Aliona Pires Diz
LightNews LightNews
banner
jupelpupel.bsky.social
Aliona Pires Diz
@jupelpupel.bsky.social
63 followers 51 following 140 posts
I write fantasy about memory, decay, and impossible men.
Artist in exile. Tea drinker. Probably emotionally compromised.
Posts Replies Media Videos
jupelpupel.bsky.social
Today in #wipsnips one of my favorite beasts🥰
From one of my recent short stories.
#writingcommunity #amwriting #wordbuilding #fantasyauthor #writesky
A mudhorn — a swamp-dwelling monster, captured alive and brought to the capital. The creature rivaled the city’s civitram transports in size, and if you counted the jagged, triangular horn crowning its head — a head armored like a bone-plated battering ram — it stood even taller. Nearly four meters, at least. Its broad chest and front limbs, each equipped with wide, flat claws for tearing through bog soil and tangled roots, barely fit inside the cage. Unlike the other floats, this one hovered visibly lower — the beast’s sheer weight had forced it down. Its small, black eyes spun wildly, tracking the shimmering shapes and whistling sigilic lights flaring above. Used to the quiet isolation of the deep marshes, the mudhorn was clearly terrified — its breath huffed in heavy, grunting blasts from wide nostrils.
August 23, 2025 at 6:20 PM
jupelpupel.bsky.social
Missed couple of days but here I am!
#wipsnips with my favorite boys🥰
The train glided smoothly along the tracks, the rhythmic clatter against the rails a soothing counterpoint to the luxurious silence of the private carriage. Morveiyn leaned back in his chair, sinking into the plush velvet upholstery with a satisfied sigh. Beyond the window, rolling hills and dense forests blurred into a serene green mosaic—a world that seemed laughably distant from the damp, suffocating pit he had recently escaped. Of course, he could have taken an official Protectorium transport—Wyrm, his assigned private train. Or even saved time by using an omnimobile. But that would have meant jumping straight back into duty, and after what he had endured, he wasn't about to grant his father the satisfaction of seeing him march off like an obedient hound. No, he wanted time. Time to let his body fully recover, time to gather his thoughts and prepare for whatever awaited him in Te Aroed. The slower, more comfortable journey served his purposes well. And if his father fumed over the unnecessary delay, all the better. But the real victory was forcing the Protectorium's logistics department to finance his personal affairs. A private, reserved carriage, complete with velvet seats, warm meals, and a view far more agreeable than the inside of a cell—it was, in his opinion, the very least they owed him. He stretched lazily, letting the weight of the past days melt away. The fact that he had managed to secure the entire compartment for himself? Just a cherry on top. Well… not entirely for himself. Deiyn sat opposite Morveiyn, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, peeling the skin off an apple with the deft flourish of a stage magician. The smooth, unbroken spirals curled in his fingers as he worked, his expression caught somewhere between idle amusement and quiet determination.
August 22, 2025 at 7:15 PM
jupelpupel.bsky.social
hey, my story took third place in a writing competition on @writersblockds.bsky.social
shared third, so it kinda feels like fourth.
joy is sharing the place with a bit of disappointment.
still, proud of the piece and grateful it resonated with readers.

#jupelwrites #WritingContest #AmWriting
Raise the flags of the motherland!… From the fire escape came the measured, orderly, staccato beat of footsteps. Boots. Heavy, sturdy boots—the kind the Motherland issued to soldiers and police. These days, no one could mistake that sound. Its orderliness and inevitability were meant to strike fear in wrongdoers and pride in law-abiding citizens. I remembered it from childhood—Victory Day parades, ranks of mirror-bright boots coming down hard on warm asphalt—Wham! Wham!—echo snapping off the walls, mingling with balloons and the triumphant blare of trumpets beneath streaming flags… And now I—who’d never done anything worse than paint on a wall—felt my heart pounding in my throat to that same rhythm, threatening to leap out. "They won’t have me," flashed through my mind—a desperate, defiant thought, as if I were about to fight them. The brave guardians of order, packed into black armored suits, their faces hidden behind impenetrable helmets. Those helmets made each of them look like faceless terracotta warriors, buried with their emperor in some distant antiquity. And the sound of their steps was just as heavy, inevitable, as if each of them were made of stone…
August 22, 2025 at 7:05 PM
jupelpupel.bsky.social
This week for the #reedsy prompts I wrote two stories. They turned out quite different, but in both I’m playing around with the theme of #horror. Though so far it never gets past the foreplay stage. You can read them on my page!
#amwriting #shortstory

