Rinn Skyborn | Updates

Dawn Watson Memorial Prize

Rinn Skyborn — Thu, 21 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

I would love to share some exiting news!
I just found out today that I won THIRD PLACE in the Dawn Watson Memorial Prize for a poem i wrote called "Left Behind"

And here's what the judge, Sharon Berg, had to say about your poem:
3rd Prize

Left Behind – K. Jordan MacKenzie (Rinn Skyborn)

It isn’t like most of us know nothing about the damage done by a lover who leaves you, or the terror and hurt caused by a monster who violates you. If we haven’t been personally violated, we certainly know someone who has been. Most of us bury the pain under silence, but this Author puts into words what most of us have buttoned up about. The relationship between forgiveness and revenge is separated by a thinner wall than most of us dare contemplate. The language of this poem is brave and direct. It asks us to share witness of a violence most would not condone. The evil one human being can inflict upon another may be buried under layers of social training in most readers' experience, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. This Author aims to tear down the unchallenged denial of the perpetrator “because I am not the silence you expected...” and “all you did/ was teach me/ how powerful the living can become.”

This is a very personal poem to me that I took a long time to write, I have felt like I've lost my voice for a long time especially after a traumatic experience that left me with wounds.

I have also attached a copy of the poem for those of you who would like to read it.

Thank you to everyone who has thought of me, believed in me and have helped me survive when I couldn't even breathe.

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Taken

Rinn Skyborn — Fri, 3 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Taken

The night wore a friendly face
when it crossed my threshold~
boots quiet upon the floorboards
of the only place I called safe.
My house knew his name.
My walls had listened to laughter
that once meant trust.
But treachery does not always arrive
with thunder.
Sometimes it is dust
on the rim of a glass or on a breath ~ a bitter ghost dissolving
into the bloodstream of belief.
The breath of the devil
crept soft through my veins,
a fog uncoiling behind the eyes
where thought once stood guard.
Then the world tilted.
Language dissolved.
Gravity thickened like tar.
My limbs became strangers
too heavy to answer my will.
And somewhere in the dimming room
a sacred word was stolen.
Consent.
Such a small word
I felt it torn away~
not loudly,
not with ceremony~
but like a lock quietly broken
in the deepest chamber of the soul.
Fear bloomed there first.
A cold, crawling terror
that skittered through bone
like rats in the hollow walls of a crypt.
My body knew danger
long before my voice could rise.
And inside~
Gods.
Inside it felt like fire.
Not the bright flame of a hearth
but a crueler burning~
a slow, devouring heat
as though my ribs had been filled
with molten glass.
My insides screamed
without sound.
The soul has nerves,
though no physician can chart them.
And mine were ablaze.
Time shattered.
Minutes fell like broken teeth
into a black well of forgetting,
while somewhere in that darkness
the shape of betrayal leaned close.
Not a monster.
Worse.
A man wearing the familiar skin
of someone I once trusted.
The body remembers
what the mind cannot bear to hold~
the suffocating weight of fear,
the helpless gravity of stolen choice,
the terrible knowledge
that “no” has no voice
when poison grips the tongue.
I thought I would die there.
Not the quiet death of breath~
but the deeper death.
The one where the self fractures
and sinks beneath the wreckage
of what was taken.
Yet dawn is a stubborn creature.
It crawls through cracks
even in ruined houses.
Morning found me broken, yes~
a cathedral collapsed inward,
stone and prayer scattered
across a trembling floor.
But beneath the rubble
something breathed.
A ragged pulse.
A fragile defiance.
A heart that refused the grave.
The pain did not vanish.
Fear did not evaporate.
The fire within my bones
still remembers that night.
But hear me ~
hear this clearly.
The theft of consent
did not steal my existence.
The burning did not consume my soul.
I rose from that inferno
scarred, shaking, unfinished~
yet living.
And the living
are far more powerful
than the monsters who hide in poison and lies.
For they must drug the world
to take what we would never give.
But I remain.
Breathing.
Speaking.
Surviving.
And every word I write
is another match struck
against the dark that tried to consume me. 🖤

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Devil's Breath

Rinn Skyborn — Fri, 27 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Devil’s Breath

The night did not batter my door~
it entered softly,
wearing the borrowed smile of a friend.
My hearth was warm, my walls were known to me,
the quiet house breathing trust
through timber and shadow.
He brought laughter like harmless wine,
a sweetness poured in fragile glass;
yet somewhere in that amber calm
a darker wind had learned my name~
the whisper of Devil’s Breath,
invisible as treachery in prayer.
It touched my lips like powdered dusk,
like ash from some forgotten pyre;
and soon the room grew deep with fog,
a drowning sea of wavering fire.
The floor leaned close, the walls withdrew,
my pulse became a distant bell~
a tolling far beneath the ribs
where waking thoughts once used to dwell.
O traitor night! O Judas breath!
What phantom poison dims the soul
until the body is but a ruin
where broken echoes lose control?
My limbs were marble dragged by chains,
my voice a bird with shattered wings;
the house I loved became a crypt
where silence fed on sacred things.
And there ~ within that poisoned haze ~
a mask slipped loose from borrowed grace:
no friend remained behind those eyes,
only the wolf that wore his face.
Darkness remembers what the body cannot~
a splintered reel of shadowed cries,
a soul retreating into caverns
where even memory denies.
The hours crawled like patient worms
beneath the coffin of my skin;
and somewhere deep the Devil laughed,
believing night would always win.
But listen~
listen well, O patient Dark~
For though you sealed my breath with dust
and left me shattered on the floor,
some stubborn ember in my chest
refused the grave you held in store.
Morning found me wreckage ~yes~
a cathedral cracked by thunder’s hand,
my spirit raw, my bones unsure
how any broken thing might stand.
Yet still I breathed.
And breathing ~ rose.
Not blazing like the vengeful sun,
nor raging fire that scorches skies—
but something quieter, stronger still:
a star that wakes in wounded eyes.
You thought the drug would steal my name,
that shame would chain my voice to night;
yet from the rubble of that hour
I learned a different kind of light.
I do not burn.
I shine.
A fractured lantern in the dark,
a stubborn gleam no breath can smother~
for I crawled from the Devil’s silence
and rose again,
my own fierce keeper.
Remember this, O treacherous night~
O poison whispered into trust:
The grave you carved became my threshold.
The ruin you made became my dawn. 🖤

