Advertisement · 728 × 90

Posts by Glory Fink

The Waffle House kept going. Humans kept trying. Not gracefully. Not consistently. Not with the kind of composure Heaven liked to pretend mattered. They tried while hungry. They tried while tired. They tried in the middle of embarrassment, heartbreak, and shifts that ran too long, conversations that should have ended but didn’t, and nights that had gone sideways hours before. They made food. Shared it. Stayed. Apologized badly. Laughed too hard. Came undone in public and were gathered back together by caffeine, comfort, or somebody saying honey like it still meant something altogether more divine. Gabriel watched them with that same softened attention. At last they said, “Humans keep trying.” Michael nodded. “So did we.” Gabriel was quiet for a beat. Then, softer still, they said, “So do we.”

The Waffle House kept going. Humans kept trying. Not gracefully. Not consistently. Not with the kind of composure Heaven liked to pretend mattered. They tried while hungry. They tried while tired. They tried in the middle of embarrassment, heartbreak, and shifts that ran too long, conversations that should have ended but didn’t, and nights that had gone sideways hours before. They made food. Shared it. Stayed. Apologized badly. Laughed too hard. Came undone in public and were gathered back together by caffeine, comfort, or somebody saying honey like it still meant something altogether more divine. Gabriel watched them with that same softened attention. At last they said, “Humans keep trying.” Michael nodded. “So did we.” Gabriel was quiet for a beat. Then, softer still, they said, “So do we.”

A bonus snippet from The Trouble with Angels Chapter 17 📚💙đŸȘâšĄđŸŽ§

for readers who like celestial chaos, afterlife bureaucracy, and cozy-horror satire with heart:
open.substack.com/pub/gloryfin...

#TheTroubleWithAngels #AudioFiction #Fantasy #CozyHorror

6 days ago 1 0 0 0
Gabriel had forgotten how loud humans were when they were tired. Not loud in the catastrophic sense. Not loud like battle or collapse or Revelation. Loud in the smaller, stranger way of mortal creatures trying to outwit exhaustion with sugar, caffeine, and the stubborn conviction that whatever had happened to them up to this point in the evening could still be redeemed by hash browns and a conversation that should have ended in the parking lot but had somehow made it all the way to a booth under fluorescent light. Michael seemed completely at ease in the middle of it. That, more than the place itself, was what unnerved Gabriel. The Waffle House sat off the road like an afterthought the universe had accidentally made permanent. Its yellow sign buzzed faintly against the dark. Inside, the air smelled of coffee, hot grease, syrup, onions, and a kind of exhausted civic tenderness no angel had ever successfully replicated by committee. Every surface shone with that peculiar human compromise between cleanliness and overuse. The booths were cracked in places. The laminated menus had the texture of something handled by generations of people who had come there hungry, grieving, drunk, hopeful, or all four.

Gabriel had forgotten how loud humans were when they were tired. Not loud in the catastrophic sense. Not loud like battle or collapse or Revelation. Loud in the smaller, stranger way of mortal creatures trying to outwit exhaustion with sugar, caffeine, and the stubborn conviction that whatever had happened to them up to this point in the evening could still be redeemed by hash browns and a conversation that should have ended in the parking lot but had somehow made it all the way to a booth under fluorescent light. Michael seemed completely at ease in the middle of it. That, more than the place itself, was what unnerved Gabriel. The Waffle House sat off the road like an afterthought the universe had accidentally made permanent. Its yellow sign buzzed faintly against the dark. Inside, the air smelled of coffee, hot grease, syrup, onions, and a kind of exhausted civic tenderness no angel had ever successfully replicated by committee. Every surface shone with that peculiar human compromise between cleanliness and overuse. The booths were cracked in places. The laminated menus had the texture of something handled by generations of people who had come there hungry, grieving, drunk, hopeful, or all four.

A snippet from The Trouble with Angels Chapter 17 📚💙đŸȘâšĄđŸŽ§

for readers who like celestial chaos, afterlife bureaucracy, and cozy-horror satire with heart:
open.substack.com/pub/gloryfin...

#TheTroubleWithAngels #AudioFiction #Fantasy #CozyHorror

6 days ago 1 0 1 0
Preview
🎧 The Trouble with Angels — Season 2, Episode 10: Chapter 17: The Trouble with God, According to Lucifer (The Corpse Was Uncooperative) Listen now | 🎧 The Trouble with Angels — Season 2, Episode 10: Chapter 17: The Trouble with God, According to Lucifer (The Corpse Was Uncooperative) | When the fate of humanity is still hanging somewh...

chapter 17 The Trouble with Angels contains: 📚💙đŸȘâšĄđŸŽ§

archangels at waffle house
and a heavenly murder mystery dinner where the corpse would not respect procedure

for readers who like cozy-horror satire:
open.substack.com/pub/gloryfin...

