With the first two chapters of She Thrives In Hell out in the world I keep coming back to the journey it took for me to get here. My hope for this is that it can change readers the way it changed me writing it. I honestly believe that I needed to write this story to find peace with my own fears and anxieties that took root in January of 2025.

Safe to say that a lot of those fears have not diminished in the time since then. My perspective however changed. I think you can still feel that fear and anxiety in Chapter 1 though as T265 walks down the Strand, trying to keep her head down and remain unimportant.

Chapter 1

It’s so easy to pull away when we’re afraid and hurt. There’s not much risk in that really. At least not on the surface. When we cut ourselves off like T265 did for several years the chances of getting hurt do drop dramatically.

So do the chances for warmth too though. I think the woman we meet at the beginning of Chapter 1 is a hollow shell of who she used to be five years prior. Even when she was being hunted by the government, she was still free. She still had connections. Once the gates closed on her at Perdition, she had to evolve.

It was either that or die I guess.

In my opinion, the inciting incident of the entire story is when T265 rushes in to save T921. This wasn’t who she was now, no this was older, this was primal. This was core Amelia. There was something about this moment that sparked the fire the shook her from stagnation and into action.

I think when you finish the story you will probably see it like I do. This was the moment that her entire life changed. And it’s always the little moments isn’t it? The ones that irrevocably change the course of your life and set you on a path towards monumental change.

For example, if I had not hung myself out of a drive-thru window at a McDonald’s in Richmond Hill, GA one afternoon in the summer of 1999 I would not be married with three kids and living in Texas. One small act changed the course of my life.

After I finished She Thrives In Hell the first time I found so many layers to the story about what it meant and what it could mean to different people. This concept of small actions is definitely one of my favorites.

Chapter 2

My favorite part of this chapter is meeting EmCee. In my career as a writer I have created so many characters, but I have to say that EmCee is one of my favorites. In all honesty I had an entirely different concept of her in my head before I started writing. However, as soon as she opened her mouth she made herself good and known right quick. She had the sass of Lafayette from True Blood and the caring nature of my best friend’s grandma.

She is really who I would want to be around if given the chance. Someone who just exudes this sense of home. I do love her sass though. Any woman with that much sass has to be a true G.R.I.T.S.

I think the thing I love most about her is how she approaches the unapproachable. She doesn’t impose herself upon them. She simply extends the invitation to sit a while and listen while she takes a load of their back.

I really enjoyed my time with EmCee and I was sorry when the story had to end. I do enjoy coming back to visit though to sit a spell and gossip.

One of the things that surprised me most about the story overall was how much of the work I put into creating the world Perdition exists in was not used in the actual story. What is in the novella barely scratches the surface of what I created. So that does make me want to write more stories in this world.

On that note I will close this entry, but I will be back again next week with my reflection on Chapter 3. These reflection articles will be a regular thing for all subscribers each week posting on Tuesdays after free chapters go live. Until then, keep hope alive and the embers glowing.

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It’s been two days since T265 opened up to EmCee in the Octagon. The gravity of what she shared remained a shock. Something felt different though, nothing definite, but definitely something…

The brutal August sun bore down upon the boundary of the Califax Ranch as the chunk of limestone burned through the callouses in T265’s hands. Beads of sweat cut between the hundreds of follicles of her beard like razors dancing along her skin. The weight of the stone pulled at her muscles while she hobbled towards the gaping hole in the stone wall facing the two-lane highway.

Apparently, a drunk driver lost control a couple of weeks ago. Behind her, T1405 grumbled about the heat for the hundredth time since they were shuttled to the boundary.

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Read the first chapter of T265’s tribulation in Hell to find out if she will survive the test of her soul. Something craves her, whether it’s Death, Pain, or the last shred of Hope isn’t certain.

What is certain?

She can’t live this anymore….

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The acrid taste of the air within the Perdition Work Camp infested T265’s mouth as she trudged through the heavy South Texas heat. No matter how often the breeze blew between the barracks, it never brought any respite. She spat the taste onto the dusty ground of the Strand, a stretch of beaten path between the rows of barracks that towered over her.

Even with the workday cut in half for Sunday, the fields were harsher than normal. Her skin, from her bald head to the small of her back, ached and burned. The scars on her chest, a void where her breasts used to be, itched more than they hurt. They always itched though. Of all the things ripped from her when they threw her in there, that cut her the deepest. Whether the itch on her chest rivaled that of the T-shaped burn scar on her cheek, wasn’t certain.

Not even past B barracks, she had to ease herself on the steps of the building. Several of the Is walked past, yammering on in Spanish so fast her ‘No Sabo’ ears couldn’t grasp onto any of the words. They didn’t say much to the Ts like her beyond the occasional slur.

The ‘Illegal’ Immigrants were the first ones sent to the work camps, and with the courts bogged down with a lack of support, they never really left. Then it was the Ts, trans women like T265 who mostly kept to themselves, and Gs, the gay men, came after. A group of them gathered on the stoop across the Strand from her.

The sky was clear that day, except for T424, who hung by a withered rope from the edge of the Spire, a tower where the guards could look over all quadrants of the camp. For the past several weeks, the COs would give the occasional kick to scatter the flies. T265 hoped they would cut it down before limbs started raining down onto the Octagon where meals were served. Her stomach turned; it never occurred to her that she would ever be so callous before she became T265.