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Left Behind

Rinn Skyborn — Tue, 24 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The forest had always whispered her name ~ in the slow hush of wind through hollow trunks, in the soft murmur of leaves brushing together high above the earth. It was a sound that drifted through the dark like breath from something vast sleeping beneath the roots.
Tonight the whispers followed her.
Rue ran.
Branches clawed at her arms as she fled deeper into the ancient wood, their shadowed fingers snagging her sleeves and hair reluctant to let her pass. The air tasted wrong here ~ wet, metallic, thick with the scent of moss and something ancient.
Her lungs burned. Each breath scraped her throat raw like swallowing glass.
Behind her the wind moved again.
A soft stirring through the trees.
Rue…
Perhaps it was only the leaves.
She should never have followed that thin ribbon of moonlight winding between the trunks after twilight bled out of the sky. Should never have ignored the way the forest leaned inward as she walked, the branches arching together overhead like the ribs of some titanic carcass.
Listening.
Waiting.
The whisper came again, faint as memory.
Then~
Pain.
A crimson starburst bloomed between her collarbones.
The arrow tore through her throat with a dull, wet thud. Air fled her lungs as her body pitched forward, collapsing into the moss that carpeted the forest floor. The earth received her with unsettling gentleness, as though it had long expected her return.
Her trembling hands rose to her throat.
Feathers brushed her fingertips.
The shaft quivered where it had buried itself deep in flesh, and when she touched it warmth spilled through her fingers ~ thick blood sliding between them in slow, glistening ribbons that steamed faintly in the night air.
The forest inhaled.
Above her, the branches creaked softly.
Rue tried to scream.
What escaped her was a wet, bubbling gargle that spilled crimson over her lips and down her throat. The sound seemed swallowed by the trees, absorbed into the endless hush of the woods.
The wind shifted.
This time the whisper lingered longer, curling through the canopy like breath through an open grave.
Her strength ebbed.
She sank back into the damp cradle of moss and stared through the torn lace of branches.
The sky stretched above her in a vast and merciless abyss. The moon floated there, pale and distant ~
It watched her the way deep water watches the drowning.
Around her head the flowers swayed.
Pale blossoms trembled in the wind, their hollow sockets glistening with crimson where her blood seeped into the waiting soil. Their thin petals brushed together with a dry, whispering sound.
They had bloomed here before.
They had fed before.
Beneath the lovers who strayed too far from lantern light. Hunters who believed themselves masters of the wood. Wanderers who followed the wrong path beneath the wrong moon.
Something stirred beside her.
It peeled away from the gloom and took shape.
The creature descended.
It settled lightly upon the arrow still lodged in her throat, its talons curling around the shaft.
Feathers hung in ragged strips, sloughing away to reveal yellowed bone and glistening sinew beneath. Its ribs arched outward like the warped bars of a ruined cage, shifting softly whenever it breathed.
And it did breathe.
A slow... macabre rattle.
Alive in a way that mocked the quiet graves beneath the trees.
The creature tilted its skeletal head.
Its empty eye sockets caught the moonlight.
Her vision blurred. Tears slid across her temples and vanished into the moss as blood pooled thick and metallic in her mouth.
Each faltering heartbeat sent another warm tide across her tongue.
Copper.
Salt.
The taste of endings.,
The bird leaned closer.
Its beak opened slowly.
No cry escaped it.
Instead a thick droplet gathered at the tip ~ black as the space between distant stars.
It fell.
The liquid touched her lips and slid across her tongue like cold ink.
For a moment nothing happened.
Then the whispers began.
Not in the wind.
Not in the trees.
Inside her.

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Call of the Damned Main Characters

Rinn Skyborn — Sat, 21 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Introducing the Heroes of "Call of the Damned"

Sabi, Lyra, Caelen, and Maddox

The Mystic Scholar
Rounding out the quartet is Sabi, the hooded mage whose arcane knowledge drives the quest forward. With her vibrant red hair peeking from a green hood, a blue cloak, Sabi embodies the forbidden wisdom at the heart of the story.

Sabi's strength is her intellect—she deciphers riddles, brews potions, and channels energies needed to create the Ouroboros. But her powers come at a cost, tempting her toward corruption. Throughout the novel, Sabi's vulnerability and determination forge deep connections with the others, making her the emotional core.

Fun fact: Sabi's staff holds a fragment of the Ouroboros' essence, symbolizing the eternal struggle against damnation.

Why These Characters Drive the Story
In Call of the Damned, Sabi, Lyra, Caelen, and Maddox aren't just survivors—they're catalysts for change in a world gripped by fear and fanaticism. As they evade Hunters, unravel mysteries, and assemble the Ouroboros, their personal growth and intertwined fates explore themes of persecution, unity, and the cost of power. This isn't a straightforward hero's journey; it's a dark, immersive tale where every choice echoes eternally.

I'm pouring my heart into this book, and I can't wait for you to experience their adventure. Call of the Damned is slated for release May 20th, 2026 —keep an eye out for teasers, artwork (like the character lineup above!), and more.

Which character are you most excited about? Lyra's precision, Maddox's might, Caelen's cunning, or Sabi's magic?

Thanks for reading,

Rinn Skyborn

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Don't look back

Rinn Skyborn — Sat, 21 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Embedded Youtube video removed, see original post to watch.

I was walking through the woods alone.
The trail was empty.
No wind.
No birds.
Just the sound of my boots on the dirt.
Crunch…
Crunch…
Crunch…
Then I heard another step.
Crunch.
I stopped walking.
The woods went silent.
After a few seconds, I started again.
Crunch…
Crunch…
Then behind me~
Crunch.
One extra step.
Perfectly timed with mine.
I told myself it was just an echo.
So I kept walking.
Crunch…
Crunch…
Crunch.
Still behind me.
Still matching my steps.
Finally, I spun around.
Nothing.
Just trees and darkness.
When I turned back toward the trail…
I froze.
There were two sets of footprints in the dirt.
Mine…
And another pair…
Walking right beside me the whole time. 🌲👣

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Happy Spring Equinox!

