#smallstory — Public Fediverse posts

#WordWeavers 2026.08.16 — If one of your characters could ask you a question, what would they ask?

What's that three-eyed metallic orange slab you keep on taking out of your pocket to look at the glowy side?

How do you explain an iPhone to someone from an advanced culture that doesn't have or need electricity?

[Author retains copyright (c)2026 R.S.]

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#PennedPossibilities 1099: SC POV: Describe the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.

[Steamed Milk and Sugar aka Shugh:]

I never thought about it, but there are plenty of times I've taken a break on the first floor. There are broad windows to the street where you can see the newspaper printing presses rolling. Now employed here, I can watch from the inside the press room so long as I stay behind the yellow lines. That thunderous rumble! It's amazing. Dynamic. Alive. Mixed with the shouts of the technician managing the paper and the daemons powering the steel beast. The energy defines my dream of becoming a journalist that's slowing coming true. I had thought, in the beginning, that the sounds of dozens of reporters at their typewriters banging away the next edition was it, but no. This is better. The whir for the paper through the rollers. The smell of the ink…

[Author retains copyright (c)2026 R.S.]

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#WordWeavers 2026.08.13 — What's the most unexpected source of inspiration you've ever had?

For me, likely all the writing hashtag games (and response thereto). Social media, even Facebook which I rage force quit 3-4 years back, was never my thing, so what I found when a friend convinced me to try Mastodon was surprising. Not only do hashtag games keep me writing daily through dry as well as wet spells, one is responsible for me writing at all the novella Mars Needed Women, still in beta editing. Many are the times of the week that I discover something about characters or the world they live in by answering prompts, and recently I've been writing bits of chapters or tiny side stories.

Search from:sfwrtr #excerpt)

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#PennedPossibilities 1096: MC POV: When was the last time you got lost?

Kinda hard when you have these babies since I can fly anywhere above the city. [Bolt flexes her blue-feathered wings, inadvertently knocking a box off a high shelf in her teeny-tiny aerie apartment.] Anyway… When? Probably taking the metro midcity where it's all underground, but I only take it when my companion can't fly cross town with me. When he gets lost… [Scratches the back of her neck, glancing away with a sheepish grin.]

[Author retains copyright (c)2026 R.S.]

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#ScribesAndMakers »2026.08.09 — Have you ever switched perspective (1st, 2nd, 3rd person, 3rd close, cinematic, etc) mid-chapter/story? Was it successful in your opinion?

My biggest headache as a 3rd person close POV author was keeping truly solely in the character's perspective. C.J. Cherryh is the master of this. I failed way too often. I switched to 1st person. It limits the perspective identically, comes with a built-in narrator, includes superior error-checking, and is familiar as this is how we naturally tell stories about our experiences. I rarely fall out of POV these days.

[Author retains copyright (c)2026 R.S.]

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#PennedPossibilities 1094: Saturday Word Edition: Share something from your WIP pertaining to the word “sorrow.” (For @thatwriterellie.)

Maybe if I write how the chapter will end, I'll finally write the rest of the stalled chapter! 🤞Here goes! The POV, Bolt, is a day angel, a human with wings. Warning: 1st draft. #excerpt

We watched the daemon float Molt's last box of books into the baggage compartment of the train in silence, me helping prop Molt up as he was still groggy from having his broken arm mended.

Companionable? Was silence that? Unsaid words felt awkward.

I flipped the porter a silver as my departing neighbor had been so desperate to leave town he hadn't thought of the coin necessary for fare let alone crate space. Another sign he wasn't thinking. He'd been assaulted. Arm broken. Covered in purpling bruises. I imagined not safe repeating over and over in his head.

He reached and wiped a tear from my cheek. Green eyes met mine as he said, "Not your fault," refuting my worry of having earned his hate and resentment.

He was a good man making a mistake. "You're giving up a scholarship—"

"And a friend." He coughed, looked away, maybe afraid of also losing his resolve. "Friends at school, and a neighbor who taught me to apply theory to real life. But…"

"…you must." The toot of train whistle stopped me from begging again, as did the hiss of steam.

He said firmly, "I must… Bolt?"

I was gazing reflexively at a passenger car not him, unaccustomed to my emotion flooding out toward a man. When I looked, he immediately held my chin with his good hand and swiftly kissed me, deeply, like that first time when we'd both given into the fever we felt.