Her legs groaned as she resumed her journey back to her barracks. Across the Strand, G655, a man she had issues with, broke off from the group and sped towards her. She fought her body to increase its pace.

“Tranny,” he called out.

“What do you want?” she answered through clenched teeth without stopping.

He rushed into her path and slammed his palm into her chest, which sent her stumbling back.

“You have to use my name. You do remember what that is right?” The snark wasn’t unusual for him, but the arrogance got worse since he became a Born Again. Names were the one thing taken from everyone during processing, replaced with a number that became their identity within those walls.

Reclaiming a name was just one of the many privileges for those who ‘recommit themselves to Christ’, as Warden Nettles reminded them in services that morning.

“What do you want, Andrew?”

“You weren’t participating this morning,” he scolded.

“I don’t have to do anything besides be there,” she replied and pushed past him. The desire to punch him in his bulbous face was overwhelming, but as the favored children of the camp, any attack against them drew harsh punishment.

“Don’t walk away from me bitch.” Andrew grabbed her shoulder and spun her around.

“Well at least that’s something,” she grumbled and glared ino his eyes.

He moved in so close she could smell the remnants of strawberry jam on his breath, which made her angrier at how much she missed the smell.

“If it wasn’t for you freaks pushing your fucking agenda they would have left the rest of us alone.”

“They would have just started with you instead. We were the canaries you ignored,” T265 whispered.

“What’s your name?” The shout tore through the quadrant. A tall, lanky G threw a scrawny, bald T to the ground.

The muscles in T265’s legs screamed as she forced them to run through the pain to close the distance to the fray. Four Gs from the stoop encircled the girl, kicking and taunting her until she screamed.

“Fuck off!”

A black, stocky G T265 didn’t recognize slammed his foot into the girl’s gut, making her croak. Another kick sent blood flying from her mouth to splatter on the pant leg of the tall, lanky one. He raised his leg to kick again.

T265 seized the opportunity to slam her shoulder into his torso and knock him to the ground.

“Caleb!” the black man called out.

“Shit,” T265 said under her breath and put herself between the Gs and the girl.

A shrill cry broke the air as CO Rubens blew his whistle just behind T265.

“Break it up!” CO Rubens yelled and pushed his way into the circle. His mirrored sunglasses reflected T265’s own worry back to her. His angry huff carried the unmistakable stench of whiskey just before his mustache bounced to herald his next statement. “The fuck you think you’re doing…” He paused to look at her uniform number. “T265?”

“They were attac—”

“I don’t give a shit what they were doing!” He looked over at Caleb and his tone changed dramatically. “You okay there Caleb?”

“It attacked me sir,” Caleb answered.

CO Rubens licked his bottom lip. “That it did. That it did.” He returned his attention to T265. “You’re cleaning the Octagon after lights out tonight.”

“Yes sir,” T265 replied and dropped her head.

CO Rubens backhanded her across the face. “You better be grateful I don’t hang you from the Spire.”

The shockwaves of the CO’s strike rumbled pain throughout her head. His hits were always the hardest, like he had something to prove.

“Thank you sir. I’m sorry sir,” she whispered and forced the anger and tears down, which only made them pulse and grow. Even hollow as she was, she didn’t want to hang from the Spire.

“Damn right you are,” Rubens scolded. He waved his arm to the remaining Gs to disperse.

Most of the crowd left with a few hanging back long enough to realize they wouldn’t finish what they started. T265 knew there would be hell to pay later. All of the eyes on her looked away when she met their gaze, except for one. T316, a statuesque trans woman, maintained eye contact. Her amber skin glistened in the sun under the veneer of sweat that covered her face and scalp.

“Thank you,” the girl said as she pulled herself up.

T265 looked her over and tapped the number on the fresh uniform. “Your name is T921 now.” T265 stepped away and frowned. “I’ll give you the advice someone gave me, keep your head down, trust no one, and stay alive.”

T921 nodded. Her wide eyes reminded T265 of her first moments in the camp a little over five years ago, when the reality of what happened to her finally sank in. Just like her, T921 searched for some semblance of hope in their surroundings. When the tears escaped her eyes and traveled down her cheek, T265 knew she had come to the same conclusion.

There was no hope in Perdition.

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©2026 Benchmark Creatives Holding LLC. All rights reserved. Published by EmberWake LLC.

After breaking her rule to protect another trans girl, T265 got more work and less sleep for her her reward. After threatening The Spire the CO ordered her to clean the Octagon after lights out. This was why she didn’t get involved…

It was during her third year that T265 realized that scrubbing the floor to the beat of a song made the punishment tolerable. Already through the first act of her favorite musical, she had only hit the quarter mark of her section.

It had to be off-brand canned ravioli night. Her frustration continued to grow as the scrubbing on the other end of the Octagon kept fucking up her rhythm. The fact that T316 was nearly finished didn’t help matters either.

The Octagon, much like the camp, was divided into four quadrants separated by thick concrete walls, marred with blood stains. Each one was designed to feed one thousand prisoners at a time, in theory. Sometimes the CO’s were not as diligent at moving people through so others could eat.