Rinn Skyborn — Fri, 20 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

🌿✨ Happy Spring Equinox ✨🌿

Today the light stands equal with the dark, and the earth turns gently toward warmth again. In the old stories of the Highlands, this is the season when winter loosens its grip and the land begins to breathe.

It is said that the long reign of the Cailleach — the ancient crone of winter, keeper of frost and storm — begins to fade as the days grow longer. The snow retreats to the mountains, the rivers begin to sing again, and the green world wakes beneath our feet.

Spring arrives not in a single moment, but in whispers:
in thawing soil, in longer sunsets, in the quiet courage of the first buds breaking through cold earth.

May this equinox bring you balance —
between rest and growth, darkness and light, past and possibility.

Step outside if you can today.
Feel the turning of the season.
The old magic of the land is waking again. 🌱🌞

#SpringEquinox #CelticRoots #ScottishMythology #WheelOfTheYear #SeasonOfLight

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Big News! Call of the Damned!

Rinn Skyborn — Thu, 5 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

I’m beyond excited to announce that my book Call of the Damned is now officially available!

Deep beneath ancient roots, something older than memory—older than mercy—begins to stir. The wind carries whispers no mortal should hear, and the very earth remembers every step, every secret, every sin.

Some truths sleep buried in rock.
Some truths lie hidden in stone.
Others are carved in blood.

Hers are waking.

Caught between relentless hunters and the awakening Hollow, she faces an impossible choice: fight to survive… or surrender to the ancient fate that has already whispered her name.

If you love dark fantasy, ancient magic, and stories where destiny refuses to stay buried, I’d love for you to check it out and support the journey. 🖤

available now

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Introducing the Heroes of "Call of the Damned"

Rinn Skyborn — Mon, 23 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Introducing the Heroes of "Call of the Damned"

Sabi, Lyra, Caelen, and Maddox

Hello, fellow fantasy fans and adventure seekers! I'm excited to pull back the curtain on my upcoming novel, Call of the Damned. This gripping dark fantasy story follows a group of outcasts fleeing the brutal witch trials that have swept through their world. In a desperate bid for survival, they must embark on a perilous quest to forge the legendary Ouroboros—an ancient artifact symbolizing eternal cycles, said to hold the power to shatter curses and rewrite fate.

At the core of this tale are four unforgettable characters: Sabi, Lyra, Caelen, and Maddox. Their diverse backgrounds and skills force them into an uneasy alliance, where trust is hard-won and betrayal lurks in the shadows. Inspired by classic fantasy archetypes but twisted with modern depth, these heroes will draw you into a world of moral ambiguity and high-stakes drama.

Lyra:

The Elven Sharpshooter
Lyra is the graceful elven archer whose precision and agility make her an indispensable ally in the group's escape. With her flowing silver hair tied in a high ponytail, pointed ears, and piercing green eyes, she cuts a striking figure in her verdant forest garb—complete with feathered accents and a quiver of arrows. Hailing from the ancient woodlands now ravaged by the trials, Lyra's people have long been persecuted for their innate connection to nature's magic.

In Call of the Damned, Lyra's role is that of the vigilant scout and loyal friend, using her bow and keen senses to navigate treacherous terrains and fend off pursuers. Beneath her composed exterior lies a deep-seated rage against the inquisitors who destroyed her home. She's quick-witted, loyal to a fault, and her bond with the group grows as they race to assemble the Ouroboros.

Fun fact: Lyra's arrows are tipped with moonstone, embedded with power to strike any target.

Maddox:

The Stoic Warrior
Maddox is the battle-tested knight providing the brute strength and tactical prowess the group needs to survive. Towering and imposing, with short black hair, a stern gaze, and bronze skin marked by scars, he dons rugged green armor that speaks to his life on the front lines. Once a loyal healer.
His journey in the novel is one of gruff humor and unyielding honor, but his leadership shines in moments of crisis—like forging the Ouroboros amid relentless hunts.

Did you know? Maddox's sword bears runes that glow when near dark magic.

Caelen:

The Cunning Rogue
Caelen brings street smarts and shadowy skills to the ensemble, the young fighter who's mastered survival in a world that hunts the gifted. With tousled black hair, intense onyx eyes, and a red scarf accenting his green tunic and black leathers, he's often seen standing watch, dagger at the ready. Orphaned during early waves of the trials, Caelen grew up in the underbelly of society, honing his talents for stealth and deception.

In Call of the Damned, Caelen's arc explores themes of found family, as he transitions from a lone wolf to a vital team player. His lockpicking, trap-setting, and quick thinking are crucial for infiltrating forbidden sites to gather components for the Ouroboros. Witty and resourceful, yet haunted by loss, Caelen adds tension and levity to the group dynamic.

Pro tip: Caelen's hidden tattoos map out ancient secrets, however they have no way to be deciphered since not many Fae speak the old tongue since the veil was closed.

Sabi:

Thanks for reading,

Rinn Skyborn

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Call of the Damned coming May 20, 2026

Rinn Skyborn — Sat, 21 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The roots have begun to stir.

Long has the earth kept its silence, long has stone swallowed the echoes of what was done and what was buried. But the old wards are thinning, and the wind now carries a name it was never meant to remember. The Hollow breathes again. The hunters sharpen their blades. And the path that was written in blood before her first breath is drawing closed.

So it is foretold:

When the buried truth wakes,

when the watching mountain opens its unseen eyes,

when whispers crawl from the soil like pale worms of memory ~

the marked one will be called.

I am both thrilled and wary to announce that Call of the Damned will rise from its slumber on May 20th, 2026.

Mark the date carefully, wanderer. Prophecies are patient things. They wait in bone and bark and shadow, listening for footsteps.

And this one already knows yours.

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Call of the Damned coming - Sneak Peak (comic)

Rinn Skyborn — Fri, 20 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Enjoy this sneak peak into Call of the Damned coming 2026

The wind carries whispers not meant for mortal ears, and the stone listens as if it remembers her footsteps.
Some truths lie buried in stone. Others are carved in blood.