Another toot. A bell, clang-clang-clang.

He said, "You've got to quit that job or run away from whatever crazy you've got yourself messed up with… before it kills you."

My mouth, lips still moist, dropped open as he rushed to the boarding steps where a conductor who I'd earlier discreetly given coin reached and helped him climb, shoes clanking on steel once, twice, thrice.

I didn't see him through the windows. I blinked too much, and it was blurry so not happening, before I stumbled turning away, thumping a few times before realizing I could glide away. I fled the length of the wood platform, not looking back, soon out of sight, breathing hard.

I had been blackmailed to work for the mob. I'd kept that secret. Details, at least.

Today hadn't gone as I'd hoped. Soon silver-sided aerodynamic cars accelerated and whizzed by. Arrow trains lived up to their name. Where I squatted atop the roof of the station, the trailing red lights were lost half a league away in the time I could have held my breath, were I not sobbing.

When I finally found the strength to fly, I flew swiftly home, exhausted already lightheaded from lack of sleep. Nearly a day had passed since I'd returned home anticipating his happy smiles. Now, when I entered my aerie, the first thing I saw was shiny magical gift I'd bought, for him, for us to share, wrapped in green satin, scented with thyme oil, tied with red ribbon, laying on the floor under the desk where I'd tossed it hearing him injured.

I collapsed to my knees. A word popped into my mind from a dodecade ago. I might have previously applied it to myself. Erroneously. All the mistakes I'd made to get myself to Molt being assaulted. Me living blackmailed. That feeling of being inflicted. But. I realized. Then. I could not feel this word, this emotion, unless I could apply it also, at the same time, to another: That would be Molt and myself. I pounded a fist on my sternum.

Is this sorrow?

[Author retains copyright (c)2026 R.S.]

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#PennedPossibilities 1092½ #ImposterToot: Quality time! Your MC/MCs has a day off tomorrow; what do they do?

Bolt's Day Off

May be considered vaguely NSWF.

Bolt has far more time off than you'd expect; it's just not scheduled or reliable. She couriers anonymous sealed blue envelopes around town that display only an address—which makes her part of a criminal conspiracy even if she doesn't know if they contain orders to commit crimes, threats, or past due notices for protection rackets. She prides herself on her stealth and her "sneaky." Nobody has killed the messenger, yet.

Recently her street photography hobby has left her jangling with coin, so Bolt's Day Off will start after sleeping in with a spicy red fish stew ramen bowl at a rooftop day angel food court, then after a nice flight across the city, continue at her gym for a sweaty workout. Afterwards, she would spend midday at the bathhouse, paying a bath attendant for a good scrub to remove said sweat, then enjoying all the baths: cool, hot and sulfury, carbonated, mineralized, and salt, ending with the warm one with lapping waves. Drinking a cold fruit juice, she'd enjoy a good preen and oiling of her feathers—with an attendant, of course, hopefully a nice looking guy!—because when she has coin she knows to spend it before it's taken from her.

Since Shugh is always maniacally working at the newspaper and Molt is now no longer available, smelling of thyme oil she would fly to the Strand Association to see if she can find her friend Blue to spend the end of the day. She's realistic, though. As a newly hired praetorian, he's rarely free, and when released from duty for a few days, he always helps support the association he's lived in for years. He is something like, yet not like, what we might term a geisha; Bolt gets no discounts, sadly. Likely he's training or paid for this night, so she'd end Bolt's Day Off admiring the hunky scenery in the night club and dance casino part of the complex, if or until she finds someone who catches her eye.

[Author retains copyright (c)2026 R.S.]

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#WritersCoffeeClub #WCC 2026.08.05 — Share a small selection of something you wrote recently that you're proud of.

Wanna #excerpt? How's 'bout this? The antagonist, Pigeon the Pilferer, and the narrator, Bolt, are day angels. They have wings. Teri (short for Night Terror) is the mob's new enforcer.

I looked up, reflexively flaring my wings as she'd led us into a narrow alley, feeling claustrophobic, tapping feathers to the brick on either side, unable to fully extend. I let the two continue ahead. After two steps, the woman faced him.

Hands on her hips, Teri insisted, "You should apologize."

"What?"

"Apologize."

"Why?"

"Do you think Boss Idiot doesn't know? That he won't use it against you? Do it for team cohesion purposes, if for no other reason."

"Or you're going to tattle?" He sneered.