The Born Agains, of course, always got in first and were offered additional servings. There were too many times to count where many would only get scraps, if anything at all.

T265 was able to eat that night, though the bucket that reeked of bleach turned her stomach each time she rinsed the brush. With the amount of dried sauce on the floor the chances of keeping her dinner grew slim.

She used to love cleaning. The rhythm of the scratching brush drew her back to Saturday mornings, when she and her wife Cassie, would dance around the living room to their cleaning playlist. Cassie would sweep and mop the floors while T265 would clean the kitchen. Doing the dishes was always an opportunity for T265 to let her mind wander into fantastical worlds of make-believe.

Those times were gone. As much as she tried to push them out and focus on the rhythm of the scrubbing, her mind wandered back. The reverberation of Cassie’s laugh haunted her to the point of waking the deep pit of longing T265 worked so hard to suppress. It longed to be relished again.

The brush ceased its rhythm and rested. Cassie’s plea to stay behind with her echoed in her memory. It took thirty minutes to convince her to go through airport security, but she made it out. That was the important thing. T265 sat on a bench in that terminal, utterly destroyed at how quickly the United States turned.

She brought the brush back to life, the rhythm resumed, and her mind sank into a different, familiar circle that drowned her for the first few months after she was thrown into this hell. She should have gotten her passport updated sooner. They should have left the country sooner, but they had too much trust in those elected into power.

After the election, T265’s mind went wild with worst-case scenarios that Cassie assured her were too outrageous to happen. Until they did. Looking back, it was too easy to see how all the dominoes lined up.

Tucked deep into a spending bill was one amendment out of hundreds that redefined what constituted treason. With all their eyes on the atrocities of the immigration purge, election conspiracies, and the war, its broad language seemed benign enough to not be concerned.

Once the bill passed, it took just one signature to make every queer person in the country an enemy of the state. Defying the gender roles established by the government became treason and made her hunted. Some days T265 wished they had just applied the death penalty.

Even she didn’t know about the camps until she got caught sneaking across the border into Mexico. The Mexican soldiers should have just shot her on the spot instead of handing her back, but they made a deal to protect their people, or so they thought.

Thoughts of death didn’t surprise her anymore. Fantasies about dying far outweighed any about escaping alive; dying was at least possible. It wasn’t something she could do herself, though, hopeless as she was, her heart was too kind for that.

The warden had specific beliefs about suicide, one of those being that it is a failing on the community. Punishment for killing herself would fall on everyone in her barracks, and she couldn’t bring herself to reason a way to feel okay about it.

Instead, she hoped for The Horseman, the boogeyman of the camp, who claimed the lives of prisoners and wrote their numbers on the walls in their blood.

“Hey,” the sultry southern drawl disrupted T265’s rumination.

“What?” she asked, annoyed, and set the brush down to see T316, a hispanic T who did not match the voice, perched on the table above. The fatigue her rhythm kept at bay slithered back into her bones.

“You helped Runt today.” T316 drummed her thick fingers on the metal table and the hollow cadence filled the air until she continued, “Why?”

“That isn’t her name.” T265 returned to scrubbing.

“No,” T316 said and inspected her cuticles. “It isn’t, but I call her that now.” She leaned over the edge of the table. “What should I call you?”

“T265,” she grumbled while struggling with a persistent splatter of dried sauce.

“Hmm, don’t care for the numbers.” T316 slid her hand in front of T265’s face. “Friends call me EmCee.”

“Didn’t take you for a Born Again,” T265 quipped.

“Bitch please, my body is my temple.” EmCee laughed and slid onto the bench. “I like you. You got spunk.” She leaned down and whispered. “Think I’ll call you Spunky Brewster.”

“Please don’t.”

“What’s your name then?” EmCee lowered her voice further and continued, “Your real name.”

T265 sat up and shook the brush in the bucket. “So you can rat me out to the COs?”

“Go rat on me then. I told you mine first.” EmCee shook her head with a healthy level of sass and her eyes all wide. She waited a moment for a reaction, and when she got none, her expression went serious. “Look, I seen you around. You lonely, and that ain’t healthy in here.”

“I keep my head down.”

“Honey you are so far down you in China.”

“Racist much.”

“Bitch do you know where you are?” EmCee laughed with her whole body.

T265 was unable to stifle a smile.

“There we go,” EmCee cooed. “Look babycakes, you did Runt a solid. That makes you good people and I take care of good people.” EmCee reached into the bucket of bleach water and took out the brush. She crawled down onto the floor next to T265. She nodded her head toward the bench. “Go on, get.”

The absence of the pressure of concrete surged pain into T265’s knees when she pushed herself off the ground. Her body melted into the bench and leaned against the table. Exhaustion begged her to close her eyes right there and the rhythmic scrape of EmCee’s efforts coaxed her as well.

“You never stopped to wonder why you haven’t seen a CO in here, have you?” EmCee asked.

The statement sent T265 straight up, and scanning the room. Not another soul in sight. ”How did—”

“One of the Closets taken a shine to me, so I gets all sorts of favors,” EmCee explained as she made quick work of another group of stains.

“Closets?” T265 asked.