(TW: Violence/ Abuse)

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Call of the Damned - Prologue

Rinn Skyborn — Fri, 20 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

TW: Violence / Abuse

Call of the Damned

Prologue - The Nightmare

I remember the book before I remember the blood. The book was thick and soft with age, its spine cracked like a tired smile. The cover showed a hill split open by moonlight, a woman standing barefoot at its crest, her hair lifting as if the wind itself had chosen her. Gold leaf once traced the letters of the title, but time had worn them dull. I could not read all the words then. I only knew the pictures, and the sound of my mother’s voice moving through them like a tide.
I was small enough that the book felt heavy in my lap. When I held it, it pressed into my thighs, anchoring me to the floor beside the hearth. Ash dusted the stones. The fire popped and sighed, and my mother sat behind me, legs folded to either side of my small body, arms wrapped around me as if I were something precious and fragile that might spill if tipped.
“Again,” I would say, every night, even when I knew the story by heart. And she always did. She always reads again. Her voice was soft but never weak. It held a steady rhythm to it, the kind that made you feel safe enough to close your eyes without fear of what might happen when you opened them again. She smelled of bread and smoke and crushed herbs, and sometimes of rain if she’d been out gathering. Her fingers traced the pictures as she spoke, not because she needed to, but because I liked to watch them move.
“These are old stories,” she would say, as if that mattered, her hands working my long red curls into braids. “Older than this house. Older than the hills. Older than even the words we use to tell them.”
The stories were full of things I wasn’t supposed to talk about outside our walls. Fae who danced in circles of mushrooms. Wisps that lit the marshes and led travelers astray - or home, if they were kind. Queens who were stolen as babies and raised by humans who never knew what they held. Men who struck bargains they could not keep, and women who paid the price for loving them anyway.
When my mother read, the world felt larger. Wider. As if the walls of the house leaned back to listen too. Sometimes she wouldn’t read at all. Sometimes she would close the book and tell the stories instead, the ones passed mouth to mouth, never written down. She said written words could be burned; however, spoken ones had a way of surviving in bones and breath.
“The fae are not evil,” she told me once, brushing my hair with her fingers. “They are not good either. They are old. And old things don’t think the way we do.”
I asked her if the fae were real. She paused, just long enough for me to notice.
“Real enough,” she said. “But not something you should go looking for.”
I nodded solemnly, as children do when they don’t fully understand but trust anyway. Those nights, before my father came home, were the safest I ever knew.
My father did not live with us all the time. He came and went like a storm that hadn’t decided where to break. When he did come, I knew before I saw him. The air changed. The house seemed to hold its breath.
He always smelled of honey mead. Sweet and sour all at once. Thick. Cloying. It wrapped around him like a second skin, seeping into the wood of the doorframe, into the rugs, into my clothes when he lifted me without asking. Even now, the smell can make my stomach tighten, can pull me backward through the years like a hook in the ribs.
At first, when I was very small, I liked him. He was loud and big and laughed too hard. He lifted me onto his shoulders and called me his little sprite, his forest girl. He brought carved toys and ribbons dyed in strange colors. When he was sober, he told stories too - different ones. Stories of hunts and feasts and how strong he was, how feared, how respected. He never told me how respect is a fragile thing when soaked in drink.
My mother always knew how to move around him. She spoke softly when he was loud, lowered her eyes when his gaze sharpened. She touched his arm before he could slam his hand down, murmured words meant only for him. She guided him away from me without ever saying my name, as if naming me might remind him I was there. I knew without words when to stay small, when to hide in the herb cabinet, or to stay quiet in the corner.
If his voice rose, she would sing. If his steps staggered toward me, she would step between. If his anger sparked, she smothered it with her body, with her voice, with whatever it took.
I didn’t understand this then. I only knew that when he came, my mother’s hands never stopped moving. Kneading dough. Folding cloth. Stroking my hair. Always busy, always ready.
She told me to go to my room more often than not when he was there. To read. To play quietly.
“Stories are doors,” she whispered once, pressing the book into my hands. “If you need to leave, you open one.”
I took that seriously. The night everything broke, the book was already open.
I remember that clearly. The picture of a hill ringed with stones, a girl standing at its center, her shadow wrong somehow - too long, too sharp. I had traced that shadow with my finger so many times that the page was thin there. Sometimes I felt wrong, like I didn’t quite fit.
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the cups, making my heart sink in my chest. My father came home earlier than expected. I flinched, even from room, the honey mead smell came fast, rolling through the house like a fog. Voices followed. His, loud and uneven. My mother’s calm but strained, like a rope pulled too tight.
I slid off my bed and tucked myself beneath it without thinking. It was something I’d done before, during storms, during shouting in the village. Under the bed was dark and dusty but it was safe. I pulled the book with me, pressing it to my chest.
The floorboards creaked as he paced.
“You think I don’t know?” he slurred. “You think I don’t see it?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” my mother started, her voice soft. There was a sound then - wood against wood. The table, I think. Something heavy.
“Liar.” His voice was thunderous, hard.
I pressed my face into the book, breathing in its old - paper smell, trying to make myself small enough to disappear into the stories. My heart beat too fast, too hard. I counted breaths as my mother had taught me. In. Out. In. Out.
His voice rose, words tumbling over each other.
“Milk spoils when you leave it out,” he hissed. “Women spoil when they get ideas. When they think they’re smarter than men.”
I heard my mother say my name. Just once. Softly.
“Sabi…” That was when fear wrapped its hands around my throat. Then came the first sound that broke something inside me. A slap.
It was sharp. Loud. Not like the dull thuds I’d heard before when he struck walls or doors. This was skin on skin. A sound that carried weight. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood.
“Don’t,” my mother gasped.
Another sound. A grunt. Something falling.
“You think I don’t smell it on you?” he shouted. “The woods. The night. You think I don’t see how they look at you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she pleaded again, but her voice was different now. Higher. Hurt.
“The fae,” he spat, as if the word itself burned his tongue. “You’ve made a deal. I know it. I see it in the child.”
My breath caught. In the child.
My fingers dug into the book’s pages, crumpling the picture of the hill.
“She’s wrong,” he went on. “She watches too much. Knows too much. No child should know the things she knows.”
I wanted to scream that I only knew stories. Those stories weren’t real. That my mother said so. But another part of me a small, quiet, listening part, remembered her pause when I’d asked if the fae were real.
There was another slap. Harder this time. I heard my mother cry out. I pressed my fist to my mouth, muffling a sound I didn’t know I was making.
“Witch,” the word was thick with drink, twisted by rage. “You think I won’t burn you for it? You think I won’t drag you to them myself?”