#TheTroubleWithAngels #AudioFiction #Fantasy #CozyHorror

6 days ago 1 0 1 0
“My work is not to destroy names,” he said. “My work is to carry them. Some names arrive too early. Some too late. Some are handed to the wrong child altogether. I take them from the places where they pinch and chafe and echo wrongly, and I bear them onward until they reach the soul they were meant to find.” Abigail looked up into his moon-bright face. “So it won’t just vanish?” “No name worth speaking truly vanishes,” he said softly. “That would be wasteful, and the world is already full of too much waste.” He lifted one hand, and in the silver of the glass Abigail glimpsed brief, flickering scenes: a swaddled baby blinking under hospital lights; a child on a bus with their backpack hugged close; a boy in a school hallway practicing possible names silently behind his teeth; a little one standing in a field, muddy-kneed and laughing, waiting for a call that would sound right when it reached him. “Somewhere,” Deadname Dan said, “there is always someone waiting for a name that will fit like birdsong in the chest.”

“My work is not to destroy names,” he said. “My work is to carry them. Some names arrive too early. Some too late. Some are handed to the wrong child altogether. I take them from the places where they pinch and chafe and echo wrongly, and I bear them onward until they reach the soul they were meant to find.” Abigail looked up into his moon-bright face. “So it won’t just vanish?” “No name worth speaking truly vanishes,” he said softly. “That would be wasteful, and the world is already full of too much waste.” He lifted one hand, and in the silver of the glass Abigail glimpsed brief, flickering scenes: a swaddled baby blinking under hospital lights; a child on a bus with their backpack hugged close; a boy in a school hallway practicing possible names silently behind his teeth; a little one standing in a field, muddy-kneed and laughing, waiting for a call that would sound right when it reached him. “Somewhere,” Deadname Dan said, “there is always someone waiting for a name that will fit like birdsong in the chest.”

A 2nd bonus snippet from my newest short story, Deadname Dan a gentle, moonlit story about identity, belonging, and becoming yourself đŸ“šđŸ’™đŸłïžâ€âš§ïžđŸłïžâ€đŸŒˆ

open.substack.com/pub/gloryfin...

#Folklore #GentleFantasy

2 weeks ago 1 0 0 0
“My cousin said names aren’t bad,” Tamantha went on. “Just sometimes they get handed to the wrong person first. Deadname Dan takes them where they belong.” The promise of her words settled over the room in a hush. Abigail turned toward the mirror on the closet door. In its long glass she could see both of them, small and solemn, caught between childhood and whatever came next. “Do you know how to call him?” she asked. Tamantha nodded. “Show me.” They stood before the mirror together, Abigail in front and Tamantha just behind her, their reflections layered one over the other in the pale afternoon light. “I’m not saying his whole name,” Tamantha whispered. “My cousin said that’s asking for too much attention. I’ll say ‘Mmmm’ instead. But you have to say his real name each time or it won’t work.” Abigail nodded. Her stomach fluttered in a way she did not care for. Softly, both girls looking straight into the mirror, Tamantha began: “Mmmm Dan, Mmmm Dan come as quick as you can, I’ve got a name for you to claim in your hand.”

“My cousin said names aren’t bad,” Tamantha went on. “Just sometimes they get handed to the wrong person first. Deadname Dan takes them where they belong.” The promise of her words settled over the room in a hush. Abigail turned toward the mirror on the closet door. In its long glass she could see both of them, small and solemn, caught between childhood and whatever came next. “Do you know how to call him?” she asked. Tamantha nodded. “Show me.” They stood before the mirror together, Abigail in front and Tamantha just behind her, their reflections layered one over the other in the pale afternoon light. “I’m not saying his whole name,” Tamantha whispered. “My cousin said that’s asking for too much attention. I’ll say ‘Mmmm’ instead. But you have to say his real name each time or it won’t work.” Abigail nodded. Her stomach fluttered in a way she did not care for. Softly, both girls looking straight into the mirror, Tamantha began: “Mmmm Dan, Mmmm Dan come as quick as you can, I’ve got a name for you to claim in your hand.”

A snippet from my newest short story, Deadname Dan a gentle, moonlit story about identity, belonging, and becoming yourself đŸ“šđŸ’™đŸłïžâ€âš§ïžđŸłïžâ€đŸŒˆ

open.substack.com/pub/gloryfin...

#MiddleGrade #QueerBooks #TransJoy

2 weeks ago 5 0 1 0
Preview
Deadname Dan Some names are not lost. They are only on their way home. When twelve-year-old Abigail hears her deadname one time too many, her best friend tells her of a moonlit spirit who carries away outgrown nam...

For readers who love tender folklore, queer hope, and stories where magic comes to help instead of haunt

Deadname Dan is a gentle, moonlit story about identity, belonging, and becoming yourself đŸ“šđŸ’™đŸłïžâ€âš§ïžđŸłïžâ€đŸŒˆ

open.substack.com/pub/gloryfin...