“There’s three of them, in this quad at least,” EmCee chuckled. “They’re discreet enough for the CisHets, but not for me. This one’s wandering eye was all it took for me to clock him.” She hummed a random tune and smacked her lips. “Stick it to the man any way I can,” she sang.

“I never noticed them,” T265 said.

“Cause you got your head down all the time.” EmCee sat up and looked her in the eye. “You’d be amazed what you find when you wake up and look around.”

“What else do you notice?” T265 wasn’t even sure why she was still entertaining this conversation, but the break was helping. There was something about EmCee that was comfortable though.

Maybe it’s the fact that she was the first person to treat her like a human being since getting there. Well, since T113 anyway, but she wasn’t friendly as much as she was the harbinger of caution.

“I know you been here longer than me and I been here two years,” EmCee answered.

“Why do your friends call you EmCee?”

“You know what they do when we use our real names in here.”

“What does it mean then?”

“It was my stage name.” She sighed an air of wistful remembrance before she tapped T265’s knee. “What’s your name honey?”

“I…” T265 paused. Every bit of common sense told her not to break this boundary, but so much of her missed having a connection like this to another person. Maybe it was trust or maybe it was the weight of five years of loneliness, but something inside T265 chose to take a risk that night.

“Amelia,” she whispered, and a wall in the glass house she built to separate herself shattered. She hadn’t even thought of the name in years, let alone spoken it. Even now, it felt abominable to use it in such a way.

EmCee smiled with such warmth; it was a lot like Cassie used to before she had to leave. EmCee put her hand on T265’s and squeezed.

“Mine’s Candy. I’m going to call you Sport,” she whispered. Her eyes shimmered in the fluorescent light of the dining hall. “Every time I do, you know that I am using your real name.” She set the scrub brush down on the ground. “I’m going to hug you now, I’m a hugger.”

T265 sat still, and the sensation of EmCee’s arms was different, foreign, and more like a hazy memory than anything real. T265’s hands fumbled until they clasped her arms around EmCee’s back. When her head rested on EmCee’s shoulder for the briefest moment, it was like they were friends greeting each other in the outside world.

The steel bars, cement walls, and razor wire were nowhere to be found, and it was just the two of them in a world of freedom.

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Just a visit.
Just paperwork.
Just a formality.

There’s nothing to worry about.

That’s what they always say before they tighten the boot.

Tonight will be different.

It has to be.

The Lavenders is a short story set in a future that looks almost exactly like ours—until you notice what’s been quietly taken away.

1

I think every author has chapters of their books that they have stronger feelings for than others. For me it’s like having kids. I love them all differently, and for different reasons, because they are different people, but I still love them.

I’m like that with She Thrives in Hell. Some of the chapters I hold close to my soul while others make my soul want to burst out of my body. Then there are those that are just so emotionally charged they strike chords deep inside me each time I read them.

If I had to pick a favorite, that last group would be the ones I would pick.

With three more days until the first chapter goes live, I want to share three lists of chapters that are important to me. Now, I can’t say much without giving spoilers, but I will say a sentence of two, that Chapter Title, and list the song on my playlist that lines up with it.

Most excited to share

• Chapter 6: Awakening – Aug 15, Song: “Hoppipolla” – Sigur Ros

• Chapter 14: The Pain of Being Me – Oct 10, Song: “The Wind” -Cat Stevens/Yusuf

• Chapter 22: A Million Pieces – Dec 5, Song: “What It Sounds Like” – Huntrix, EJAE

These are the Chapters that I am most excited/anxious to see how readers react to them. Chapter 6 is my love letter to writers and all creatives actually so I hope they find joy in it. Chapter 14 was an emotional powerhouse and almost made all three lists. Finally Chapter 22 has one of the best final lines I fell I have ever written within the context of the chapter.

Filled my soul

• Chapter 14: The Pain of Being Me – Oct 10, Song:

• Chapter 19: Communion – Nov 14, Song: “Fire and Rain” – James Taylor

• Chapter 22: A Million Pieces – Dec 5, Song: “What It Sounds Like” – Huntrix, EJAE

In another post I talked about how writing this story changed me as a person. These chapters are the main ones that made that happen. In these chapters I discovered bravery and courage in ways I hadn’t thought of before. That these things can take many different shapes. Sometimes even the smallest act can take a level of courage that would bring others to their knees. I return to these chapters often.

Made me cry

• Chapter 8: ……………. – Aug 29, Song: “I Dreamed a Dream” – from Les Miserable

• Chapter 17: Betrayal – Oct 31, Song: “The Unforgiven” - Metallica

• Chapter 18: Freedom – Nov 7, Song: “Sand Drawing” – Judah earl

Writing a dystopian story means confronting some real fears and anxieties I have, but also finding empathy for the fears that others may have as well. These chapters touched on painful experiences I’ve had, but some massive ones I’ve never experienced. The research needed to do these emotions justice took a toll and I think that is why these chapters hit me so hard now when I read them again. I sincerely hope I did these emotions justice for those who have lived them.

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1

The delectable scent of cinnamon pervaded the kitchen of the late twentieth century colonial that was a respectable distance from downtown. Mrs. Lavender smoothed the wrinkles from her floral apron as the intrusive thoughts seduced her attention from the pie on the counter. The cabinet door beneath the sink was ajar, that was where she went to deal with pests before, why not now?