blog.reedsy.com/creative-wri...
A Hare in the Woods I crept up to the hut early in the morning, slipping like a shadow past the fishnets—still damp, hanging from wooden stakes. A startled cat arched its back, dropped a half-eaten fish tail, and darted under the house to hide. Look at him, all skittish! As if he’s any better—black as soot himself…The old planks of the porch groaned under the pointed hooves, and I, catching myself, quickly pulled on the boots strapped to my belt. I’d better check on her, then sweep the path out front with a broom. No sense leaving tracks behind. Decree 772-A People crowded nearly the entire length of Imperial Avenue, the widest and longest street in Teak-An, the proud capital of the Confederation of Allied Regions Naitheren.The festively dressed crowd laughed, chattered, danced, and celebrated with abandon.A young boy, perched on his father’s shoulders could see far into the distance, taking in the full splendor of the parade.His father’s firm hands held him securely by the knees, so he wasn’t afraid of falling.Beside them walked his mother, cheerful and radiant in a flowing sky-blue dress.
August 21, 2025 at 11:22 PM
jupelpupel.bsky.social
Because what literally happened to me was this: I let a guy into the novell — and he completely took it over. Unexpected af.
He turned out to be way too good to sideline, so I just let him spiral together with the poor MC.
August 20, 2025 at 8:28 PM
jupelpupel.bsky.social
Tried Shadow and Bone because everyone raved about it.
I made it to page 7 and went to die in the pit. As a Russian-speaking writer… Not sure what hurt more: misspelled Russian words — or what she did with them.
People say it gets better by the second book.. should i give it a chance?
#amreading
August 20, 2025 at 8:12 PM
jupelpupel.bsky.social
Mor is the master of keeping a straight face —
so when even he can’t, I know something’s really off.

#wipsnips #writesky #wtiterscommunity #amwriting #writingprocess
Get a hold of yourself. Now. The command cracked through his thoughts like the lash of a whip. A jagged breath threatened to escape Morveiyn's lips; he trapped it behind clenched teeth, holding it until the chaos in his chest stilled to a dull, manageable throb. Control. Cold logic brooked no hesitation, no ragged edges. But the mask's polished surface felt thin, a hair's breadth from cracking under the pressure of the raw, visceral surge beneath. He focused on the points where his nails bit into his own palms, the sharp, grounding pain a necessary anchor, forcing the tide back down into numbness. Compressed the unruly feeling inward, layer by layer, compacting it into a dense, silent core. Only then, when his expression was once more a smooth, impenetrable lake, did he release the breath, slow and controlled. Catching the worry etched on Deiyn's face, Morveiyn waved him off with an irritated flick of his wrist. "Honestly, do you think I'm made of spun sugar? A bit of rest, and I'll be right as rain," he dismissed. "Go pack my travel bag for tomorrow instead. Make yourself useful."
August 19, 2025 at 5:01 PM
jupelpupel.bsky.social
I’ve been digging through the #reedsy short story pool lately.
Writers love being read, but don’t always read each other. Still, that ever-refreshing stack holds lessons in what works… and what doesn’t quite.
#ratsdiary #writingcraft #amreading #amwriting
August 19, 2025 at 2:14 AM
jupelpupel.bsky.social
Oh, that’s easy! Mo Xiang Tong Xiu made me reconsider whether my intrigues were layered enough. And overall, her vivid, folklore-rich, deeply internal prose made me reread my draft for the hundredth time and deepen what had seemed like shallow waters. I adore her!
#writinginspiration #LoreOutLoud
August 18, 2025 at 5:55 PM
jupelpupel.bsky.social
This week’s plans: working through burnout, step by step. It once spread from drawing to writing-that’s the risk of creative work. Push too hard, and the spark goes quiet. But I’m still here, and writing again, even a little, feels like a good sign.
#writingmotivation #creativeprocess #writerslife
Even if my writing isn’t perfect today, and it feels like no one but me needs it — they still matter to me. That’s reason enough to keep writing.
August 18, 2025 at 3:06 PM
jupelpupel.bsky.social
Laurent is a classic bastard who blazes past us like a comet — but I kind of like him, so I generously granted him a childhood trauma to make him even more endearing. The sacred right of an author!