My body shook so hard the bedframe rattled. I froze, terrified the sound would give me away. Under the bed, the world was a narrow strip of shadows. I could see my mother’s feet. Bare. One foot slid back, then stilled.
Then I heard something wet and terrible. The sound of a fist hitting flesh. Again. And again. Each hit landed somewhere inside me, echoing through my chest.
“Stop,” my mother whispered.
There was a moment, just a moment - where the house went quiet, as if even the walls had held their breath.
Then his voice dropped low. “You gave her to them, didn’t you? You traded our daughter for that thing.”
Silence.
“You gave her to them,” he said again, louder now. “And they gave you something in return.”
I thought of the stories. Of bargains and prices. Of queens stolen and children left behind. I thought of my mother’s hands glowing faintly green when she crushed herbs in the mortar, something I’d once thought was a trick of the firelight. I thought of how the woods always seemed to open for her.
Another blow.
This one made a different sound. A dull crack. My mother cried out, sharp and broken. I screamed then. I couldn’t help it. The sound tore out of me, thin and animal.
“Sabi!” my mother called, her voice was desperate now. Afraid. Footsteps turned. Heavy. Staggering. The bedframe creaked. A face appeared in the dark, upside down and red and terrible. My father’s eyes were wild, glassy with drink and something worse. The honey mead smell flooded my lungs.
“There you are,” he said softly. Too softly.
I curled around the book, trying to make myself disappear.
“She’s hiding,” he said, as if this were proof of something insidious. “Just like you taught her.”
“No,” my mother said. She was closer now. I could see her legs trembling. “Leave her alone.”
“She’s theirs,” he snarled. “I won’t let them have her.”
His hand reached for me.
My mother moved.
I didn’t see what she did. I only heard the sound of breath leaving a body fast, and my father shouting in surprise. The bedframe jolted as something hit it hard.
“Sabi, don’t look,” my mother said. She stood between us, her hair loose, her face streaked with blood. Her eyes were not afraid. They were furious.
For a heartbeat - just one - I thought I saw something else there. Something old. Something bright.
My father laughed, hoarse and unsteady.
“See?” he crooned. “There it is.”
Then everything happened too fast.
I remember being pulled, the book slipping from my hands. I remember my mother screaming my name like it was a spell. I remember the sound of wood breaking, of glass shattering.
I remember light. Green and pale and wrong.
And then - Nothing.
When I woke, the house was quiet. Too quiet.
The bed was above me again. The book was clutched to my chest. My fingers hurt from holding it so tightly. I crawled out slowly, my limbs stiff and aching.
My father was gone. The room smelled of smoke.
The door hung open, broken on its hinges. Cold air rushed in from the woods beyond. On the floor, near the door, was a single footprint that glowed faintly green before fading away.
I picked up the book and held it close.
I knew then that stories were not just doors.
They were warnings.
And some of them were about me.
I don’t remember hearing the door open.
I only remember the smell of the sea forcing its way into the house, cutting through smoke and iron and spilled mead. Salt and cold storms that had never learned how to be gentle.
I was on the floor when she came in. Curled in on myself beside the bed, my knees pulled to my chest so tightly they hurt. My storybook lay open on the floor beside me, its spine cracked and worn, pages trembling under my hand as I read without seeing.
“…and the child was hidden beneath the hill,” I whispered, my voice barely there. “And the fire could not find her.”
Tears soaked my cheeks, blurring the page. The crowned woman in the illustration is melting into the shadows.
Something wet caressed my shoulder, like rain.
“Sabi,” a voice broke through. Not loud. Never loud. It rolled like tidewater over stones.
I looked up.
Rose stood in the doorway, framed by broken wood and moonlight. Her dark hair hung loose and damp, curling as if it had never truly dried. Her skirts dripped seawater onto the floor, each drop striking the boards like a slow, measured heartbeat.
Her eyes took in the room in a single breath. The overturned table. The shattered glass. The blood smeared across the stones as a story told too violently.
And my mother.
She lay sprawled near the hearth, her body twisted wrong, hair matted dark against her face. Blood pooled beneath her head, already cooling, already dull. Her eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling, one swollen shut, the other glassy and empty. She was not breathing.
Rose made a sound then. Not a scream. A low, broken sound, like a wave shattering against a cliff that would not move.
“Oh,” she whispered.
Melody moved from behind Rose, kneeling beside the broken form of my mother, clutching her hand with both of hers. She was shaking so badly her teeth clicked together.
“She won’t wake up,” Melody sobbed. “Momma, she won’t wake up.”
Rose crossed the room in three strides. She knelt, pressing her fingers to my mother’s throat, then her wrist. Her hand lingered there longer than it needed to.
Nothing.
Her face folded inward, grief carving something ancient and feral into her expression.
“She’s gone.” The words landed like a stone dropped into deep water.
Melody let out a wail that ripped through the room. She collapsed forward, pressing her face into my mother’s bloody palm.
“No,” she cried. “No, no, no…. We came as fast we we could… we- ”
I couldn’t move. I stared at my mother’s face, waiting for it to soften, to breathe, to become my mother again.
It didn’t. Something inside me cracked open.
Rose turned then. Her gaze found me instantly, like a current snapping tight. There I was a small, shaking, streaked with dust and tears, clutching a book of myths like a shield that had failed to save anyone.
Her eyes filled.
“Oh, little tide,” she whispered.
She came to me and knelt, and for a moment she didn’t touch me at all. She only looked - really looked, at the bruises blooming on my arms, the way my fingers trembled around the book, the hollow shock already settling into my face.
Something hardened behind her grief.
She reached for me, and this time when she touched me, it was with certainty. She scooped me up against her chest, one arm unyielding around my back, the other hand sliding beneath my knees. I dropped the book in my shock, and she snatched it up without looking, tucking it against me as if she knew it mattered.
I buried my face into her shoulder and cried. I cried until my throat burned and my chest ached and my tears soaked into her damp wool. She rocked me, slow and relentless, like the sea pulling a child back from drowning.
“I’ve got you,” she murmured over and over. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re safe now.”
Behind us, Melody cried my name.
“Sabi,” she sobbed. “Sabi, I’m so sorry Sabi….”
Rose tightened her hold on me.
“She cannot stay,” Rose said, her voice steel. “Not here. Not after this.”
“She’s her mother,” Melody cried. “She can’t leave her-”
Rose turned, fury flashing bright as moonlight on waves.
“She is her mother,” Rose said. “Which is why I will not let her die here, too.”
She looked down at me again, softer now, devastatingly so.
“I will take her,” Rose said, as if speaking a vow to the bones of the house. “By tide and law and blood if I must. She is mine now.”
Mine.
The word wrapped around me like a promise I didn’t yet understand. Rose pressed her cheek to my hair, her breath shuddering.
“I know,” she said. “I know, little one.”
She carried me toward the door. As she crossed the threshold, I looked back one last time. My mother lay still on the stones, blood dark and drying beneath her. The fire crackled beside her, uncaring. The house felt empty already.
The woods beyond the door loomed dark and waiting.She stepped into the night, sea - salt wind rising to meet us, and held me as if she would never let go. Somewhere deep beneath my terror and grief, something old and instinctive recognized the truth….
The tide had claimed me.