She indulged the dark fantasy for a little longer than God intended. Five slices of pie filled the dessert plates waiting on the silver tray she and her husband, Mr. Lavender, got six years ago as a wedding present. It was nice enough, for appearances. A dollop of whipped cream danced across each slice with an artistic touch filled with longing.

The deep, burgundy coated her lips once again until she was satisfied with the woman staring back from the mirror hanging above the sink. With time running out, she abandoned her search for someone recognizable and carried the tray through the swinging door to the dining room.

Where they waited.

Pastor Kyrie’s wife noticed her first and flashed the same saccharine smile as the last time she sat in that same chair. Her husband, with his shaved head and beard, clapped his hands and by the look in his eye, Mrs. Lavender couldn’t tell whether it was for the desserts or her. The doctor from the Genesis Restoration Group looked up from his notepad and gave a cursory nod before returning to work.

Mr. Lavender remained in his chair at the head of the table, his dark hair slicked back the way he hated, and his least favorite tie slung over his shoulder. They both needed to keep up appearances after all. He kept his eyes focused on the men at the table when she set the dessert plate in front of him. Like all the other inspections, no words were spoken.

Pastor Kyrie cleared his throat just before Mrs. Lavender reached her seat.

“Kevin,” he said with a gilded smile. “Perhaps it’s best y’all attended to the matter at hand, before enjoying this here dessert.”

While a drawl wasn’t foreign to Mrs. Lavender, having spent well over a decade in Texas before returning from Europe, the pastor’s stoked her fury with the way it insisted itself upon her.

It was an infestation in her home.

“Come along dear.” Mr. Lavender nodded under the watchful eye of the doctor and held out his hand.

She was always thankful he had soft hands, it made it somewhat bearable when he had to put them upon her. Her tenuous grip on his fingers held as he led her from the dining room to the stairs, at which point they were out of sight.

They released each other and scurried up the stairs. The fifth and tenth stairs creaked just as they always did for the past six years. She hated this ceremony. It wasn’t just the vulgarity of it, but that it was a necessary evil. Anything for the mission.

In the decade since the United States evolved into the Dominion, Gender Traitors vanished without discretion. Not like before where they relied on subterfuge. The camps stopped being a secret a while ago.

“Are you ready?” she whispered when they reached the top.

“Am I ever?”

She led him down the hallway past the second bedroom that until 7:00am that morning was very well lived in. With the click of the lock to her bedroom, they set about the well-choreographed dance they performed each month. Some days she wished they would finally meet the one child requirement so these checks would end. Those days turn her stomach, because she never wanted to have children with this spouse.

Her dress was the first to hit the ground, followed by her bra, and then panties. Hairs stood on end when the chill pierced the skin of her breasts.

“I thought you turned the heat up,” she whispered.

“The doctor complained while you were finishing dinner.” Mr. Lavender placed his folded clothes on the dresser along the far wall from the bed.

Mrs. Lavender nodded and removed her massage wand from the nightstand drawer. With the questions about the presence of olive oil in the room during the inspection three months ago, it fell on her to…prepare herself, no matter how much it turned her stomach. The low rumble filled the room while she guided the tool to perform its mechanical task.

Her mind raced with fiery opposition to her attempts to clear it. Even with all the chaos there was only one singular thought that rang like a bell in a hurricane.

I need my wife.

The thought brought a surge of pain and panic as the ache of absence hollowed her out. It was the fear of the camps that distracted her though. Not for her own safety, but her love’s.

The sting of her palm across her face dragged back into the moment. Her focus shifted into the low rumble against her skin and the memory of her last time with her wife. Her naked body stretched across the floral print of their bedsheets while the dapples of citrine and indigo light danced across her breasts. The hazy memory of her tongue drew Mrs. Lavender deeper into the moment and her body responded with a yearning that burned for the past sixteen years.

“I’m ready,” she called out and pulled herself to her knees on the edge of the bed. Her eyes focused on the mattress while she leaned onto her elbows. The presence of his body lingered behind her several moments.

This was normal.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

That was as well.

“I know, it’s okay.”

His entrance was quick, the thrusts rhythmic and methodical. His breathing remained steady for two minutes according to the clock on her other nightstand. Breathing became grunting, then steady became staccato. His last three thrusts curdled her stomach as she felt the evidence of his presence inside her.

As he pulled out of her she buried her face into the mattress in a sick mockery of how it used to be when she enjoyed sex. Back when burying her face like that was meant to restrain screams of pleasure, not to stifle pure rage. She laid on her side and prayed her wife could forgive her.

After five minute of clean up and recovery, she squeezed into her panties to keep as much of him inside her for what came next. Neither of them spoke while they returned into their clothes and the carefully crafted personas required outside that room. They typically didn’t say much for a day or two. It wasn’t contempt for each other that stole their voice, but it was contempt, nonetheless.

They joined hands and with each step down the hallway transformed into the happily married couple from Old Chicago, a city neither of them even visited, but their paperwork said it was the truth.

In this new world, truth was relative, but still worth its weight in gold.

Mrs. Lavender was not surprised to see the doctor waiting at the bottom of the stairs when they rounded the corner. His intent gaze slithered under her skin as she imagined he inspected every micro expression for confirmation of their intimate relationship.