"Interesting diction there, tattle. Oh! Are you attempting to belittle me? No. That's right, you're a featherbrain. You lack the vocabulary to state that I might discuss your counterproductive behavior with your employer—"

He swung on her.

Her shoe splashed in the water running down the center of the alley as she sidestepped. Slightly. Enough. Her cloak rustled as knuckles whizzed by her shoulder. He swung twice more, then grabbed fruitlessly for hanging fabric.

The heel of her hand hit him square on his sternum. It stopped there, barely impacting. Enough that he coughed. Surprised for a heartbeat, he grabbed for her arm, but she plowed forward switching hands. He jerked his hand back. She leaned in, her face looming into his since she was that tall and he somewhat short for a man. He reflexively backpedaled. When he grabbed for her cloak, she jumped back.

"You're flapping me!" he shouted, charging, his wings flaring out.

They thwacked the alley walls like striking sticks.

That hurt.

His attack fell short as she backpedaled, not even looking back because she'd mentally mapped the alley. When he stopped, bewildered that his results didn't match what he'd thought was going to happen, she threw herself at him, caught his arm-shoulder and pulled him to her.

She kissed him…

[Author retains copyright (c)2026 R.S.]

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#PennedPossibilities 1091 — When not in person, how do people communicate? How has this method of communication affected the society in your world?

A little bit of deep background here, assembled thanks to this question, @floofpaldi, by examining the implications of what I've already written and deducing what might follow. Keep in mind that my day angel MC, Bolt, has wings and is a "private" air courier. Her dream, which was crushed, involved air freight delivery.

From the beginning, or at least since the Singularity, mail allowed people to communicate long distances as well as cross-town. Paper, the printing press, and books had to be re-invented, but that happened early on, well before Rainy Day's birth. (She's the main series antagonist.) Since roughly a third of the population has wings, cross-continental air mail during times of peace has been a thing since the beginning, with delivery within a week possible most anywhere in most eras (think Pony Express without need of horses). While I won't explain how, air delivery of freight exists, too. As a result, cities and regions on Home have never been completely insular or isolated—especially if you are born with wings because angelic humans can fly wherever they want whenever they want—though humans, being human, always find a way to be regional and distrustful.

In more recent times, railroads have increased communication and allowed populations to travel and intermingle. Stuff grown and manufactured soon found more distant markets. Though the civilization depicted in the Reluctance Series doesn't rely on electricity, they have had telegraphy for over five centuries—it developed with the railroads—which provides instant communication when needed and was pointed out as helping start and end a war in one story. Mail, communication, and population and information flow stabilized and enabled persistent laws and made mandatory education possible.

Surprisingly, with the advent of interstellar travel two centuries ago, it wasn't the exploration of new worlds or their colonization that benefited the world most. Instead, it benefited postal delivery. It became quickly obvious that the technology involved made the delivery of mail and small packages between major cities that have ports less expensive than rail. Freight still relies on rail service and lorries. Air mail is more important in more isolated areas, for rural delivery, and for suburban distribution.

[Author retains copyright (c)2026 R.S.]

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#PennedPossibilities 1087 — Friday Edition: In honor of a friend (@thatwriterellie), we’re using a word once per week. Write or share something from your WIP pertaining to: “struggle.”

In this newly revised #excerpt from Reluctant Moon, Streak, the MMC, has witnessed the leader of the world, Rainy Days, do the Solomon thing, having made a contentious judgement to place a child in an unexpected person's care, doing what others might think beneath her notice but she felt she must, and in the end it was one too many stressful decisions in this powerful woman's life. He's but a teenager, a potential university student, someone she was showing around. But he's male. He acts instinctively (for his society, anyway). Thorn Rose is the FMC and Streak's, the POV's, lover.

Were she Thorn Rose wound-up worrying, what would I do? I dropped my hands and before Rainy Days could take it as a signal to stand, I looped my arms under hers and crossed them over her upper chest, pulling her into a reverse hug, pressing myself against her back and fluffy furled wings, positioning my chin on her shoulder. This time I took a deep breath. She was substantial, a giant true enough, but womanly. Human.

She took a deep breath. Shuddered. Whispered: "You and Thorn remind me of Raven Caw and I back then. Centuries ago." Breathless. "What next? What should we do... next?"