#MiddleGrade #QueerBooks #TransJoy #Folklore #GentleFantasy

2 weeks ago 7 0 1 0
This is normally the time of year for crawfish boils, but with boiled crawfish selling for more than $7/lb, Fillmoreans are having to look at alternatives.And yes, we have heard the whisperings of a community potato boil. But really—it’s difficult to get excited about a community potato boil. A potato boil is not A Boil, it is a group coping mechanism. It’s less “festival” and more “we have gathered together to accept what’s been taken from us.” Regardless of whatever the Irish have to say
 Economic Outlook: Bleak for crawfish. Strong for potatoes. Unclear for morale. Also: tornado season is warming up, which means the weather will be 83 degrees on Tuesday and 42 on Thursday. Dress in layers like an onion with secrets.

This is normally the time of year for crawfish boils, but with boiled crawfish selling for more than $7/lb, Fillmoreans are having to look at alternatives.And yes, we have heard the whisperings of a community potato boil. But really—it’s difficult to get excited about a community potato boil. A potato boil is not A Boil, it is a group coping mechanism. It’s less “festival” and more “we have gathered together to accept what’s been taken from us.” Regardless of whatever the Irish have to say
 Economic Outlook: Bleak for crawfish. Strong for potatoes. Unclear for morale. Also: tornado season is warming up, which means the weather will be 83 degrees on Tuesday and 42 on Thursday. Dress in layers like an onion with secrets.

A bonus snippet from The latest Fillmore News Spring Update 💙📚

open.substack.com/pub/gloryfin...

#satire #SweetTeaEnergy

1 month ago 1 0 0 0
Nothing makes a person feel alive like buying twelve plants you have no intention of watering consistently. It’s time to start planting your seedlings—those little plants of hope rooted in balls of dirt and compost. Maybe this year the slugs will migrate to your neighbor’s yard and ignore your tomato and zucchini starts. Maybe this year your basil won’t die like it heard a rumor about you and took it personally. Maybe this year you won’t stand in your kitchen at midnight whispering, “Why did I buy cilantro again,” like it’s a confession. Slug Forecast: High. Always high. They are thriving. They have plans. They have little wet meetings at night where they assign targets. Leave them an offering in order to stay on their good side.

Nothing makes a person feel alive like buying twelve plants you have no intention of watering consistently. It’s time to start planting your seedlings—those little plants of hope rooted in balls of dirt and compost. Maybe this year the slugs will migrate to your neighbor’s yard and ignore your tomato and zucchini starts. Maybe this year your basil won’t die like it heard a rumor about you and took it personally. Maybe this year you won’t stand in your kitchen at midnight whispering, “Why did I buy cilantro again,” like it’s a confession. Slug Forecast: High. Always high. They are thriving. They have plans. They have little wet meetings at night where they assign targets. Leave them an offering in order to stay on their good side.

A snippet from The latest Fillmore News Spring Update 💙📚

open.substack.com/pub/gloryfin...

#smalltown #southernhumor #satire

1 month ago 0 0 1 0
Advertisement
Preview
Fillmore Spring Report: Slugs Are Thriving, Teens Are Feral, Crawfish Prices Are Criminal Fillmore Quarterly News — Spring Edition | Fillmore’s Spring Edition reports that Easter and Passover prep is ramping up (including a warning to stop dyeing baby chicks and to buy ham early), while ga...

If your idea of self-care is porch-sitting, sweet tea, and laughing at petty civic announcements: Fillmore’s spring report is here. Slugs thriving, teens feral, crawfish prices criminal đŸŒ±đŸ«– 💙📚

open.substack.com/pub/gloryfin...
#smalltown #southernhumor #satire #SweetTeaEnergy

1 month ago 1 0 1 0
Nothing. No throne. No lightning. No choir. No pressure of holiness. Just a room. A big office with a desk that looked like it had never been sat at. The air didn’t smell like incense. It smelled like
 nothing. Like the room had been sealed from time. Everything was pristine, but not in a polished, loved way. In a way that said: unused. The chair behind the desk looked like it had been waiting forever for someone to come back and make it matter. My throat tightened. My rage tried to become nausea. Bob stepped in first, like a person entering a hazardous space. I took one step into the room and felt the absence like weight. “This is it,” I whispered. Bob’s voice was barely audible. “Yes.” A small sound came from behind the desk. Not scary. A tiny rustle. Like paper. Like something small shifting where it shouldn’t. And then—slowly—something moved in the shadow beneath the desk. A pair of beady eyes blinked up at us. And a familiar, impossible voice—too small to contain the weight of what it was saying—said: “Oh. Uh.”

Nothing. No throne. No lightning. No choir. No pressure of holiness. Just a room. A big office with a desk that looked like it had never been sat at. The air didn’t smell like incense. It smelled like
 nothing. Like the room had been sealed from time. Everything was pristine, but not in a polished, loved way. In a way that said: unused. The chair behind the desk looked like it had been waiting forever for someone to come back and make it matter. My throat tightened. My rage tried to become nausea. Bob stepped in first, like a person entering a hazardous space. I took one step into the room and felt the absence like weight. “This is it,” I whispered. Bob’s voice was barely audible. “Yes.” A small sound came from behind the desk. Not scary. A tiny rustle. Like paper. Like something small shifting where it shouldn’t. And then—slowly—something moved in the shadow beneath the desk. A pair of beady eyes blinked up at us. And a familiar, impossible voice—too small to contain the weight of what it was saying—said: “Oh. Uh.”