In the dining room the pastor’s wife set Mrs. Lavender’s favorite pillows from the living room on the far end of the table. Again. Mr. Lavender returned to his seat with his face stoic as ever. Mrs. Lavender climbed with resignation onto the other end of the table with her legs dangling over the edge. The doctor pulled a chair unreasonably close to her and jerked his head up.

“Remove your panties,” the doctor demanded without warmth or care.

Obliging, she slid them up to her knees, and left them there. A mild act of defiance that regained a sliver of control. The doctor huffed and yanked them down to her ankles. His gloved fingers poked and prodded her labia before he forced the speculum inside her.

“A healthy deposit this time.” With the precision of an assembly line he swabbed her canal and capped the tube. “Hopefully it will take this time. For your sake.”

“Yes doctor,” Mrs. Lavender replied and avoided the veiled threat, for now.

The doctor unceremoniously dismissed her and returned to his seat to eat the pie she spent two hours making from scratch. She hoped he would choke on it. Instead, she waddled back to her seat as the cold, wet fabric soaked with Mr. Lavender’s seed pressed against her skin.

The pastor picked up the conversation, as if a stranger wasn’t just in Mrs. Lavender’s vagina three feet from where he sat. He went on about the gossip of the church with the increase in mandatory giving starting the following week and the latest scandal of Michael Willoughby caught fornicating with another man. No one noticed Mr. Lavender flinch, but she did. She was well aware of all of his foolish dalliances.

Risks like that would get him shipped off like Willoughby to a camp in South Texas by week’s end according to the pastor. Her heart beat faster for a moment. Was that where she was? Would Micheal Willoughby meet her there?

After the pie was consumed, the pastor finished his diatribe about gender traitors and the need for a final solution. The echoes of an empire that rose from hell to corrupt a once hopeful nation. Tears welled in her eyes as her husband must agree to the heinous suggestion that was an utter betrayal to everyone who died so they could survive. The alternative was worse, if their truth got out then all the good they could do would be lost.

For once she was thankful that men don’t feel input is necessary from women in such matters. This is one of the only times she was happy to just smile and look pretty.

To her relief, the intruders rose and bid their farewell to conclude the visit. The tension in her back eased as she and her husband bid farewell while the car doors opened and final waves were given. The muscles in her face burned for relief from the forced smile she wore for their preservation.

Once the cars were out of sight, she slammed the door and released a guttural cry that shook the very fabric of her existence. On some level, she hoped her wife felt it.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” Mr. Lavender said.

Mrs. Lavender leaned back and bounced her head against the door. His statement woke her courage, and her love. The reason she returned to this country was love. The thought of her wife trapped in one of the camps, after the horrific rumors…torture and worse. She’d rather die trying to save as many as she could than sit in safety.

“As long as we can.” She wiped away the wetness from her eyes and shook off the lingering pain. “We owe the ones who didn’t get this chance. Someone has to survive to protect the next generation.”

They stood there in that truth for a moment.

A knock at the door.

Mrs. Lavender’s pulse raged and she transformed in an instant to open the door with a radiant smile to find a young girl standing alone on their porch with a large purse and a dirty plaid dress. Her long black braid hung to the side while her lips trembled.

“I’m looking for Virginia?” the girl whispered.

Mr. Lavender placed his hand on Mrs. Lavender’s shoulder and squeezed.

“She moved to Lincoln.”

“Do…do…” the girl stammered her response. “Do you know when the next train leaves?”

“Not until next week, I’m sorry,” Mrs. Lavender answered with a smile.

The girl’s demeanor shifted ever so slightly and her posture eased.

“It’s okay. I’ll walk to the station.”

“No, please come in. I can drive you there,” Mr. Lavender said with the gentleness of a dad.

The girl stepped inside the home and Mrs. Lavender eased the door shut. She took the girls heavy purse to ease the burden from a long journey.

“What’s your name sweety?” Mrs. Lavender asked.

“Amelia,” the girl responded with ease in her tone.

“I…I really love your name,” Mrs. Lavender said, trying to fight back the lump in her throat. “I’m Cassie.”

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The idea for She Thrives In Hell came to me in January 2025. It was right around the inauguration, and I was deep in anxious rumination. As I am apt to do when I am scared.

Whether those fears were justified then or now isn’t the point. They were real to me and this story is real now, and that is what matters.

Once I had the concept I set about trying to figure out what I wanted this idea to become. This is, for me, the most energetic part of the process where my synapses are firing a million miles a second. This is when the idea is more feeling than a thought, and its potential is limitless. It is everything and nothing all at once.

I always start with how I want the story to feel.

Immediately my mind went to stories I’ve experienced that left me with similar feelings. The Shawshank Redemptionshowed me an innocent person locked away without hope of freedom. Schindler’s List reminded me that those in the direst circumstances can be delivered into hope. The 1997 movie Bent taught me that it was possible to find a glimmer of joy in the worst places imaginable.

My heart kept coming back to that notion of hope. While I wanted to illustrate the horrors that lay in wait on the horizon, I didn’t want my trans siblings to walk away from this story with despair.

I decided that no matter how dire I made my story, there had to be some sliver of hope somewhere.

