Noel Jones is creating short stories, poems, drawings
3

patrons

$6
per creation
I'm Noel, a nonbinary writer who uses they/them pronouns.
I've been writing since i was five, but since I recently was unable to pay rent (and now tuition for school) I decided to open up commissions and ask for monetary support in exchange for my writing!
My favorite thing to write is short, strange, speculative fiction, heavy on description, short on dialogue. However, I am more than willing to experiment with genres and styles.
Writing samples
prose:
"The walls of this classroom are fresh steamed cream a boiled off glare they acquire in high exposure flashbulb fluorescent light. A no-nonsense black bob lectures me on dreams, that they are a conglomeration of impressions on grey matter, engraving by dwelling. Merely that. So you did this to yourself, her rose feathered lips do not say. Try not to believe them. The voice, clipped wings, does.
A no is not as strong as tanned and maggot scarred knucklebones. The word is as weak as the skin of my thighs burnt to bubble, bruised a mandala of crimson and violets. Symmetric and painful where it opened to God; the universe crammed in his grip.
She tells me I must have been thinking of this to have dreamed it. I regret coming to class. The sensation blooms from soft loam in my chest, the creases of white petals tinged with rosy nostalgia. I chew over its fibrous leaves, wonder if it has thorns.
He is dream stuff, rears his head. Caught by his horns I am pulled into the mire once more. Knuckles crept past my thighs. His forked tongue flicks my ear, hisses the nonsense of damned hordes. I turn my head away. Coils constrict my limbs, we are so near. His touch is snake’s scales over desert, abrasive and scalding, winding sideways toward sin Eve garners guilt for. A no is an unheard prayer.
Light fans to hide hieroglyphs on the wall, cooling the paint and stone cobalt. A pixie scrambled above a scattered face consoles me that my dream was a psychosis caught by hooks of trauma in my thought. The chapped pale lips say nothing, she just listens, but I know she is thinking the nightmares are my fault. The shadows edging the lamplight do. I regret coming to her. She scribbles night terrors into her notes and I ponder my lungs and diaphragm, a bloomed garden barely fenced in, the attendant gardeners have not clipped the thorns; weeping wounds in my stomach and between my ribs do not let me forget.
At night he becomes horror and not the dewy look of dreams. His mousy curls crunch against my cheekbones, I can count each strand as infinite as stars in the sky by the rasping feel of them. His breath comes quick but mine is frozen in my throat. A no is a shelf of ice, melted by the heat of his skin. To mark victory he razes the hanging gardens he won in conquest. My stomach is cinders. There is writing on the wall scalded in God’s hand: Mene, he pants. Mene, tekel- you are so small and your words are nothing. Violated, found wanting. Upharsin. A no is an uneven scale. My body is the bad dream of a fallen empire.
The morning comes to wake me and I lie still in bed. The shapes have left the walls, the paint bleached grey. No one is here but the briars of sleep still pricked in my skin a nettle rash dream that will itch all day and not leave me be. The Bible will blame you for the downfall you brought about by flouting God. The shock of cold from the floor to my bare feet spares the memory of heat. In the shower, head engulfed in flood waters, evaporating at contact with a bonfire of old dreams and blame kindling built up for years, but the water let a new flower sprout and wind around my ribs. Twin leaves, green as spring, timorous and trembling around my brittle bones."

poetry:
Insomnia- Tranquility

They give dreams to the sleeping.
not the collaborative dust
lying graceless in bed.

I silently disintegrate at night.
a duvet of dew poked stars
pulled around my shoulders.

My clavicles are bearing the sky.
but I hold the burden still
and quiet but for whistled breath.

I wish for dreams on eyelashes.
when they fall, color turned
resting feather-light on my cheek.

If I sleep and wake it is from
wisps and tinted vapors
not a thing to hold in a grasp.