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The starlit night

Rinn Skyborn — Thu, 19 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

In the depths of the forest, where shadows softly play,
She saw her in the moonlight, a fae of the dark court's sway.
Her eyes, like twin galaxies, with secrets old and wise,
And her hair, oh her hair, like the night sky with stars, hypnotizes.

She loves her with a passion, that’s deep and wild,
In a realm of mystic beauty, their hearts are beguiled.
With hair like the night sky, adorned with stars so bright,
She’s the magic in the darkness, the love that feels just right.

They dance beneath the canopies, where ancient spirits dream,
Every touch, every whisper, like a silver moonbeam.
Her laugh is like the echo, of a song long forgot,
And her hair, oh her hair, is a celestial night’s plot.

She loves her with a passion, that’s deep and wild,
In a realm of mystic beauty, their hearts are beguiled.
With hair like the night sky, adorned with stars so bright,
She’s the magic in the darkness, the love that feels just right.

In the quiet of the forest, they find their secret place,
Where love is fierce and timeless, and dreams leave no trace.
She whispers ancient promises, as the world fades to black,
And her hair, like the night sky, leads the way back.

She loves her with a passion, that’s deep and wild,
In a realm of mystic beauty, their hearts are beguiled.
With hair like the night sky, adorned with stars so bright,
She’s the magic in the darkness, the love that feels just right.

Together they’ll wander, through realms and through dreams,
In the dance of their love, they’ve found their moonlit themes.
With hair like the night sky, and hearts forever tied,
Their love story’s eternal, in the starlit night they’ll bid

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Rinn Skyborn — Sun, 1 Feb 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Happy Imbolic my friends 🖤

The celebration of Imbolc originates from the Celts. Imbolc symbolizes the halfway point between the winter solstice (Yule) and the spring equinox (Ostara). The word "imbolc" means "in the belly of the Mother," because the seeds of spring are beginning to stir in the belly of Mother Earth.

Imbolic - written by Caroline Mellor

I am the dream of awakening.

I am the returning of the night.

I am the tough green shoot pushing up through the paper stones.

I am the first case of sunlight on the unfurling petals of the snowdrop.

I am the wind which whispers the gentle pull of home to the migratory bird.

I am the drop of ice melting on the mountainside with its great dream of the ocean.

I am the sap rising in the blossom tree just before it reveals its sticky buns to the sky; I am the riotous celebration humming away beneath the earths mantle of frozen sleep.

I am the rousing of the beer from its winter slumber, and the soft pad of the mother wolf's paw on the snow as she prepares to both her pups.

I am hope, potential, rebirth and promise. I am the kindling beneath which transforms the flicker of inspiration in your creative core into a blazing torch.

Give me the silent crescent moon rising over the sea and I will build you a bridge of silver light so you can walk up and lie in it.

Give me the frost-hardened wilderness and I will breathe radiant green life over it.

Give me the healer, the writer, the crafts person in the storyteller and I will replenish her essence and make her new again.

I am Brigid, Bast, Inanna and Hestia. I am the fierce protectress in the sacred fire.

Tonight I bestow my gifts of power encourage at the hearth of your soul: power to step out of the shadows of self-doubt and negativity which I've held you in darkness for too long, power to shed all that would no longer serves you, and crude to clear your heart in mind for the dawn of that awaits you.

I am the time to honor your unique gifts for their true worth it to protect and nurture your true self as you would a child. I am the deep longing of the spirit which refuses to be deemed by narrative of fear and choose instead to place itself vivaciously on the side of love.

I am stirring in your belly which knows exactly what you are capable - and that it's time the world found out.

I am the fire within which will not be contained any longer.

I am the quickening, I am the serpent uncoiling, I am Imbolc.

I am the dream of awakening.

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To darkness

Rinn Skyborn — Fri, 30 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

In the hush of twilight's tender gleam,
Where shadows meld with silken stream,
A river winds through a world untold,
Its waters cold, its secrets bold.

Silent witness to the darkened mire,
Where whispers fade, where souls retire,
Through tangled woods and valleys deep,
It guards the tales that shadows keep.

It’s seen the blood, the silent screams,
The broken hearts, the shattered dreams,
A witness to the cruel despise,
To unseen tears and muffled cries.

The river flows with steady grace,
A mirror to a world’s disgrace,
It holds the truth in silent waves,
A keeper of forgotten graves.

In moonlight’s glow, it softly sighs,
Bearing witness to the lies,
In every ripple, every bend,
It carries sorrows to the end.

Through dawns of hope and nights of pain,
The river flows, the same refrain,
A silent watch through ages long,
A mournful, timeless, endless song.

And as it winds through fields and stone,
The river knows, yet stands alone,
A silent witness, ever still,
To darkness wrought by human will.

