Autumn Stew
Bio
Words for the ones who survived the fire and stayed to name the ashes.
Where grief becomes ritual and language becomes light.
Survival is just the beginning.
Achievements (15)
Stories (62)
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A Map of Silence
The map begins with a door no one will open again. They told me where the room sat in the world: second floor, west-facing, a window that insisted on being bright. The coordinates don't help. A map is supposed to offer orientation; this one is inaugurated in pain and vertigo. The metal on the bedside glints like a semi-colon in a sentence that won't resolve. The air remembers her perfume, but it's been poisoned by the scent of copper and decomposition. Her wrist held to the bedframe created the peak of the mountain of our pain, frozen in place by the glittering cuff that pretends to be a cliffside.
By Autumn Stew2 months ago in Humans
Fiction as Fast Fashion
Once upon a time, self-publishing was a wonderland. It was the promise that anyone who had a story could bring it to light. The dream was to wrench open the gates that were slammed shut by publishers. It was meant to give voice to those who were deemed “not enough” by the literary elites, not because of the quality of their voice and their writing, but because of their circumstances.
By Autumn Stew2 months ago in Humans
Etsy Used to Be Magic. Now It’s a Failing Mall.
There was a time when Etsy felt like magic. It was the golden era of the handmade internet: the digital farmer’s market that honored the village markets of old, where artisans could finally make a living doing what they loved. Every listing felt personal. Every product had a story. You could scroll through the site or app, and find hundreds of items that were truly unique. It was once a space where the imagination was made tangible.
By Autumn Stew3 months ago in Psyche
Capitalism Ate the Internet (and I'm Still Hungry). Top Story - October 2025.
The internet used to be stupid in the best way. We spent hours playing free minigames on sites that would give modern cybersecurity experts night terrors, their sleep paralysis demon in the corner asking, “What’s ‘Taters’, eh?”. (Boil ’em, mash ’em, stick ’em in a stew!) We watched pure stupidity to the tune of Charlie the Unicorn and Salad Fingers and Old Gregg. We thought we’d achieved the heights of comedy. And in some ways, we had.
By Autumn Stew3 months ago in The Swamp