A bonus snippet from Chapter 14 Part 3 đŸ’™đŸ“šâšĄđŸ©žđŸȘ

Read/listen: open.substack.com/pub/gloryfin...

#SerializedFiction #DarkComedy

1 month ago 0 0 0 0
A key. Not thunder. Not light. Recognition—pure and immediate—as if the building had just seen a master badge. Bob looked at the Liaison. Not angry. Just done. “You don’t get to separate her,” he said quietly. “You don’t get to educate her pain. And you don’t get to tell me what doors I’m allowed to open in a system I’ve been keeping from collapsing with duct tape and prayer.” The Liaison’s voice went thin. “Bob, you cannot—” Bob took my hand. Not dramatic. Not heroic. Just
 a decision made with compassion. His fingers wrapped around mine—warm, steady, real—and the whole room changed shape around that simple contact. Adil moved with us immediately, like they’d been waiting for the moment Bob stopped negotiating with furniture. Behind us, the Liaison’s voice sharpened into pure managerial panic. “Bob. Bob, you cannot—” Adil called back, sweet as syrup, without breaking stride: “Bless your heart, yes he can!” And we left Upper Administration mid-sentence.

A key. Not thunder. Not light. Recognition—pure and immediate—as if the building had just seen a master badge. Bob looked at the Liaison. Not angry. Just done. “You don’t get to separate her,” he said quietly. “You don’t get to educate her pain. And you don’t get to tell me what doors I’m allowed to open in a system I’ve been keeping from collapsing with duct tape and prayer.” The Liaison’s voice went thin. “Bob, you cannot—” Bob took my hand. Not dramatic. Not heroic. Just
 a decision made with compassion. His fingers wrapped around mine—warm, steady, real—and the whole room changed shape around that simple contact. Adil moved with us immediately, like they’d been waiting for the moment Bob stopped negotiating with furniture. Behind us, the Liaison’s voice sharpened into pure managerial panic. “Bob. Bob, you cannot—” Adil called back, sweet as syrup, without breaking stride: “Bless your heart, yes he can!” And we left Upper Administration mid-sentence.

A snippet from Chapter 14 Part 3 đŸ’™đŸ“šâšĄđŸ©žđŸȘ

Read/listen: open.substack.com/pub/gloryfin...

#CozyHorror #UrbanFantasy

1 month ago 0 0 1 0
Preview
🎧 The Trouble with Angels — Season 2, Episode 7: Chapter 14, Part 3: I Need to Speak to the Manager of Existence—Because Honey, You Don’t Deserve the Headache I’m About to Give Someone Listen now | Chapter 14, Part 3: I Need to Speak to the Manager of Existence—Because Honey, You Don’t Deserve the Headache I’m About to Give Someone | In Part 3, Hannah’s grief stops being a file and ...

If you like afterlife bureaucracy + celestial chaos + cozy-horror satire with heart: this episode is a cathartic little “no, actually” to the universe đŸ’™đŸ“šâšĄđŸ©žđŸȘ

Read/listen: open.substack.com/pub/gloryfin...

#FictionPodcast

1 month ago 0 0 1 0
Square, red-toned sci-fi promo graphic. Large title at top: “THE LADY WIDOW.” On the left is a 3D book mockup: “The Lady Widow Book 2: Captured Among the Stars” by C. M. Lockhart, showing two women in a spaceship setting, tense and ready to fight, with green laser beams and a crocodile-like alien figure at the bottom. On the right, white text reads: “Book 2 coming May 26, 2026” and: “In this Black space opera, a grieving widow becomes the captain of her late husband’s spaceship to avenge his murder.” Bottom text compares vibes: “Cowboy Bebop x Frieren x Star Trek: Discovery.” A cute star/planet sticker appears in the lower right.

Square, red-toned sci-fi promo graphic. Large title at top: “THE LADY WIDOW.” On the left is a 3D book mockup: “The Lady Widow Book 2: Captured Among the Stars” by C. M. Lockhart, showing two women in a spaceship setting, tense and ready to fight, with green laser beams and a crocodile-like alien figure at the bottom. On the right, white text reads: “Book 2 coming May 26, 2026” and: “In this Black space opera, a grieving widow becomes the captain of her late husband’s spaceship to avenge his murder.” Bottom text compares vibes: “Cowboy Bebop x Frieren x Star Trek: Discovery.” A cute star/planet sticker appears in the lower right.