#wipsnips #writingprocess #characterbuilding #indieauthors #writerscommunity #writesky
*** Baronet Loran of Acrass lounged at the center of his private alcove, reclining like a self-satisfied predator surveying his domain. The footman at the entrance bowed slightly before drawing back the sheer curtain, announcing Morveiyn's arrival. "Come in, darling," Loran called, his voice a lazy purr. "I've been waiting." The scene before Morveiyn was an imitation of an old religious painting—one of those grand, forgotten works where the First Messiah and his apostles dined in divine excess. At the head of the gathering, in the role of a self-appointed deity, was Loran. Tall, broad-shouldered, with golden hair spilling over his bare chest, he exuded the effortless confidence of a man who had never known denial. His sun-kissed skin gleamed under the low light, the coarse hair on his torso catching the glow of nearby lanterns. Flanking him, like faithful disciples, lounged two near-naked courtesans clad in translucent tunics designed more for suggestion than modesty. Their bodies curved toward him, waiting for his idle attention, though it was clear he had long since grown indifferent to their presence.
August 18, 2025 at 2:13 PM
jupelpupel.bsky.social
Share 4 years of your #art
2021-2022-2024-2025

It’s hard to call myself an artist right now, when I’ve burned out down to embers. But over the past few years I really did push my drawing skills forward.
It’s just a shame it’s come to the point where I can’t draw anything anymore.
August 17, 2025 at 10:37 PM
jupelpupel.bsky.social
Finally I didnt forget!
#summerofstory #sundayshare
#fantasyauthor #writesky
When your MC loves to read, so you end up building an entire library inside your novel — and learn the word intradiegetic. Now you’re writing a book inside a book inside a book… Welcome to intradiegetic writer’s purgatory. 📚🔥 One of my favorite writing techniques is intradiegetic literature — newspapers, books, legends, poems created within the world of the story itself. They reveal how people in that world think, what they notice, and what they are blind to. It’s not just lore, it’s a mirror of their fears, values, and self-deceptions. An intradiegetic text is a text that exists inside the story’s world - written by a character or treated as real by other characters. Welcome to the nerd club!
August 17, 2025 at 9:14 PM
jupelpupel.bsky.social
Never thought about archetypes in my novel, but turns out they’re there — and deliciously so. And this is just my boys:

#loreoutloud
#WritingCommunity #AmWriting #writesky #QueerFantasy #WritersOfBluesky
The Masked Hero (The Wounded One) — a figure marked by trauma and forced invisibility. His scars and silence embody the archetype of the queer self that hides in plain sight, surviving by control and distance. He represents the cost of being “other” in a world that demands conformity. The Golden Companion (The Witness) — radiant, loyal, and rooted in the “normal” order of things, yet drawn irrevocably toward what lies beyond it. He becomes the one who sees through Mor’s armor, embodying the archetype of the beloved who recognizes and validates the hidden self. Together: The Forbidden Intimacy — a pairing defined by tension between the unspeakable and the undeniable. Their bond breaks unspoken rules of their world, embodying the quintessential queer archetype: love that should not exist, yet insists on existing. They are not opposites, but two halves of survival — one bearing the wound, the other bearing witness.
August 17, 2025 at 6:09 PM
jupelpupel.bsky.social
Made myself a little reminder

#writingmotivation #writingcommunity #indieauthors #writersofbluesky #writesky
My prose doesn’t have to be easy. It has to be honest. I am not for everyone, and that’s okay. But those who finish my stories will remember.
August 17, 2025 at 5:03 PM
jupelpupel.bsky.social
Today my Mor is in trouble. Though, on that day, it was the least of his problems.

