowledge sets his shoulders straight, the back of his neck tight with anticipation.Their enemy fully manifests within moments; it starts as dark dust, a cloud of thick black smoke forming and snaking around the area. With it is the scent of burning, rotting flesh, the sound of fluttering cloth. Next there is what Ignis can only describe as an supernatural glow — sickly green flames rise from the smoke, bright enough to expand in the darkness around them, bouncing off trees and bringing to their attention the emaciated ruins in the near distance. On those flames form hands, and from those hands form the rest of the dameons.Ignis could almost see the thing as human, if not for the fleshless skull staring back at him, or the rest of its equally dead body apparent underneath its large, fluttering robe. He assesses the monsters, at least three of them, while the rest of his party begins their approach. These are what the hunters were calling “necromancers.” Ignis can appreciate the apt name.Gladio makes the first move. “Look alive,” he belts out, voice registering as nothing more than a thick growl, and throws his sword in front of him. He makes contact with his first swing, but the daemon phases away from his blade on the next attack, causing Gladio to take out a helpless chunk of dirt below him.Noctis moves into the gap Gladio created, warping right up to the necromancer and throwing his sword into its face. He’s more successful than his shield at first, but still finds himself losing his footing. When the apparition disappears again.The battle then begins to continue in a similar fashion. Prompto lays down cover fire as much as he can, covering for Gladio’s and Noctis’ straightforward attacks. Ignis spends his time looking for openings, dashing in with his lance whenever the timing seems acceptable. It’s a surprisingly hard balance to strike, however, with the daemons’ tendency to phase away leading for an increasingly frustrating, one-sided battle.The necromancer also, as they quickly discover, does just as its namesake states, summoning smaller, skeleton-like daemons to the area. Within just ten minutes their simple hunting quest becomes a free-for-all, with the four of them giving their all just to keep up.“Ignis!” Noctis’ voice sounds from somewhere in front of him. “Instructions!?”
*
From “Turbulence”Contains: Graphic Violence
He brings the snow globe down in one quick, solid motion.Luke only barely manages to get out of the way, stumbling backwards into the trunk of the car as the globe hits the ground, glass shattering. “Asch— Asch, what the hell ?” He takes a step back.Asch bends down — and his joints really are doing this thing where they creak and it feels like there’s cotton in his knees — and picks at the shards, glass pricking his fingers as he rifles through them. He’s not rifling through them, he’s not doing this, he’s not . He finds the biggest shard, one that’s sticky wet from the liquid inside and covered in glitter. He holds it and begins forward, plowing right into Luke and knocking him over.Luke takes to the ground with a loud oomph , and Asch can hear the crack his skull makes when it hits the pavement. Asch has, somehow, pinned him to the ground, and is sitting on his chest. Luke squirms and begins to scream.He pushes the jagged piece of glass into Luke’s throat. Asch can’t feel the way his arm moves, the way his bleeding fingers grasp the end of the glass piece, but he feels the twitch of Luke’s body under his weight. Feels the way the glass sinks into the skin like cutting through a thick slab of meat.Luke’s legs are kicking out wildly and his hands are on Asch’s — and Asch can’t feel them, why can’t he feel— but Luke is making no edgeway in stopping the descent at all, and his eyes are blown wide —Luke opens his mouth to scream again but there is no scream, just a gargle, blood bubbling up dark red from the sides of his lips. It dribbles down his chin and it soaks into his university hoodie. His legs stop squirming.Asch means to yell. He doesn’t.
Asch wakes up at 11am. He sits up in bed, heart beating frantically, fingers fisted uncomfortably tight in his bed sheets. He takes a long look around his bedroom, taking in the window, blinds closed. The desk, books stacked neatly, backpack lying on the ground near the chair, not pushed in. He takes in the carpet, the walls covered in band posters, the dirty clothes hamper in the corner. He takes a deep breath.And another.He can’t stop shaking.He shakes his head several times and stumbles out of bed, almost tripping as he makes his way over to his desk. He grabs his phone and opens it, clicking through to see the last text message he sent. Seven hours ago, to Luke: “I’ll meet you there.” It takes a few more terrifyingly quiet moments for him to realize it was a nightmare. He didn’t just murder his boyfriend. He didn’t.
*
a traveler, indefinite; nebulous
the sky drips dark purples
like it’s wet with ink, and you
think that staring at it makes you feel lost;you stumble home, stars
falling from the folds of your clothes
your bones creaking under the weight ofcountless wishes,
ones you know by heart as if
they were your childhood prayersthere is a warmth in your eyes
supplied by the travels of
forty days of long nightsand i want you to spill your
precious stories, let them unravel
with the knots in your backand push them into my waiting
arms, a net
to catch your heart, crumbledlike stardust
like a canvas thrice painted on, you are
i thought you looked charming through that veil
of smoke, billowing from your mouth like
factory steam
you said it reminded you of that one time you were little, some
decade ago, when the morning was enveloped in a thick fog
and, walking to school, you
tripped on some jagged piece of sidewalk and
tore the inside of your forearm
i listened, the inside of my lungs sticky sweet
as i smoked
one, two, passi wait for something to begin
we stick together like wet pieces of string; i
have nothing, while you have history, you
still have that scar on your arm, you
have stitches against the cross of your heart,
you have miles upon miles of baggage and you
wish things were different
and i tell you, i say, i wish things were differentsome days you are like a kaleidoscope
i’ve watched you melt at the seams, i’ve seen
colors dripping from your skin like wet ink
and you try so hard not to look like you are falling apart when
you are falling apart
to me, you are still charming
or more than that, you are
strong, shining, dangerous
redefined and remixed like
some new age piece of art
you arewaiting for something to end
we still smoke together; you still tap
your fingers against the worn wood of the coffee table
as if nervous, and your emotions show on your face
in thick creases from set frowns, from long nights
and i say that some decade ago, when i was little
i ran away from home
because i was full of young hate,
because the stars in the night sky weren’t
as bright as they used to be, because
i was always waiting on
something to beginthat night i was only gone an hour, i said
my head spun, choked on too much night
air and adrenaline, and i had nowhere else to go
you listen, left knee bouncing up and down like the rapid
beat of a drumline
and you take,
one, two, pass,
blow smoke into my face and say
that i am beautiful
and i think that maybe i’ve waited long enough