Preorders OPEN ✹🚀
CAPTURED AMONG THE STARS by @clockhartwrite.bsky.social

Captain Kyra Johnson: surviving grief, claiming power, and now
 captured by alien crocodiles. đŸŠđŸ‘œ 💙📚⚡

PB writteninmelanin.com/store/p/tlw2p

HB writteninmelanin.com/store/p/tlw2h

E writteninmelanin.com/store/p/tlw2e

1 month ago 1 1 0 0
The Liaison’s smile warmed like they’d been offered a charming misunderstanding. “Without
 influence,” they corrected. “Without the pressure of being perceived. Hannah deserves privacy while she stabilizes.” The word stabilizes landed in my chest like a hand trying to hold my mouth shut. Adil’s smile sharpened. “Care doesn’t require separation.” The Liaison turned to me, voice lowering into that soft sympathy that makes you want to throw a chair. “Hannah,” they said, “please regulate your tone.” The words hit like a slap. Because I’d walked past the sign. Because the sign had been waiting for me. PLEASE REGULATE YOUR TONE. ANGELS CAN HEAR SUBTEXT. Something ancient and furious climbed up my spine. “Oh,” I said, louder. “We’re doing tone policing in Heaven? Incredible. Ten out of ten. Love that for you.” I held up my proof-of-existence receipt like an exhibit in court. “You keep using that sweet voice like it’s kindness,” I said, shaking, “but it’s not kindness. It’s control wearing a halo.”

The Liaison’s smile warmed like they’d been offered a charming misunderstanding. “Without
 influence,” they corrected. “Without the pressure of being perceived. Hannah deserves privacy while she stabilizes.” The word stabilizes landed in my chest like a hand trying to hold my mouth shut. Adil’s smile sharpened. “Care doesn’t require separation.” The Liaison turned to me, voice lowering into that soft sympathy that makes you want to throw a chair. “Hannah,” they said, “please regulate your tone.” The words hit like a slap. Because I’d walked past the sign. Because the sign had been waiting for me. PLEASE REGULATE YOUR TONE. ANGELS CAN HEAR SUBTEXT. Something ancient and furious climbed up my spine. “Oh,” I said, louder. “We’re doing tone policing in Heaven? Incredible. Ten out of ten. Love that for you.” I held up my proof-of-existence receipt like an exhibit in court. “You keep using that sweet voice like it’s kindness,” I said, shaking, “but it’s not kindness. It’s control wearing a halo.”

For anyone who’s ever been told to be “calm” while bleeding emotionally: you’re not too much—you’re just not convenient. This scene is a small, righteous release valve where grief refuses to be managed into silence 💙📚🎧

open.substack.com/pub/gloryfin...

#CozyHorror #DarkComedy

1 month ago 0 0 0 0
“Nothing,” they said sweetly. “Just
 patterns. I love patterns.” They read off the screen with a sing-song cadence, like gossip at a church potluck. “Okay, so. Ways office: Out of Office. Means office: Out of Office. Grief & Human Affairs: Out of Office.” Click. “Miracles & Exceptions: Out of Office.” I stared. “So God is
 just not in any office?” Adil’s smile remained. “God is marked Out of Office,” they said. Bob’s face tightened. “Marked by whom?” Adil made a tiny, admonishing sound—don’t start, darling, we are being normal—and kept scrolling. “Upper Administration: Out of Office. Prayer Processing: Out of Office. Emergency Only
” They paused. Their eyebrows rose. “Oh! Emergency Only is—” Bob leaned in a fraction. “—also Out of Office,” Adil finished, with a bright little smile that did not reach their eyes. “But don’t worry! Emergency Only has an acting coverage note.”

“Nothing,” they said sweetly. “Just
 patterns. I love patterns.” They read off the screen with a sing-song cadence, like gossip at a church potluck. “Okay, so. Ways office: Out of Office. Means office: Out of Office. Grief & Human Affairs: Out of Office.” Click. “Miracles & Exceptions: Out of Office.” I stared. “So God is
 just not in any office?” Adil’s smile remained. “God is marked Out of Office,” they said. Bob’s face tightened. “Marked by whom?” Adil made a tiny, admonishing sound—don’t start, darling, we are being normal—and kept scrolling. “Upper Administration: Out of Office. Prayer Processing: Out of Office. Emergency Only
” They paused. Their eyebrows rose. “Oh! Emergency Only is—” Bob leaned in a fraction. “—also Out of Office,” Adil finished, with a bright little smile that did not reach their eyes. “But don’t worry! Emergency Only has an acting coverage note.”

If you’ve ever suspected the “system” is running on vibes, cover sheets, and someone quietly pretending they’re not in charge
 this scene is for you. Come watch a clerk with a smile and an audit log turn a polite question into a full-blown cosmic problem 💙📚🎧

open.substack.com/pub/gloryfin...

1 month ago 0 0 1 0
Preview
🎧 The Trouble with Angels — Season 2, Episode 6: Chapter 14, Part 2 Chapter 14, Part 2: I Need to Speak to the Manager of Existence—Because Honey, You Don’t Deserve the Headache I’m About to Give Someone

Heaven runs on forms.
Grief files an escalation.
Upper Admin says: “Please regulate your tone.” 💙📚🎧

If you like afterlife bureaucracy + celestial chaos + cozy-horror satire with heart:
open.substack.com/pub/gloryfin...