In building the character of T265, I found inspiration in Bree from TransAmerica, Bob Harris in Lost in Translation, and Theo Faron in Children of Men, characters who began their stories weighed down by their cynicism, emotionally empty, yet managed to find their way back to hope.

To build the dystopian world of She Thrives In Hell, I had plenty of inspiration to pull from. For me, since this is set in a near future of our world, I needed to understand how we could get from here to how bad it is at the start of the story.

*Cue everyone gesturing to the political climate of the United States and the 24-hour news cycle.

But seriously, I needed to really understand. I read Watching Darkness Fall by David McKean to get a sense of how it felt watching the Nazi regime grow from the outside and the inside. I watched the 2001 movie Conspiracy which depicted the meeting that decided the Final Solution.

I looked at other parts of history and read articles about other regimes who tried similar things.

When it comes to getting a good handle on what the world would look like for the LGBTQ community, specifically the trans community, I read through all of the executive orders from this administration that related to us, as well as the previous Texas GOP platform since Texas seems to be the proving ground, and of course comment sections. (Since finishing She Thrives In Hell the Texas GOP finalized their new platform, it didn’t get sunnier for us.)

Looking back through it all now I realize that all of these things didn’t assemble themselves into She Thrives In Hell. No, they were more like lenses that helped me see clearer through my own fears and anxiety to find the story that needed to be told within me. A story that really wanted to answer one question…

If hope can exist in the darkest corners of history and courage can be found in the words of those who came before us, what is stopping us from harnessing that now in the face of the fears of today?

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All Writers have their processes and rituals. That is a fact. Any Writer who tells you they don’t is either lying, just starting out, or not really a writer.

I will die on this hill.

One of my rituals when I get ready to start a project is build my playlist. This isn’t so much a soundtrack, although in some cases it kind of becomes one, but a collection of vibes.

I pick songs based on the emotional feelings I get when I listen to them and whether or not that match with either the overall sense of the story I am going for or particular scenes I already have in mind.

Often there are songs that traverse between projects. K-Pop Demon Hunters have made it onto the playlists for three projects now. Sara Bareilles is also a mainstay, but that is because I love her.

For She Thrives In Hell I was surprised just how eclectic this playlist became for a story set in a concentration camp. However, as the outlining and structuring work progressed my understanding of the moods and emotional jourmey evolved.

Now, I do not listen to the playlist while writing. It’s too distracting for me. But I listen to it almost all the rest of the time. Washing dishes, doing laundry, driving, and pretty much anytime I am alone and not writing. I will switch it up and listen to playlists for other projects, specific moods I’m in, or drop in for some good old late 90s/early 00s deep cuts. Musicals too, I freaking love musicals.

Can’t sing to save my soul, but I love musical theater.

I digress. Sometimes I will hear a song somewhere else that will spark an emotional chord or give me an idea for a scene and on the playlist it goes.

What we have below is a curated list from about 50 songs that listened to during planning, drafting, and editing this novella. I picked a song for each chapter that I feel captured the emotional tone the best that I had in my head and heart when I came up with the scene and where it ended up.

Now, some could consider these spoilers in some cases. I do highly recommend coming back to this playlist after you’ve finished the novella, some of the songs will likely hit you differently. I know one in particularly had me bawling at my dining room table.

You have been warned.

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It’s hard to believe that I’ve been working on this story for a year and a half. This little story born out of my fear and anxiety became something I felt in my soul needed to get it into the world.

In order to make this story more than a melodramatic diatribe, I had to sit and experience that fear. In doing so I found a lot of kinship with T265. As much as I wanted to believe I would be on the front lines fighting, deep down I knew that surviving would drive me.

It was through writing the character of EmCee that I found courage, and to my surprise, joy.

She is the mentor I always needed and wanted to be when I first came out. Somewhere along the way, I realized I was already becoming her, because she was inside me the whole time.

It was in this that I really came to admire T265 in her journey as she surprised me with decisions I didn’t expect her to make.

In the course of writing this story, I found my bravery. I stoped backing down. I stopped making myself small to fit the comfort of strangers. There’s a line from the book that I really love...

I guess my real hope for this story is not so much that it becomes insanely popular and I get famous. It would be nice, but, if this story could do for another trans woman who is scared what it did for me that would be the greatest success.

While writing the story, it evolved into something more than what I intended. It became more than a story about survival and shifted into a personal story about identity, courage in the face of danger, and what it means to rebel.

I always used to say that someone cosplaying as one of my characters is a big milestone, but if someone said to me “your story helped me find courage,” well, that would be legendary.

There are other levels to the story that I won’t mention here because I want to see if others find what I found during the editing process. One was something that was purely unintentional, but once I saw it in one scene I recognized it everywhere.

I really love how She Thrives In Hell turned out. I have read it many times over and there are still parts I get caught up in my feelings. I truly hope you all have the same experience as well.

One more week as I can finally welcome you into this evocative story about T265. I’m so excited to hear what you think.

If you haven’t become a Paid Subscriber yet and enjoy background insight like this I highly encourage you to consider it. Every Chapter will get a reflection similar to this two days after the Chapter posts that is included in the special perksl.

You’ll also get access to the Ink and Indigo Discord and a free Ebook copy of my first novella When The Candles Burn. I can say that somewhere in She Thrives In Hell there is an Easter egg from my first novella.