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Tender Shadows

Rinn Skyborn — Thu, 29 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

I am stuck inside this heart-shaped box
And even though the key is just beyond my reach,
Its tender warmth and light, they call to me,
A sanctuary, where my soul would be.

I see the shadows of my past in there,
The echoes of a love so pure, so rare.
Yet now I stand on the outside, apart,
With longing deep within my aching heart.

But hope still lingers in this aching chest,
A silent whisper urging me to quest.
For even though the box is closed so tight,
I'll find a way to reach its gentle light.
And when I do, the darkness will subside,
I'll nestle close, with love and light inside.
This heart-shaped box will no longer confine,
For it will open, and its warmth will be mine.

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Shadowed Heart

Rinn Skyborn — Tue, 27 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

In the shadowed heart of an ancient forest, where jagged mountains clawed at the sky like the fingers of forgotten gods, a coven of witches clung to their fragile existence. The air was thick with perpetual mist, veiling secrets that festered like untreated wounds. They were no benevolent sisterhood; their magic was a double-edged blade, woven from the raw veins of the earth and the whispered curses of the void. They healed the afflicted only to bind them in subtle debts, protected the innocent to harvest their gratitude as fuel for darker rites, and spread what they called "light"~ a flickering illusion that masked the encroaching gloom of their true ambitions. Whispers of betrayal lingered in the wind, and every spell cast carried the risk of summoning something unbidden from the depths.

Among them lurked Stormy, a witch forged in the crucible of a cursed bloodline. Generations of sorceresses had passed down their fury, each more volatile than the last, until it culminated in her: a tempest incarnate. She commanded the elements with a savage grace~summoning gales that could strip flesh from bone or drawing forth cosmic energies that left her veins blackened and her mind fractured. Her soul was a perpetual storm, raging against the confines of her flesh, threatening to unravel everything in its path. Lately, the chaos within her had grown restless, as if sensing an approaching cataclysm she could neither name nor control.

Then there was Victa, the broken wanderer they had dragged from the brink. She had stumbled into their domain, bloodied and wild-eyed, fleeing a captor whose name she dared not utter~a man who had claimed her as his prize, slaughtering her wife in a ritual of possession that still echoed in her nightmares.

The coven had found her collapsed at the forest's edge, her body a map of bruises and scars, her spirit a shattered vessel. They nursed her in their crumbling cottage, not out of kindness, but curiosity~what secrets might this outsider yield? Victa healed slowly, her days blurred by potions that dulled the pain but amplified the shadows in her mind. Sleep brought no respite; her dreams were haunted by a dark silhouette, always one step behind, his breath hot on her neck.

At first, the two women existed as ghosts in each other's periphery. Stormy prowled the coven's edges, her presence a crackle of unrest that made the others flinch. Her powers were too feral, too unpredictable; spells cast in her vicinity twisted into chaos, mirrors shattering without touch, flames leaping hungrily toward flesh. Victa, meanwhile, huddled in isolation, her nights tormented by visions of her wife's final screams, the captor's blade gleaming under a blood moon. She spoke to no one, her eyes hollow pits where trust had died. But in the silence, paranoia took root~ footsteps in the underbrush that might be imagined, eyes watching from the treeline that vanished when she turned.

Isolation breeds strange alliances, yet it also sows seeds of doubt. One fog-choked dawn, as the forest whispered warnings through rustling leaves~warnings that sounded like distant laughter~Stormy found Victa attempting a simple ward spell by the stream. The newcomer's hands trembled, her incantation faltering, and a backlash of energy lashed out, scorching the earth and drawing a low, ominous rumble from the sky. Stormy intervened without a word, her own magic surging like a thunderclap to stabilize the flow. Their eyes met~ Stormy's gray as storm clouds, Victa's dark as abyss~and something ignited, a spark in the void. But even then, a chill lingered; was this connection a lifeline or a lure?

As moons waxed and waned, their paths intertwined, each meeting laced with an undercurrent of unease. Stormy was drawn to Victa's silent fortitude, the way she endured her fractures without crumbling, yet she couldn't shake the feeling that Victa's gaze held hidden depths, secrets buried like landmines. Victa, in turn, was mesmerized by Stormy's primal force, a raw vitality that pierced her numbness, but it terrified her too~how long before that storm turned inward? They began collaborating on rituals in the coven's hidden glades, where moonlight filtered through skeletal branches like accusing fingers. Their magics merged~Stormy's wild torrent tempered by Victa's precise, vengeful focus~creating spells of unnerving potency. Rivers of energy flowed between them, binding their essences in ways that felt both exhilarating and perilous, as if each union pulled them closer to an unseen edge.

Their bond deepened into something forbidden, a shared hunger that transcended deeper than any either knew, but it came at a cost. Whispers in the night grew louder, shadows in the cottage seemed to shift of their own accord. They ventured beyond the forest's veil, to forsaken villages where despair festered like rot. There, they dispensed "justice": healing the dying only to curse their tormentors with afflictions that mimicked slow poison~limbs withering, minds unraveling in endless loops of guilt. But whispers followed them. Villagers spoke of shadows that lingered after the witches departed, of dreams invaded by spectral figures demanding tribute. And always, Victa felt eyes on her back, a prickle that made her wonder if her past had truly been left behind.

Not all in the coven approved; the dissent simmered like a cauldron on the verge of boiling over. The elders, withered crones with eyes like polished obsidian, watched with mounting dread, their murmurs evolving into veiled threats. "Unnatural," they hissed in the firelight, "a perversion that invites the old horrors back." Rumors swelled like storm clouds: Stormy's lineage was tainted by an ancient betrayal, her power a gateway to entities that hungered for mortal souls. Victa's past, they claimed, was no mere escape~perhaps she had summoned her captor herself, or worse, carried his mark like a hidden plague. Disapproving glares turned to sabotage: potions tampered with, wards weakened, shadows that seemed to slither with intent. One night, Stormy awoke to find a dagger etched with binding runes under her pillow, its blade still warm.