#wipsnips #darkfantasy #wipwriting #wipsnippet
She was sobbing now — not prettily, but violently. Her whole body shook with it. “I saw how you looked at her!” she shrieked, spittle catching in the corners of her mouth. “You sick, sinful bastard! I see the filth in your eyes — I feel it. You make my skin crawl!” Morveiyn, stunned by the ferocity of her outburst, faltered — the mask of perfect composure slipping for a moment, as he twisted helplessly in her grip like a sapling bent by hurricane winds. The guards still held his arms wrenched behind his back — it was only thanks to their firm grasp that the stout woman hadn’t knocked him flat to the floor. Her distorted face loomed close, and for a second, he braced himself — expecting her to claw at his skin or sink her teeth into him.
August 17, 2025 at 3:01 PM
jupelpupel.bsky.social
The word allergic only appears once in the entire book - while my aristocrats are pecking each other.
As you can tell, this chapter is still mid-edit. I’ve only done a “what don’t I like” pass,
so here’s a little #behindthescenes peek.

#selfediting #fantasywriting #writinginprogress #wipsnips
“Or you’re simply allergic to consistency.” Before Morveiyn could speak, Leonne offered his contribution with a chuckle: “Oh, but surely we can’t expect such rigid virtues from a Lyutich?” he said, resting the polished tip of his boot against the fountain’s rounded edge. The golden embroidery on his elegant frock coat gleamed under the lantern light, and the silver lace of his cuffs trembled as he lazily extended a hand to let the water run through his fingers. “His family’s brilliance lies in adaptation. Today’s truth, tomorrow’s myth—whichever serves the dinner table best.” Renar tilted his head, smirking. “Oh, indeed. I’d call that pragmatism, frankly. A man of circumstance, not conviction. And, between us, that's far more fashionable these days than that old bore, honor.”
August 16, 2025 at 3:18 PM
jupelpupel.bsky.social
This one came together surprisingly quickly.
Compared to the last story, which took four days, this one was done in just one.
It feels... almost too smooth. Like I must’ve missed something — but I can’t see where.
I’ll let it sit for a few days and look again with fresh eyes.
#writinglife #amwriting
August 16, 2025 at 3:06 PM
jupelpupel.bsky.social
In todays #wipsnips my girls trying to poke each othes, having no idea what author will make them do later...
#writerscommunity
Okkin could crush her with a word, a glance, a gesture. Veronica knew that. Knew it viscerally, the way one senses the edge of a blade just before it kisses skin. And yet the duchess didn’t. That was what made it unbearable. And irresistible. She didn’t understand why it thrilled her so—the dance of feints and flickers, the leashed ferocity beneath that stillness. Perhaps it was the simple fact of not knowing what Okkin would do. Of walking a razor’s edge beside a girl who wore serenity like armor but might very well breathe fire underneath. Veronica’s instincts itched for mischief. For something to tilt the poised surface, just a little. And few things worked better than a story too ridiculous to ignore. “You heard about what happened in Vel-Lira, didn’t you? That nonsense with young Lord Elseth and the poetry?” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial lilt as they passed beneath a bloom-heavy arbor.
August 15, 2025 at 8:00 PM
jupelpupel.bsky.social
He will look somewhat like this, i think.
#author #amwriting #bookcharacter
August 14, 2025 at 12:49 PM
jupelpupel.bsky.social
Renar one of the side characters I love from all my heart, I will definetly give him more time in a book 2-3.

