Words are my weapon. Grief is my ink.
I write fantasy born of ashes, love that defies gods, and characters who bleed beautifully. If you’re here for pretty prose and messy people trying to do good—
Welcome home.
Dean Foxxe writes emotionally-driven fantasy full of queerness, grief, and quiet defiance. Currently querying their debut and wrangling three other works-in-progress like a feral bard with ADHD.
She was made to be a symbol. She chose to be a problem
The gods gave him a relic. He gave them soup. Now there's a goat cult.
(Flash Fiction) He loved her too much to let her die, and too little to let her be.
(Flash Fiction) We travel by probability. We die by certainty
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