Warming Up for My Art World Takeover “Welcome to my messy little brain” Cheyanne Cheney Portfolio
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Warming Up for My Art World Takeover “Welcome to my messy little brain” Cheyanne Cheney Portfolio Entry October 29 2025 6:39pm hi!, ...
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https://youtu.be/CTKYfW_uJBM?si=KStw-V2440yAAH93 what she said is actually insanely accurate to how animation actually works: like yeah, you...
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ECLOGUE Before She Was the Soul By Cheyanne Cheney Slipping in and out of bodies Before the psst at midnight, Meridiana drifted through Rom...
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thank You thank You thank You last year when the seizure hit so hard i thought that was it, lights out forever, You pulled me ba...
Wednesday, December 31, 2025
10:30Am new years eve
Thursday, December 25, 2025
Preface
Preface
Between 70 BC and 19 BC,
in an age of many gods and restless empires, there lived a girl whose name meant midday horizon.
Horizon Meridiana was raised beneath the open sky of the Roman countryside, where sunlight ruled the fields at noon and rain was welcomed like an unspoken promise. Her world was simple: animals to tend, vines to climb, soil beneath her hands. Yet something unseen moved quietly alongside her days.
In the hush between olive trees and grapevines, she prayed without having been taught how, and she listened without knowing what she listened for.
This is her story.
Wednesday, December 24, 2025
ECLOGUE Before She Was the Soul By Cheyanne Cheney This is an updated iteration of a previous draft. I modified the name to align more closely with my character and the narrative universe. The essence remains unchanged only the form has evolved. ~Cheyanne Denise Cheney
ECLOGUE Before She Was the Soul By Cheyanne Cheney
Slipping in and out of bodies Before the psst at midnight, Meridiana drifted through Rome like any other shade. The city was alive. Marble gleamed, markets buzzed, prayers burned on every stupid altar, but she walked unseen.
At first, the whispers were harmless. Priests murmuring in temples. Poets reciting in taverns. Meridiana, like smoke at the edges of torchlight, not fully there, not fully gone, but you remembered the sound. A low psst. The whispers didn't scare. They changed. She was less a ghost. More a parasite of destiny. Every time she passed, fate burned, history fractured. The cryptic hunters of Rome priests, figures, even poets, tried to trap her in a verse or cage her in rituals. None succeeded. A soft, sensitive little angel with a heart made of delicate glass. Yet every time prayer cracked deeper, she kneeled before the altar, trembling, not from purity but from the weight of a gaze she could not escape. She wept, not with sorrow, but with hunger. No hymn could cleanse her. Her glass heart rang a holy sound, a curse in disguise. Dive. Watching.
Watching. Breathing. The crucifix waiting for her to kneel lower. I don't know.
But the soul slips. And keeps slipping out of my body. So here I am, writing this. Visions. No hero sails. No city is born. The seas churn not with prophecy but with screams. Aeneas, hollow eyed, wanders through broken temples.
Statues of gods bleed tar. They mock him. They never breathed existence. The Sibyl's cave is deeper now, you idiot. Not a passage to Hades. Torches don't light. Fate does not build Rome. It builds nothing. It builds nothing. The Sibyl's voice cracks. She's mid-incarnation. The bone walls of Hades drip blood. When suddenly, silence.