#wipsnips #snippets #snippetsshare #writingcommunity #sidecharacter
Morveiyn turned his head, his voice sharp and cold: “Why the fuck would I run, when I’ve done nothing?” Renar looked at him, smiled softly. “Yes… why would an honest man burn his clothing and wander the halls in wet boots at night…?” He tilted his head slightly, and the smile turned almost tender. “Though I confess… it suits you in the strangest way.” He gave a soft chuckle — not threatening but filled with regret… and admiration. He’s enjoying every moment of this. Not an enemy… but not a friend either. A fox who can smell blood from a mile away. Morveiyn’s thoughts churned slowly, his exhausted mind unwilling to piece together elaborate theories. But really — it didn’t take much. Only a scavenger knows the scent of rot. Renar was exactly that. He followed the stench — but he wasn’t the one who brought the carcass.
August 14, 2025 at 12:49 PM
jupelpupel.bsky.social
Page 133 it is a beginning of chapter 11, so here is epigraph and some first lines... Told you, I have verse for everything. Writed a whole library for the one book😅
#jupelwrites #humpday #snippetsshare #snippets #writingprocess
Bunny's Little Walk (A skipping rhyme from a rural shards, category >300. Popular among children in fragment sectors 797–899. Often accompanied by clapping or skipping games. Deemed 'morbid but culturally significant' by the Confederation Office of Linguistic Folklore Preservation.) Bunny, bunny, where you go? Down the path, not too slow! Mama calls, but Bunny run — One, two, three — and gone with sun. Bunny sees the shining place, In the water, face to face. One, two, three — hop-hop-hop, Bunny don't know how to stop. Bunny smiles, Bunny stare, No more Bunny anywhere. One, two, three — quiet day… Now he's gone to Sarnae. *** The train rattled softly through the night. Deiyn, stretched out on the bunk, breathed in steady, measured sleep. Morveiyn, however, remained awake, his gaze fixed on the glass. Outside, the darkness blurred past in fleeting shadows, dancing briefly as the train passed lonely lanterns along the track. His own reflection hovered faintly in the window—pale and weary, almost a ghost against the void.
August 14, 2025 at 3:22 AM
jupelpupel.bsky.social
This is one of those scenes in my novel that I heavily rewrote during editing.
Originally, it was fairly minor — now I’d like to believe the meaning I’ve layered into it makes the story richer.
I might still trim some descriptions in the final proofread…
#wipsnips #writingcommunity #writesky #author
The young official turned toward the matron of the workhouse, who stood waiting on the creaking porch. Her gaze—steady, apprehensive—had tracked his every interaction with the children. It wasn’t suspicion, nor the desperate hope of someone starved for aid. The woman had seen enough highborn visitors pass through these doors, trailing with expensive perfume. This was the coiled tension of someone burdened with profound responsibility, acutely aware of her precarious position: a minor functionary caught in the spotlight of unexpected scrutiny, terrified that any misstep—real or perceived—under the Falconet’s gaze could bring the fragile world of her charges, and her own tenure, crashing down. She stood like a nervous steward guarding a fragile, state-mandated trust. Angela was built sturdy—broad shoulders, a chest like a wood-burning stove—her posture not from pride, but from years of hoisting children and shouldering burdens no ledger dared itemize. A basket of freshly laundered linens rested beside her, their dull cloth stiff with wear despite the sharp scent of cheap soap. The sun caught the faint gleam of moisture on her brow, and she brushed her palms against a faded apron—a gesture as automatic as breathing.
August 13, 2025 at 3:27 PM
jupelpupel.bsky.social
Another #wipsnips from my latest short story.
Btw you always can read my stories here:

blog.reedsy.com/creative-wri...

#writingcommunity #jupelwrites #writesky
“Fleur! Come back!” A desperate cry rang out behind me. Her voice, sharp as the edge of a broken mirror, shattered the vision that had seized me. I turned, smiled at her, and, stretching out my hand, plucked the trembling flower—it had been right there, almost touching my fingers. Held it aloft in triumph and climbed back with ease—how could I ever have been afraid of such a trifle?! Eya reached out a pale, slightly trembling hand to help me make the last step back onto the safe ledge. She was as white as a ghost, and my heart split in two. I handed her the slender stem, and she took it gently, as if it could shatter at any moment.
August 12, 2025 at 5:22 PM
jupelpupel.bsky.social
I took my evening pills too late last night.
Now I can’t wake up.

I’m not taking on any big tasks at work today. I try to pause on bad days - to slowly pull myself out of burnout instead of digging deeper into it.
I know how to push myself.
Now I’m learning how not to.

#mentalhealth #authorslife
August 11, 2025 at 4:58 PM