#raiden writez

I can still recall the first time I saw a wolly bear. I was walking around the trail at my school, and there, on the ground, was the the small caterpillar— brown in some parts and black in others. I quickly got my teacher and pointed to the creature, asking with wide eyes, "What is that?"

She looked, smiled, and laughed before picking the wolly bear up, "It's a wolly worm," she said, holding it for me to see, "Some people think it predicts the winter weather."

I beamed excitedly at the small crature, "Is it magic?"

"Maybe," my teacher simply shrugged, "But it's delicate, so we should move it off the path."

A few weeks later, we were in class learning about caterpillars. I excitedly told my friend about magical wolly worms with their weather abilites. The brown means easy winter, while the black means lots of snow.

I then looked at my teacher and raised my hand, "What kind of butterflies to wolly worms become?"

"They don't become butterflies," my teacher smiled, "they become moths. Isabella Tiger Moths, to be exact."

That day at recess, my friend and I walked the trails. We searched for these wolly bears, making sure they didn't get squished by any running children.

Time trailed on, autumn left with the trees decaying leaves. As winter came and the snow fell, I wondered if the wolly bears had been accurate. Every fall after that, I moved wolly bears of the path at school.

Three autumns later, my cousin and I went on a walk together. This was out first time going alone. As we went, we counted the wolly bears we picked up. One became five, which became eight, which became twelve.

We compared the amounts of fuzz color on them as we moved them safely out of harms way. We wondered what the upcoming winter would be like.

Just as we reached my yard, we found one last caterpillar inching across the road. We moved it the rest of the way into the grass, noticing it was mostly black. That wolly worm was right. We didn't see each other for three months that winter because of how bad the weather was.

When I was twelve, I ran cross country. One day, before a race, a girl on my team was saying how her foot hurt. It turns out a wolly bear had been pushed into her sock when she was walking through the leaves.

I didn't feel much sympathy for the girl's foot. Instead, I felt sorry for the wolly worm. I tried to imagine it's final moments, panicked and in fear— trapped. Unable to free itself from it's cruel fate.

That autumn, walking the road by my house, I noticed just how many smashed wolly bears there were. I wondered why God would be so cruel to such defenseless creatures. If He put them all on Earth, why did He not protect them?

Time went on, the Earth kept spinning. Autumn after autumn passed me by without second thought. I stopped searching for joy in the world, even in the wolly bears.

Why try when I can't actually save them? Everyone thinks butterflies are better than moths, anyways.

Years kept going by. One day, sitting on the porch, a small voice piped up, "Mama, what is that?"

I looked down at the five-year-old, seeing the small caterpillar moving across the wood. A creature I hadn't thought of in years. "That's a wolly bear."

"Is it poison?" She asked, nose wrinkling.

I smile, "No. They're not poisonous," I crouch and pick the wolly worm up, "Completely safe."

I let her move the delicate wolly bear to safety, watching the smile on her face. I can't help but wonder how many I've run over in the years of driving I've had.

Today, I walked to her school with her. She's eight now, and it's not a far walk— I'm not ready to let her go alone yet. Maybe when she's older. Perhaps twelve.

We count the wolly bears inching across the sidewalk as leaves crunch, careful not to squish any like running children. One became five, which became eight, which becomes twelve, until eventually— "I'll get it, Mom!"

I watch as she lifts a wolly worm from the road to the other edge of the sidewalk, along the grass.

Such a small, innocent creature. Just a defenseless baby. It makes me realize why I resonated with them. Maybe, if someone would've scooped me away from danger when I was small, it'd be easier. I feel tears pulling at the corner of my eyes, and I try to blink them back.

Hi! I'm Raiden [they/them]

I'm a teenage author who's trying to write a successful fantasy book [or maybe series? Not sure yet]

I'm trans nonbinary, queer, and also disabled

I'm a high school student from the USA

Putting this out there right off the bat: fuck trump, fuck ICE, free Palestine, fuck ai, all that stuff. I probably wont post much about that since this is a writing blog, but I may reblog things related to it sometimes.

My tags!

#raiden writez— posts that include my writing

#raiden reblogs— posts that I reblog

#writing resources— posts with resources for writing

#non writing related— posts unrelated to writing

#raiden answers— answering any asks I get

#raiden rambles— posts with me yapping