#AudioFiction #UrbanFantasy #SatireWithHeart

1 month ago 1 0 1 0

All that’s holding me together today: 2 soup bowls of coffee, avocado toast, and an irrational spite to inject more whimsy into our increasingly cursed timeline

2 months ago 1 0 0 0
Advertisement
Preview
a woman in a red shirt with anchors on it is sitting in front of a green and blue background . Alt: a woman in a red shirt with anchors on it is sitting in front of a green and blue background .

This is the nightmare fuel I logged into bluesky today looking for 🌟

2 months ago 0 0 0 0
It was inevitable that a child would find Gabriel. Children are basically heat-seeking missiles for the most awkward adult in any vicinity. This child was five, which meant she was small and made entirely of ambition. Her name was Junie. She had glitter sneakers, a clipboard covered in stickers, and the unblinking confidence of someone who had never once considered the concept of no. She walked straight up to Gabriel, looked them up and down like an interviewer assessing a candidate, and said, “Hi! I’m Junie. Do you have a moment? I’d like to hear what you think about my idea.” Gabriel blinked. Michael, nearby, made a noise like he’d just watched a deer step into traffic and realized the deer was about to start a business. Junie didn’t wait for more consent than the word moment. She flipped her clipboard around like she was presenting quarterly earnings. “A network of lemonade stands,” she said, “across the whole United States. Then we use the money to make Party Pony Rescue.”

It was inevitable that a child would find Gabriel. Children are basically heat-seeking missiles for the most awkward adult in any vicinity. This child was five, which meant she was small and made entirely of ambition. Her name was Junie. She had glitter sneakers, a clipboard covered in stickers, and the unblinking confidence of someone who had never once considered the concept of no. She walked straight up to Gabriel, looked them up and down like an interviewer assessing a candidate, and said, “Hi! I’m Junie. Do you have a moment? I’d like to hear what you think about my idea.” Gabriel blinked. Michael, nearby, made a noise like he’d just watched a deer step into traffic and realized the deer was about to start a business. Junie didn’t wait for more consent than the word moment. She flipped her clipboard around like she was presenting quarterly earnings. “A network of lemonade stands,” she said, “across the whole United States. Then we use the money to make Party Pony Rescue.”

An extra snippet from Chapter 13 of The Trouble with Angels 📚💙🎧⚡

Read/Listen Here: open.substack.com/pub/gloryfin...

#SerialFiction #FoundFamily #CelestialChaos

2 months ago 2 0 0 0
Michael parked at the edge of a field that seemed to hum with an unusual amount of energy. Like it used to be a crossroads. Like the land had loosened its belt and sighed, Fine. Let there be magic. Past the gate: banners, tents, a ferris wheel waiting for dusk like it was trying to look casual, and a crowd that had already formed three separate governments around three separate coolers. The smell, Michael said, was the standard human festival cocktail: fried dough, sunscreen, kettle corn, and hand sanitizer that wanted to be citrus so badly it was basically flirting. The first thing he noticed wasn’t a ride. It was a sign. WELCOME WAYS & MEANS. YES, YOU’RE RELATED. NO, WE CAN’T EXPLAIN IT QUICKLY. Michael said he stared at that sign like it was sacred scripture. “See,” he told Gabriel, “they’re self-aware.”

Michael parked at the edge of a field that seemed to hum with an unusual amount of energy. Like it used to be a crossroads. Like the land had loosened its belt and sighed, Fine. Let there be magic. Past the gate: banners, tents, a ferris wheel waiting for dusk like it was trying to look casual, and a crowd that had already formed three separate governments around three separate coolers. The smell, Michael said, was the standard human festival cocktail: fried dough, sunscreen, kettle corn, and hand sanitizer that wanted to be citrus so badly it was basically flirting. The first thing he noticed wasn’t a ride. It was a sign. WELCOME WAYS & MEANS. YES, YOU’RE RELATED. NO, WE CAN’T EXPLAIN IT QUICKLY. Michael said he stared at that sign like it was sacred scripture. “See,” he told Gabriel, “they’re self-aware.”

A snippet from Chapter 13 of The Trouble with Angels 📚💙🎧⚡

Read/Listen Here: open.substack.com/pub/gloryfin...

#AudioFiction #FictionPodcast #UrbanFantasy #CozyHorror #DarkComedy

2 months ago 1 0 1 0
Preview
🎧 The Trouble with Angels — Season 2, Episode 4 (Chapter 13) Listen now | The Ways & The Means: By Blood and By Policy | This family reunion has everything: carnival lights, laminated schedules, and emotional-support water stations. Michael hauls Gabriel into t...

Need a palate cleanser for your nervous system?

This episode is a sunset carnival reunion where kindness is accessible, hydration is enforced, and a five-year-old CEO ambushes an archangel with a clipboard and Party Pony Rescue Plan 📚💙🎧⚡

Read/Listen Here: open.substack.com/pub/gloryfin...