I struggled for a moment, feeling in my arms for all appearances a young woman barely twenty-five, only a few years older than myself. I tried to push from my head the incomprehensible truth that she was actually ancient, a chimera of daemon, day angel, and nephil who ruled the entire world. A crown of ibex horns touched the top of my head behind my ear held against hers, feathers fluttered nervously beneath my arms, and fur above black hooves rubbed my shin as she squatted in my grasp—attributes that fought any semblance of normalcy, fought to negate that the skin I felt as I embraced her was any more than that of any other woman, as human as any other's, merely that of a woman in desperate need of centering. Much I could do if only I held perspective and tamped down on the overwhelm bubbling up.

And. Breathing slowly. With her… breathing slowly. I did. Hugging her still.

She reiterated, "Tell me."

The two words held no extra meaning. Not anger. Not sarcasm. Not a command. Men's Studies let me recognize surrender. She wanted me to transform her reality—from powerful to vulnerable—though we both understood well that I could not actually perform miracles.

"You consent?" I asked, asking The Question: The only thaumaturgy of which I was capable.

"Thorn Rose trusts you to carry her through the sky without dropping her, so... I shall, also."

Well. Reality did change. Mine. An unexpected sense of power grew thumping loudly in my chest: a fraction of her sovereignty abdicated temporarily to me, for my use as I chose, which she trusted me to borrow.

For how long? To what extent?

I had to wait for these questions to answer themselves because I knew one thing: I was just a man and we both knew what a man's purpose was.

I drew Her to stand and She did. Her whole body seemed relaxed. She had a tentative smile. What could I do? that smile asked. Even if I did nothing more, I knew her perspective had...

Shifted.

For instants maybe only heartbeats, she had not been, was not, in control; for her it screamed revelation, a relief, burdens flung off, leaden chains sundered…

Rainy Days is the main series antagonist, of course. What you think is about to happen will. Rather publicly, in fact.

[Author retains copyright (c)2026 R.S.]

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#WordWeavers 2026.07.20 — If your antagonist could improve one thing about themself, what would it be?

[Yes, I plan redemption arcs for my antagonists. Not saying they're easy to earn, or if they'll grow to deserve them.—R]

Improve himself? Learn how to make real friends, or figure out some way to do so. His current life as the goose that laid the golden egg is certainly comfortable, but lonely. His interlude with his courier (the woman MC of the story) made his loneliness worse because though she clearly hated him, she set that aside and demonstratively enjoyed having fun with him while remaining unerringly direct and open in their conversation, and now, that she's left, the house seems hollow. He knew what she felt. He's even thought of giving her all of the evidence he blackmailed her with, to see how she'd react, if maybe he could get her to join with him—but the syndicate that's made him its beating heart might react badly if she could freely leave if she chose to. His action might make her less safe, no, undoubtedly it would. He knows it's a bad idea. How can he make friends when he's as trapped by his own machinations as those he's trapped?

[Author retains copyright (c)2026 R.S.]

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#PennedPossibilities 1073 — MC POV: Tell us about a time when your heart raced, either for good or bad reasons.

Well, since I've become less prejudiced, not only do I have more men to choose from since I'm not as picky as to whether they are day angels or not (that is no longer requiring them to have wings), there's the devil-girl. She's both a daemon and not a guy. Her pointy rebar-like tiny horns are exotic, fascinating, challenging—dangerous in a cute way. I really wasn't trying to hook up with her, only to distract her for awhile, but I was being friendly and she interpreted that, well, unexpectedly, unexpectedly nicely, you know, and, well…, you know… racing heart, right? So, why not?

[Author retains copyright (c)2026 R.S.]

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#WordWeavers 2026.07.14 — What is the most unusual or interesting word in your WIP’s first sentence?

Okay. That turned out more interesting than I expected! (The italics are in the manuscript.)

What the flap!

It's the narrator's thoughts. The sentence is an interjection that launches an expletive. Neither "what" nor "the" are unusual or interesting, but "flap!" certainly is. The 1st person narrator and protagonist being introduced is a day angel (as versus a daemon, for example). She has wings. She has feathers. She can fly, and is very human. The expression has nothing to do with flight, though it is colloquial. The phrase itself can also be considered dialectal since only day angels (or people familiar their culture) typically use it. The etymology does not derive from plucking an arrow in a bow, yet I am the author and I will admit, though only occasionally an insult, it serves the same purse as that word in English phonically. It's also funny in context. Yes, it has a specific meaning for day angels, a happy double-meaning that is first and foremost what a person with wings does to fly. Secondarily, well, it's sexual. I mentioned they're humans, so not surprising, huh? It's something you can do to someone else if you have feathers. I won't say it, but, if you're still curious, google the word leaving out the L.