“T265 survives Hell in the carcass of who she used to be, but the whisper of her ghost forces her to intervene for a stranger. Now there is no going back, only death, betrayal, or the futile quest for the last shred of hope in damnation. The only certainty is she can’t live like this anymore.”

She Thrives in Hell is a dystopian novella about a transwoman’s fight to reclaim identity and hope after years of torture and slavery.

Readers of I Keep My Exoskeleton to Myself and The Saint of Bright Doors might enjoy this journey of searching for hope within a regime built to erase you.

This is the homepage for the She Thrives In Hell novella, here you will find the list of all the Chapters and their titles. As they publish each Chapter will be updated to include the link to that page.

You will also find the posting schedule not only for the Chapters but also the Behind-the-Scenes Discussions available to paid subscribers where the author will share more details about what went into that chapter and even some easter egg nods to other stories and songs.

Chapter List and Posting Schedule

• Chapter 1: Forgotten – July 11

• Chapter 2: Bound to Give – July 18

• Chapter 3: Violence Before Silence – July 25

• Chapter 4: Invitation to Rebellion – Aug 1

• Chapter 5: The Temptation of Memory – Aug 8

• Chapter 6: Awakening – Aug 15

• Chapter 7: Signs of Life – Aug 22

• Chapter 8: ……………… - Aug 29

• Chapter 9: Hollowed Out – Sept 5

• Chapter 10: The Bargain – Sept 12

• Chapter 11: No Longer – Sept 19

• Chapter 12: Everything We Should Be – Sept 26

• Chapter 13: Day of Reckoning – Oct 3

• Chapter 14: The Pain of Being Me – Oct 10

• Chapter 15: Find the Way Back – Oct 17

• Chapter 16: World On Fire – Oct 24

• Chapter 17: Betrayal – Oct 31

• Chapter 18: Freedom – Nov 7

• Chapter 19: Communion – Nov 14

• Chapter 20: Strangers – Nov 21

• Chapter 21: The Horseman – Nov 28

• Chapter 22: A Million Pieces – Dec 5

• Chapter 23: Homecoming – Dec 5

• Chapter 24: Rebellion – Dec 5

Behind-the-Scenes Chapter Discussions Posting Schedule

1. July 13:

2. July 20

3. July 27

4. Aug 3

5. Aug 10

6. Aug 17

7. Aug 24

8. Aug 31

9. Sept 7

10. Sept 14

11. Sept 21

12. Sept 28

13. Oct 5

14. Oct 12

15. Oct 19

16. Oct 26

17. Nov 2

18. Nov 9

19. Nov 16

20. Nov 23

21. Nov 30

22. Dec 7

Pre-Launch Articles

Can Hope Exit In Hell? - June 13

She Thrives In Hell: An Introduction - June 20

She Thrives In Hell: A Countdown (First Trailer) - June 27

Why She Thrives In Hell? - July 4

She Thrives In Hell Inspiration Playlist - July 5

She Thrives In Hell: Inspiration Used to Focus the Story - July 6

The Lavenders: A Short Story - July 7

Chapter I Look Forward to Sharing from She Thrives In Hell - July 8

She Thrives in Hell is a dystopian novella premiering on JW Sweem’s Ink & Indigo Substack on July 11, 2026.

Excerpt from Lone Start Quarterly, vol 73, April 2034:

She Thrives in Hell Premieres on July 11^th at 10am.

It is a Dystopian story about a transwoman’s fight to reclaim identity and hope after years of torture and slavery in a government work camp.

Readers of I Keep My Exoskeleton to Myself and The Saint of Bright Doors might enjoy this journey of searching for hope within a regime built to erase you.

Today I want to share a little about the types of characters you’ll meet and a taste of what to expect from the story.

Personae

The Forgotten Artist

• On a dark path after 5 years of isolation, she can’t live like this anymore. Whether its death, the betrayal of everything she used to be, or searching for the last sliver of hope, something is going to change.

The Bon Vivant

• Walls mean nothing as long as her heart is filled with joy and she finds joy in every little thing she can. The fact that she discovered her joy is a weapon against her captors is just a bonus. She’d rather die laughing anyway.

The Crusader

• The ends justify the means as long as the mission is holy. God empowers his servants to deliver his wrath to blasphemers and abominations seeking to corrupt his faithful children. The Crusader believes he in such a servant and will purify every man and woman under his charge.

The Story:

The Forgotten Artist is at the end of her rope, but the last shred of who she used to be forces her to protect an innocent prisoner and catch the attention of The Bon Vivant.

The seductive offer of reclaiming her identity puts The Forgotten Artist at odds with The Crusader’s promise of comfort and true safety in the camp at the cost of betraying everything she once stood for.

What good is the character of a woman who died so The Forgotten Artist could survive? What is more important, safety or authenticity?

I’m excited to announce my next novella publishing on Substack this summer.

The first chapter of She Thrives In Hell publishes on July 11th

It is a dystopian story about a transwoman’s fight to reclaim identity and hope after five years of fear and torture in a totalitarian work camp.

Here is a mood board I created to help keep me grounded while writing it.

I can’t wait to share more over the next several weeks!