Yet the threats only pushed Stormy and Victa closer, their intimacy a defiant flame in the gathering dark~or so they told themselves. They sought refuge in each other's embrace amid the forest's deepest thickets, where thorns drew blood as payment for secrecy, and every rustle could be an eavesdropper. Stormy's touch was electric, sending jolts through Victa's scars, awakening desires long buried under grief, but it left burns that lingered. Victa's whispers soothed Stormy's inner gale, grounding her before the chaos consumed them both, yet they carried an edge, as if laced with unspoken fears. Together, they felt unbreakable, a symbiotic force that could defy even the coven's veiled malice. But doubt crept in like fog: Was this love, or a spell neither had cast?

The past is a relentless hunter, and it struck without mercy. One rain-lashed evening, as thunder echoed the turmoil in Stormy's soul, a stranger breached the forest's wards. He moved like smoke, his form cloaked in illusions that fooled the sentinels, but his aura reeked of old blood and obsession. Victa recognized him instantly~her captor, the murderer who had stolen her world. He had tracked her across realms, driven by a madness that warped reality itself. Whispers from the elders reached her ears: perhaps they had let him in, seeing him as a tool to sever the "unnatural" bond. Or worse~had they summoned him?

Panic clawed at Victa's throat as the coven assembled in the cottage's flickering hall, the air heavy with the scent of impending doom. Stormy stood defiant, her hair whipping in an unfelt wind, eyes blazing with fury, but her hands trembled faintly, betraying the storm's instability.

"He comes for me," Victa confessed, her voice a ragged whisper, glancing over her shoulder as if he might materialize from the shadows. "And he'll burn everything to claim what's left." The words hung in the air, punctuated by a distant howl that might have been wind—or something hunting.

The elders feigned concern, but their smiles were knives, their eyes gleaming with calculation.

"Sacrifice the outsider," one croaked, her voice like gravel underfoot, "and preserve the coven."

Dissent rippled—some sisters sided with the pair, others with tradition's iron grip. Chaos erupted: spells clashed in bursts of shadow and lightning, the air thick with ozone and blood. A bolt of errant magic struck a sister down, her scream echoing as her body crumpled, eyes wide in eternal surprise.

Stormy and Victa fled into the night, the forest a labyrinth of betrayal. Branches lashed like whips, roots snared their feet, as if the woods itself conspired against them, awakened by the elders' malice. Behind, the captor's laughter echoed, mingled with the elders' chants~a ritual to bind or destroy, growing louder with each step. Stormy's power surged uncontrollably, summoning gales that uprooted trees, but each outburst drained her, cracks forming in her sanity, visions of cosmic voids flashing before her eyes. Victa glanced back, catching glimpses of pursuers~silhouettes that melted into darkness, only to reappear closer.

They reached a starlit clearing, the same where their bond had first deepened, now a stage for potential slaughter. Stormy collapsed to her knees, grasping Victa's hand, her voice a tremor amid the howling wind.

"I love you," she rasped, blood trickling from her lips as her magic rebelled, the ground trembling beneath them. "But this storm... it will devour us both if we don't end it." Her eyes searched Victa's, pleading for an anchor in the madness.

Victa's eyes, wet with tears and resolve, locked onto hers, but fear flickered there too~a shadow of doubt.

"I love you too," she replied, fierce as a blade, her grip tightening as thunder cracked overhead. "We'll face it together~or drag them all into the abyss." But even as she spoke, a twig snapped nearby, too deliberate to be chance.

As the pursuers closed in, shadows lengthening like nooses, the women channeled their entwined magic one final time. The air hummed with dread, the ground quaking as ancient forces awakened, the sky splitting with unnatural lightning. Love, in this twisted tapestry, was no beacon~it was a weapon, sharp and unforgiving, ready to carve through the darkness or be consumed by it. The captor's form emerged from the treeline, his grin a slash of white in the gloom, elders flanking him like vengeful wraiths. The storm broke, and the forest screamed.

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Rainbows 🌈

Rinn Skyborn — Sat, 24 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

In the sky, a rainbow arcs so high,
A bridge of colors, spanning wide,
From crimson's blush to violet's sigh,
In balance, all hues there reside.

Each shade a note in nature's song,
A spectrum where no shade is wrong,
In harmony, they all belong,
Together, they are vibrant, strong.

The red of dawn, the blue of night,
The green of fields, the golden light,
In rainbows, balance shines so bright,
A tapestry of pure delight.

From storm to calm, from dark to day,
A rainbow whispers, come what may,
In all things, balance will hold sway,
A promise in the skies’ array.

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Canada's Sasquatch

Rinn Skyborn — Fri, 23 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Legend has it that deep within the dense wilderness, hidden from prying eyes, lives a being unlike any other. Standing tall and mighty, with shaggy fur covering its immense frame, Sasquatch is a creature of myth and mystery.
In the heart of the night, when the moon hangs low and the forest is shrouded in darkness, Sasquatch appears from its hidden sanctuary. With silent steps, it roams through the ancient woods, its presence known only by the rustle of leaves and distant sound of branches snapping underfoot.
Those fortunate enough to catch a glimpse of Sasquatch speak of its towering stature and powerful presence. Its eyes, said to gleam with a wisdom beyond our understanding, peer out from the depths of the forest, watching, waiting as if guarding some ancient secret.
But Sasquatch is not a creature of malice; no, it is a gentle giant, a guardian of the wilderness, living in harmony with nature. It wanders the forests of Canada, its footsteps echoing through the ages, a reminder of the untamed beauty hidden.
Countless tales have been told of encounters with Sasquatch, whispered around campfires passed down through generations. Though some may dismiss these stories as mere fantasy, those who have felt the earth tremble beneath Sasquatches feet know the truth – they have glimpsed the magic that dwells within the heart of the wilderness.
So, as you venture into the great unknown, remember to tread lightly, and respect the land, for you never know what mysteries await in the depths of the forest. And who knows, one day you too will have the privilege of meeting the legendary Sasquatch, a creature of myth and legend, roaming the wilds of Canada for all eternity, long before us and long after.

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Call of the damned sneak peak

Rinn Skyborn — Tue, 20 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

I invite you to take a glimpse at my upcoming book, Call Of The Damned, which is currently in the works, coming in 2026

"At first, it had been easy to believe the fires would never reach us. The first victims were human women ~ midwives, herbalists, wives who spoke too freely of things their husbands did not understand. Settlers dragged them from their cabins in the dead of night, accused them of witchcraft, and bound them to the stake."

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