[Author retains copyright (c)2026 R.S.]

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#PennedPossibilities 1069 — MC POV: Do you have an end point or destination in mind for your journey? What will you do after you’ve reached it?

[Bolt, woman day angel:] Sometimes reality kicks me so badly that even I can turn philosophical instead of literal. I can't have what I want; I'm trapped in this life, controlled by others; I've got to let go of the dreams of teenage me, and accept the defeats of silly hopeful optimism, too. But that doesn't mean I have to surrender and die inside. I have my photography, though I have to take care what images I capture. I can still fly better than anyone, and that's what I do for the boss, isn't it? So I can soar. I still have men in my life I can't incidentally hurt. My journey is to remember what little good I find, to not forget and find myself too early at journey's end. Some dirt roads lead on forever, and walking them is alright.

[Author retains copyright (c)2026 R.S.]

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#WritersCoffeeClub #WCC 2026.06.25 —Share a passage you’ve written containing onomatopoeia.

This is from the fourth rewrite of the first chapter of Bolt's story, somewhat revised. I think it's a keeper. She's a day angel and, of course, has wings. Not only am I establishing her flight bona fides, but also that she's a credibly talented street photographer. It's a hobby supported by her criminal day job, both of which are about to give her heaps of trouble in the novel. There's going to be some noise…

#excerpt

A distant Boom! sounded, like a far away thunder clap. It thumped my stomach, a light punch very much unlike what I'd endured with knuckles recently, but I concentrated like a cat creeping up on a sparrow; I tracked the man as he jerked where he perched, turning his head towards the sound, lighting the caramel brown of his finger-length goat horns so the closest glowed like candy in contrast to his three-quarters silhouette. I flicked out a wing, set my stance, steadied the camera, and twisted my primaries vertical—to shade the lens from the out-of-frame blaze of day shine funneled down the street from the dawn to refract through the splattering tinkling spray of the fountain—ensuring the lens flare didn't ruin seeing the subject, only added atmosphere.

Click. Eyes caught widening.

Ratchet in the next plate.

Click. A frown as bushy black eyebrows collided.

Ratchet.

Click—as he turned to look at me, noting my predatory attention.

My face heated instantly.

Heart racing, before the daemon could yell out, maybe to object to my candid shots, forcing me legally to eject my cartridge of exposed silvered plates, I reflexively rotated away, wings spread full as I sprinted toward the park trees, thrusting myself into the sky with a minimum of downstrokes, necessarily sacrificing my usual stealth and fomenting the roar of a sudden squall blown in from the sea. I sloppily and barely cleared the rustling canopy in my fright, tearing away leaves to swirl in the eddies left behind me.

I practiced to keep from being noticed, to be the wood smoke smelled too late, fire beyond control; it helped in my profession. Barring stealth, I tried for looking too dangerous to touch with my glued hair spiked up, leather, and studs in my cheeks; it helped in my profession. My wings helped me fly fast, very fast; it— Well, you know.

Good shots, though! I grinned widely as I sighed, finding myself gliding over the white cement streets filled with rushing traffic. I banked over an intersection. The tall city buildings (the Towers midcity) tilted with my horizon, nearly on their side, my feathers buzzing and hissing with the strain of maintaining my air speed. I'd curved reflexively toward where my ears had triangulated the boom.

[Author retains copyright (c)2026 R.S.]

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#PennedPossibilities 1051 — MC POV: What, if any, superstitions do you keep? Do you feel compelled to impose them on others?

Bolt [She's a day angel with feathered wings]: What's this super— um, "superstitial" thing?

Me: You mean "superstition?"

Bolt: Yeah, that. Is it a pet? I certainly don't have one, nor would I impose keeping it on others.

Me: No, superstition is something you do to influence how events will turn out.

Bolt: I. Ain't. Stupid. Even I know "super-petition" must be a big word nobody uses.

Me: Well, the dictionary says:

A belief, practice, or rite irrationally maintained by ignorance of the laws of nature or by faith in magic or chance.

Bolt [giving me the stink eye]: More big words nobody uses. "Brereef?" or that "fat-this?" What's the m-word mean, anyway?