2 months ago 7 2 1 0
They arrived in The El Dorado. The El Dorado they’d “borrowed” from Jesus. Bob used air quotes when he said borrowed, like the word itself was an ethical compromise he didn’t have time to litigate. If you’ve never seen an ancient car used as a vehicle for cosmic beings, let me save you the trouble: it looks exactly as ridiculous as it sounds, and it somehow still carries authority. The El Dorado glided into the parking lot like a relic of style that had gotten tired of being symbolic and decided to become useful. Gabriel was in the passenger seat, stiff with tension, vibrating like a perfection rule in a bad font environment. Michael drove with the calm, furious focus of someone piloting a legal argument through traffic. And the car stood out among the beige sedans and family SUVs, which was its own kind of commentary on bland corporate homogeny. Bob told me that’s what made it feel like generals amassing their troops before anyone said a word. Not the weapons. The fact that The Family had started traveling together. They headed in. If you enjoy audio fiction, please check out the podcast version of this on your favorite podcast app. If you're unable to find The Trouble with Angels Season 2, Episode 2, please let me know which app and I'll see what I can do -Glory

They arrived in The El Dorado. The El Dorado they’d “borrowed” from Jesus. Bob used air quotes when he said borrowed, like the word itself was an ethical compromise he didn’t have time to litigate. If you’ve never seen an ancient car used as a vehicle for cosmic beings, let me save you the trouble: it looks exactly as ridiculous as it sounds, and it somehow still carries authority. The El Dorado glided into the parking lot like a relic of style that had gotten tired of being symbolic and decided to become useful. Gabriel was in the passenger seat, stiff with tension, vibrating like a perfection rule in a bad font environment. Michael drove with the calm, furious focus of someone piloting a legal argument through traffic. And the car stood out among the beige sedans and family SUVs, which was its own kind of commentary on bland corporate homogeny. Bob told me that’s what made it feel like generals amassing their troops before anyone said a word. Not the weapons. The fact that The Family had started traveling together. They headed in. If you enjoy audio fiction, please check out the podcast version of this on your favorite podcast app. If you're unable to find The Trouble with Angels Season 2, Episode 2, please let me know which app and I'll see what I can do -Glory

A snippet from
The Trouble with Angels
Chapter 11 đŸ’™đŸ“šâšĄđŸ©žđŸŽ§đŸȘ

Read/listen: open.substack.com/pub/gloryfin...

#UrbanFantasy #CozyHorror #DarkComedy

3 months ago 1 0 0 0
Preview
🎧 The Trouble with Angels — Season 2, Episode 2: Chapter 11 Listen now | Business Casual Armageddon | A Holiday Inn Express is the last place you expect to witness divine crisis management. But when the universe is glitching, it turns out apocalypse paperwork ...

If you enjoy “afterlife bureaucracy” + “celestial chaos” + cozy-ominous satire:

Chapter 11 features an apocalypse memo appearing by a hotel ICE MACHINE. Three immortals lean in like it’s office gossip, but the paper feels
 holy-wrong. đŸ’™đŸ“šâšĄđŸ©žđŸŽ§đŸȘ

#FictionPodcast #AudioDrama

3 months ago 2 0 1 0
Preview
a young boy is sitting at a table writing in a notebook . ALT: a young boy is sitting at a table writing in a notebook .

My whimsical writing will continue until morale improves

3 months ago 1 0 0 0
Preview
a drawing of a ghost that says ghost hug you can 't feel it but it 's there . ALT: a drawing of a ghost that says ghost hug you can 't feel it but it 's there .
3 months ago 1 0 0 0
Preview
two young men are standing next to each other with the words be excellent to each other on the bottom Alt: two young men are standing next to each other with the words be excellent to each other on the bottom
3 months ago 1 0 0 0
Drink Up, The World's About to End By Glory Fink Maui should have been impossible. Not because humans couldn’t get to Maui. Humans went to Maui all the time. Humans went to Maui on points and honeymoon desperation and credit card debt and the kind of optimism that only lasted as long as the hotel towels kept arriving fresh and fluffy. No, Maui should have been impossible because I hadn’t earned it. Grief has a way of turning pleasure into contraband. Like your body is a cop and your heart is a teenager and joy is a stolen car. And yet, here I was. Bob brought me through an ordinary doorway that pretended it was part of a normal day. It wasn’t a portal with a choir. It wasn’t a tear in the sky. There was no dramatic wind, no swirling light, no Heaven-branded elevator music. It was a door. Just a door. The kind of door you could walk through without thinking. Which was, in retrospect, the most terrifying part. I remember stepping forward and feeling the air change, not in a dramatic way, but in a way that made my skin prickle—like I’d walked into a room that had been recently cleaned with something expensive. The light hit differently on the other side. Softer. More flattering. The entire podcast series is available for free on GloryFink.SubStack.com or wherever you get your podcasts. If you're having trouble finding it, please let me know which app and I'll see what I can do to help -Glory