Tiers
Friendo
$1 or more per creation 2 patrons
  • Access to patron-only content
  • Sneak peek of upcoming releases
  • Patron-only polls
Also Friendo
$5 or more per creation 0 patrons
  • commissioned poem, if details are messaged to me
  • Plus all previous rewards
Sweet sweet friendos!
$10 or more per creation 0 patrons
commissioned short story, again if details are messaged to me
Goals
$6 of $250 per creation
This is the level at which I will be able to pay my tuition, and will probably have free time to start writing and recorded either a science podcast with my partner, or potentially a fiction one!
1 of 1
I'm Noel, a nonbinary writer who uses they/them pronouns.
I've been writing since i was five, but since I recently was unable to pay rent (and now tuition for school) I decided to open up commissions and ask for monetary support in exchange for my writing!
My favorite thing to write is short, strange, speculative fiction, heavy on description, short on dialogue. However, I am more than willing to experiment with genres and styles.
Writing samples
prose:
"The walls of this classroom are fresh steamed cream a boiled off glare they acquire in high exposure flashbulb fluorescent light. A no-nonsense black bob lectures me on dreams, that they are a conglomeration of impressions on grey matter, engraving by dwelling. Merely that. So you did this to yourself, her rose feathered lips do not say. Try not to believe them. The voice, clipped wings, does.
A no is not as strong as tanned and maggot scarred knucklebones. The word is as weak as the skin of my thighs burnt to bubble, bruised a mandala of crimson and violets. Symmetric and painful where it opened to God; the universe crammed in his grip.
She tells me I must have been thinking of this to have dreamed it. I regret coming to class. The sensation blooms from soft loam in my chest, the creases of white petals tinged with rosy nostalgia. I chew over its fibrous leaves, wonder if it has thorns.
He is dream stuff, rears his head. Caught by his horns I am pulled into the mire once more. Knuckles crept past my thighs. His forked tongue flicks my ear, hisses the nonsense of damned hordes. I turn my head away. Coils constrict my limbs, we are so near. His touch is snake’s scales over desert, abrasive and scalding, winding sideways toward sin Eve garners guilt for. A no is an unheard prayer.
Light fans to hide hieroglyphs on the wall, cooling the paint and stone cobalt. A pixie scrambled above a scattered face consoles me that my dream was a psychosis caught by hooks of trauma in my thought. The chapped pale lips say nothing, she just listens, but I know she is thinking the nightmares are my fault. The shadows edging the lamplight do. I regret coming to her. She scribbles night terrors into her notes and I ponder my lungs and diaphragm, a bloomed garden barely fenced in, the attendant gardeners have not clipped the thorns; weeping wounds in my stomach and between my ribs do not let me forget.
At night he becomes horror and not the dewy look of dreams. His mousy curls crunch against my cheekbones, I can count each strand as infinite as stars in the sky by the rasping feel of them. His breath comes quick but mine is frozen in my throat. A no is a shelf of ice, melted by the heat of his skin. To mark victory he razes the hanging gardens he won in conquest. My stomach is cinders. There is writing on the wall scalded in God’s hand: Mene, he pants. Mene, tekel- you are so small and your words are nothing. Violated, found wanting. Upharsin. A no is an uneven scale. My body is the bad dream of a fallen empire.
The morning comes to wake me and I lie still in bed. The shapes have left the walls, the paint bleached grey. No one is here but the briars of sleep still pricked in my skin a nettle rash dream that will itch all day and not leave me be. The Bible will blame you for the downfall you brought about by flouting God. The shock of cold from the floor to my bare feet spares the memory of heat. In the shower, head engulfed in flood waters, evaporating at contact with a bonfire of old dreams and blame kindling built up for years, but the water let a new flower sprout and wind around my ribs. Twin leaves, green as spring, timorous and trembling around my brittle bones."

poetry:
Insomnia- Tranquility

They give dreams to the sleeping.
not the collaborative dust
lying graceless in bed.

I silently disintegrate at night.
a duvet of dew poked stars
pulled around my shoulders.

My clavicles are bearing the sky.
but I hold the burden still
and quiet but for whistled breath.

I wish for dreams on eyelashes.
when they fall, color turned
resting feather-light on my cheek.

If I sleep and wake it is from
wisps and tinted vapors
not a thing to hold in a grasp.

Recent posts by Noel Jones

Tiers
Friendo
$1 or more per creation 2 patrons
  • Access to patron-only content
  • Sneak peek of upcoming releases
  • Patron-only polls
Also Friendo
$5 or more per creation 0 patrons
  • commissioned poem, if details are messaged to me
  • Plus all previous rewards
Sweet sweet friendos!
$10 or more per creation 0 patrons
commissioned short story, again if details are messaged to me