Me: [Explaining belief, faith, and magic. Bolt frowning, eyes narrowing.]

Bolt: To know something without evidence it's true? To trust that that something's true without evidence? Trusting the person who said it and what they said… makes you and them admirable? And—pluck me!—use of a mysterious force that's secret or unverifiable? I may not have graduated upper school, but I tried hard before [coughs] I had to quit. You think I'm gullible, don't ya? It would take "ignorance," ignoring how reality works, to think of using any of those words, which must be why they're not taught!

Me: I know you're an athlete—

Bolt [suddenly smiling, flexing her left biceps and the similar muscle in her left wing]: Don't mind ya calling me a jock. It's a complement.

Me: Okay. Jock. By example, then— [I eye Bolt, but her clothing choices are sketchy, maybe NSFW, but I think she'll understand.] —Before a competition, was there a certain piece of clothing you would wear to ensure you would win?

Bolt: Gear? Safety is important. I always used the equipment coach told me to wear.

Me: I mean wearing to a track meet or a game, something like lucky old socks or a scarf you wore back when you won a difficult match?

Bolt: Ugh! Another weird word! Sounded like "duck" or "muck," and it mysteriously makes my clothes influence chance?

Me: [Explaining "luck."]

Bolt [jaw dropping, then shaking her head]: Ya trying to convince me useless things could influence chance other than skill or know-how? I don't know what your angle is, but I can tell you're trying to mess with my head with this "super-petition" thing. Ya want me to trust something that's not true? That's it? Flap off, why don't ya! [Makes a rude gesture and flutters off.]

[You can't convey concepts when translating between languages or cultures when the concept doesn't exist in the target language or culture. —RS]

[Author retains copyright (c)2026 R.S.]

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#PennedPossibilities 1046 — Tell us about a time when one of your characters put their foot in their mouth.

Bolt was raised in a backwater town and now lives in the big city. In the context of her times, which are veering progressive, she often comes off as sexist. In a female-centric society, this is interesting to depict, but her comments about men, how she directly and sometimes condescendingly deals with them, and her strong awareness of having been excluded from something important to her because of her gender makes her very aware that she comes off that way. Sadly, her M.O. is not thinking first before doing, which accounts for the mass of bad things that have happened to her. There are various examples scattered through her stories of her sticking her foot in her mouth, but she's often around men, by choice and desire, so… it happens, and she works to make it better after the fact.

Usually.

One time it happens at an afterparty following a theatre premiere on what would be their Broadway and she's inebriated. The story gets told to her by a male reporter friend because she blacked-out. She puts a male actor in his place apparently for presuming to understand how women feel about sex being depicted on the stage. He wrote the play. He was the male lead. Apparently she showed him how to do what he patently got wrong the right way. In front of everyone, including reporters and critics. Lots of photographs got taken—some which she took of him and herself. Selfies. She had her camera. She's an up and coming street photographer.

Now she's famous.

Forgiven since she's a woman. A man going agro? Doing that? Not so much, despite "progressivism." Bolt? She's embarrassed.

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#PennedPossibilities 1027 — SC POV: If you could master any skill, what would it be? How would you use it? Note: #tootfic.

[Devil-girl, currently a mob enforcer, autist, SC POV:] I looked at Bolt [the MC] squarely. "That's a weird question."

"I? Well. You went to huge trouble to attend the Directorate's school of thaumaturgy. Since we're working together, I thought it might be good to know…"

I wasn't the type to have personal goals, simply work goals. I made a point of studying everything— "But maybe that's the problem."

"I didn't mean to be nosey—"

I hugged her tightly, wings and shoulders, with my cheek against hers, before she could pout. Unlike me, being forced to work for criminal organizations had damaged my day angel coworker badly. All jock and often faulty unschooled intuition, she couldn't find the advantage even in the best of the worst situations, to turn a lose to a win, and tended to fold into fears. I tried to be as friendly as she, so it made logical sense to reciprocate, to see if it would help.

"Silly girl," I whispered into her ear. She was keenly aware of being a decade older than me, so I felt her react to the girl diminutive I'd used to take her out of fear mode. I chuckled, releasing her. "I know about your reporter friend. Learning from him the craft of interviewing is good."

"Don't tell anyone about him."

"I won't. So… is there a skill I could learn? Ah! I'd defo be mastering working simple miracles well."