Drink Up, The World's About to End By Glory Fink Maui should have been impossible. Not because humans couldn’t get to Maui. Humans went to Maui all the time. Humans went to Maui on points and honeymoon desperation and credit card debt and the kind of optimism that only lasted as long as the hotel towels kept arriving fresh and fluffy. No, Maui should have been impossible because I hadn’t earned it. Grief has a way of turning pleasure into contraband. Like your body is a cop and your heart is a teenager and joy is a stolen car. And yet, here I was. Bob brought me through an ordinary doorway that pretended it was part of a normal day. It wasn’t a portal with a choir. It wasn’t a tear in the sky. There was no dramatic wind, no swirling light, no Heaven-branded elevator music. It was a door. Just a door. The kind of door you could walk through without thinking. Which was, in retrospect, the most terrifying part. I remember stepping forward and feeling the air change, not in a dramatic way, but in a way that made my skin prickle—like I’d walked into a room that had been recently cleaned with something expensive. The light hit differently on the other side. Softer. More flattering. The entire podcast series is available for free on GloryFink.SubStack.com or wherever you get your podcasts. If you're having trouble finding it, please let me know which app and I'll see what I can do to help -Glory

A snippet from The Trouble with Angels

open.substack.com/pub/gloryfin...

đŸ’™đŸ“šâšĄđŸ©žđŸŽ§đŸȘ

#AfterlifeFiction

3 months ago 0 0 0 0
Advertisement
Preview
🎧 The Trouble with Angels — Season 2, Episode 1 Listen now | Drink Up, The World’s About to End (Chapter 10) | Paradise is supposed to be soothing. But grief doesn’t believe in palm trees. Hannah and Bob step into Maui — a place so perfect it feels...

If “paradise” feels uncanny when you’re grieving, here’s an episode that gets it: afterlife bureaucracy, celestial chaos, and cozy-horror satire—with heart. đŸ•ŻđŸ„­
đŸ’™đŸ“šâšĄđŸ©žđŸŽ§đŸȘ

open.substack.com/pub/gloryfin...

#AudioDrama #CozyHorror

3 months ago 1 0 1 0
False Spring and Other Lies We Tell Ourselves in Fillmore By Glory Fink (An occasional dispatch from the moist underbelly of optimism.) Seed catalogs are hitting mailboxes, which means Fillmore has entered its most sacred season: Delulu Planning Season. People are circling tomatoes like they’re picking a soulmate. (“This one says heat tolerant. So he won’t leave me?”) We are all one glossy photo away from believing we will become the kind of person who labels herb jars. And then—because the universe loves a joke—Fillmore gets one (1) 78-degree day. False Spring #1 One 78-degree afternoon and suddenly every porch has folks in flip-flops and optimism. Lawn chairs dusted off and dragged onto the porch. Drinks sweating. Someone’s aunt is declaring, “Winter’s over!” like she’s giving a church testimonial. Baby, Winter heard you. Winter took that personally. Winter will be back with a vengeance. The Hardware Store: Temptation Altar Edition The hardware store has placed seed-starting trays and little peat pots right at the front like a temptation altar. You walk in for duct tape and come out holding twelve packets of zinnias and the moral conviction that you are a person with a plan. They’re not even being subtle about it. It’s merchandising. It’s psychological warfare. It’s “just one more seed packet” the way a casino is “just one more spin.” Substack now has an auto reader available to have it read the entire article to you for free

False Spring and Other Lies We Tell Ourselves in Fillmore By Glory Fink (An occasional dispatch from the moist underbelly of optimism.) Seed catalogs are hitting mailboxes, which means Fillmore has entered its most sacred season: Delulu Planning Season. People are circling tomatoes like they’re picking a soulmate. (“This one says heat tolerant. So he won’t leave me?”) We are all one glossy photo away from believing we will become the kind of person who labels herb jars. And then—because the universe loves a joke—Fillmore gets one (1) 78-degree day. False Spring #1 One 78-degree afternoon and suddenly every porch has folks in flip-flops and optimism. Lawn chairs dusted off and dragged onto the porch. Drinks sweating. Someone’s aunt is declaring, “Winter’s over!” like she’s giving a church testimonial. Baby, Winter heard you. Winter took that personally. Winter will be back with a vengeance. The Hardware Store: Temptation Altar Edition The hardware store has placed seed-starting trays and little peat pots right at the front like a temptation altar. You walk in for duct tape and come out holding twelve packets of zinnias and the moral conviction that you are a person with a plan. They’re not even being subtle about it. It’s merchandising. It’s psychological warfare. It’s “just one more seed packet” the way a casino is “just one more spin.” Substack now has an auto reader available to have it read the entire article to you for free

A snippet from the latest Fillmore News 💙📚

The full article includes: seed-catalog delusion, Wilfred’s seed underworld, diner “spring specials,” and a town PSA begging folks to stop trying to mulch fake trees.

open.substack.com/pub/gloryfin...

#SmallTownLife

3 months ago 0 0 0 0
Preview
False Spring and Other Lies We Tell Ourselves in Fillmore This week, seed catalogs have hit the mailboxes—which means Fillmore has entered its holiest season: Delulu Planning Season. People are choosing tomatoes like soulmates, the hardware store has built a...

False Spring: one warm day and suddenly everybody’s on the porch in flip-flops, planning a whole garden life. đŸŒ± 💙📚

open.substack.com/pub/gloryfin...

#SouthernHumor

3 months ago 0 0 1 0