"Simple?" Bolt clearly wanted to laugh but with me was always circumspect. "I've seen you go from here"—she popped out a wing, pointing—"to there. Pop! Blam!"

"That takes singularity maths, and I'm still working on getting that miracle right. Since I got scared into making it work the first time, I'm never sure the next time will work. You wanna example? How about turning a wheel on a cart, or better yet, creating a simple sprite."

"In your apartment building, you made so many—"

"Sprites? Simple ones?" I fear I scoffed.

I took a deep breath, found a standing mnemonic drifting in my mind, felt recollections of numerical matrix fragments melting into proper predicates, then with a sense of the random, and a feel for the impatient breeze cooling my skin and buffeting her wing feathers in the morning twilight, I made a snap-judgement codicil to take the place of targeting. Balancing happened instantly, congesting my horns. With a wish, I released an avalanche of bright digits crackling and shooting like burning embers across my arithmocosm, filling my halo.

I worked a miracle.

An apparition of rainbow light—a palm-sized spherical aquarium, filled with luminous colored oils circulating in frothy plumes—snapped into existence. The polychrome sprite drifted from between us and quickly away. Bolt fluttered back with a squee, mouth agape, the eldritch light illuminating her face, her fuzzy blue eyebrows becoming caterpillars trying to kiss. The sprite made like a butterfly, dancing back and around and askance on the wind, toward the nearest building as the escapement ran down, plumes slowing, and the precious few splendors I allowed it burnt away.

Pretty good for a dozen-dozen sloppy quick draw approximations. I'd be hard pressed to duplicate it exactly.

Not exactly? That was easy.

"Wow…" Bolt's voice was like smoke drifting from her mouth.

I asked, "Do you have any idea of how complex that was?"

"Pretty easy, knowing you."

"Dozens of open irises arranged parallel to the sphere surface, unrelated maths for the colors, a recollection for the target to provide multi-axial oscillations to simulate the butterfly movement. I could go on. It all came to me in a hot mess. But, a simple colorless monochromatic sprite afixed 45° above my forehead that will turn as my head turns, what most 4-year olds master?" I made a very wet raspberry sound.

"You did that going up the stair to your apartment!"

"Did I?"

"Um." She frowned, looking askance as she thought, her tongue blipping out for an instant. "Well, it was yellow, and it orbited around your head—"

"Yeah, that."

"You gave it to me, and it followed me to the squats!"

"Exactly. Turning a wagon wheel to make a cart roll is a thing daemons do to make coin. Can't. Do it. For trying!" I growled. "Once, I had a so-called friend who helped me figure out how to make complex things work, when Simple failed. Had to nearly die to learn my best trick. Not sustainable."

"The dying bit?"

I nodded. "Simple is Hard."

"Which is why you're going to a thaumaturgy high school at your age?"

I narrowed my eyes at her, grinning nevertheless. "How old do you think I am?"

My grin was strategic. I didn't accidentally confirm she'd guessed right.

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#WordWeavers 2026.05.18 — If your antagonist had to arrange a contest they knew they could win, what would it be?

Rainy Days is the main series antagonist who appears in most stories. She would find it pointless to arrange a contest she knew she could win. Unless she were fighting an actual enemy and winning would be the point, her philosophy being you always win wars unless losing better suits your goals; such a contest wouldn't be friendly as this question implies. Rainy Days arranges contests most often to teach one or more of her many (often unwilling) students, occasionally to test and learn something about them. She'd be overjoyed were one to beat her, ecstatic to find someone she could eventually rely on, maybe one day replace her. Most often, however, she's sparring with her pretorians, whom she inevitably beats. (There are scenes with them injured after training). She does not spar with them in expectation that they might grow able to best her. She does this so they are familiar with what she can do and thus can best protect her blind spots and vulnerabilities. They are her bodyguard, after all.

Encountering the devil-girl in the current WIP, Rainy Days'' contest would emphasize thaumaturgy. She wants the devil-girl to succeed her. Rainy Days wants her as a student as the devil-girl demonstrates a talent for the arcane that might actually exceed Rainy Days.

The devil-girl is convinced Rainy Days is evil. She will think she's going to die.

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#PennedPossibilities 1016 — MC POV: Tell us about a time that you found a “skeleton in the closet,” but it doesn’t matter whose it was. It didn’t need to be yours.

[Bolt, woman day angel MC:] Only the devil-girl, when she unaccountably started acting drunk, let on about events and acquaintances that might be considered a "skeleton in the closet," but she was trying (successfully I might add) to get me (as you people would say it) "into bed," so I don't remember too many details. They didn't come off as boasts, or made up "true" stories, simply details that ought to worry Boss Mead about having hired her as an enforcer. The dets would interest the coppers, but how could they prove any of it? Kind of a dare, perhaps, for anyone to bring her history up so she could have an excuse for mayhem.

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#WordWeavers 2026.05.12 — What role does romantic love play in your story?

Part of my aim writing the Reluctance Series of stories is to address what-if human social structures totally different to ours, societies with no history of being male-centric. As a result, I approach the concept of romantic love from a totally foreign point of view, deconstructing what romance means when human biological imperatives are accepted as typically human and as normal as eating and sleeping, never regulated to control half of humanity or build a social hierarchy to oppresses both genders. Romance exists, but it's more applicable to friendship and long term relationships, regardless of gender, than to a woman stereotypically finding a man to whom she's not related to depend upon, possibly to raise a family. Even in a society stripped of the concept of blood inheritance, I think it's possible for humans to find soulmates, to experience love, and feel comfortable attachment. For this reason, none of my stories can really escape a romance angle; most include romance subplots.

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#WordWeavers 2026.05.11 — Antagonist POV: Tell us about a fun time you recently had.

While flying, I found a new praetorian of mine and a day angel woman I'd been told about by an advisor having fun in the sky, flying tandem. She went by the name Lightning Bolt and was the one who taught Arrow Flies True precision flying that allowed him to become part of my guard—for selfish reasons I could see! Very athletic, those two.They were having so much fun. I soared in to join them.

Most people either fright, flee, or fawn when I show up, this time flying circles around her, them, but she took the challenge and flew flack, stunt for stunt I tried, countering me sparrow versus hawk driving her away from the man, despite my being faster and more agile, able to augment my acceleration [by magic]. We ended with us on either side of my handsome new praetorian wingtip to wingtip, having gotten me to sweat at least.

The fellow looked adorably confused and worried, but kept formation despite being fought over.

It wasn't anger Bolt showed me. It was more like annoyance, having her needed playtime interrupted perhaps after a previous bad day? I knew that feeling. It was a fragility masked with a hard shell. A good talent.

I liked her. I hadn't had such fun in awhile. I mentally noted to make her a student. Lots of potential to match my ability given the right training.

Author note: As an absolute ruler, you don't want to interest Rainy Days. She seems pleasant and normal, but her students quickly find she's an unrelenting and demanding teacher.

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#PennedPossibilities 994 — Did any of your characters have a favorite comfort item as a child? If so, at what age did they stop using it? Do they still have it?

The devil-girl has a book. It may be Merchant Duck's Codicils and Interlocutory Physics, 3rd Extended Edition.1 I'll have to check my notes. The 19th edition had been redacted heavily by the Directorate, so the devil-girl instantly fell in love when she accidentally kicked the doorstop in her library and found the decaying double-sized primer under the hardened grime, masquerading as a brick. She's never checked, but suspects it is a banned book, but even so it ought be worth at least 10 years basic income on the black market to the right buyer.

She had been given the library to satiate her interest in Thaumaturgy, perhaps the best stocked library in the world, but in her teens she ran away and couldn't take much with her.

She chose Merchant Duck's.

It clicked with how she thought, made her think she could do all those things she kept failing at—only the most arcane complex things because easy things are simply too boring to learn. If she only studied hard enough! She has traveled across the continent with it now, homeless a lot of the time or employed by questionable people who know how to entice her with her quirks, but she'll be the first to admit it, asked: She sleeps with that 500 year old book like a plush rabbit. She reads it until she falls asleep and it is covered with drool stains. It smells of her sweat and that old book mustiness.

She did clean it up before sleeping with it!!!

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1 The title can be found in this tootfic, but I think she has had it from the beginning: https://eldritch.cafe/@sfwrtr/109826357405137553

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#WritersCoffeeClub #WCC 2026.04.23 —What are some form conventions you disregard?

Remember, I got a C- in high school English. Other than learning manuscript submission format and how typical SF books are formatted,, I probably ignore plenty of form conventions I am not aware of. Anyone want to analyze my writer challenge game posts to clue me in? I'd be much obliged!1

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1 Actually, please don't. 😋

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