Notices by RS, Author, Novelist (sfwrtr@eldritch.cafe)

#Writever 241001 — Diet

"Lean pork or chicken?"

"Whichever is tastier. "

"Fatty pork is tastier. "

"You're the chef. I'm the guest. You choose."

"No dairy, right?"

"No crème sauces, otherwise it's good. I've got my lactase pills in case. Not keeping kosher."

"Did you ever?"

"My stepmom and stepgrands did. Too young to really judge the food critically. My visits to Dad during vacations resulted in a lot of spoons from the meat set being buried in the backyard. Before I went dairy intolerant. Hmm. I wonder if subsequent owners of that house found them when re-landscaping..."

[Author retains copyright (c)2024 R.S.]

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@Klaxun

All Google searches use AI and 10x power...

Um. I think this bypasses the AI. For now. Make it your default browser tab webpage if you want to use it.

https://udm14.com/

#boostingIsSharing #ai #google

#uspol Read carefully:

More than 100 Arizona Palestinian, Arab, Muslim, and progressive Democrats and community leaders have signed a letter making the case for those reluctant to support Kamala Harris against Donald Trump.

https://newrepublic.com/post/187537/kamala-harris-donald-trump-stunning-endorsement

#BoostingIsSharing

#Vote #Election #Kamala #KamalaHarris #Palestine #Gaza #genocide

@Inverse_Shadow

I feel the inability to write very short stories in my soul!

Having an approximately 850 word limit to a toot (5,000 characters) on my Mastodon instance, and really wanting to figure it all out, I've grown into being able to write short. In a sense, many could be the first scene or scenes in a novel where important things conclude sufficiently to end. Sometimes, I can make them done and finished. This all came from me accepting deep down that ideas and situations are not precious and limited, that I could always find another idea, I didn't need to milk one idea down to the last drop. Lacking an idea in the moment, there's plenty of story prompts on Mastodon like #writever or in one of the writing game prompts like this one.

So far, so good.

Mind you, these things aren't commercial. Cents per word, if a magazine or webzine is interested... That said, some may start novels. The rest could get collected into, well, a collection.

#boostingIsSharing

#writing #writer #author #writingCommunity #writersOfMastodon

#uspol

"If you are not 100% voting for Harris, then you are either directly or indirectly helping Trump. Go ahead and try that again. That’s what happened in 2016 when people threw their votes away on that dope Jill Stein.”

—Sen. John Fetterman, D-Pa

Undecided? Protest vote? Really?

#vote #election #kamala #kamalaharris #undecided #pennsylvania

@wkfry

Sister believes that either not voting or voting for a 3rd party candidate is exactly the same thing. It's not.

Try showing her this comic. Tell her to get into the lifeboat.

#uspol #BoostingIsSharing #vote #election #kamalaharris #kamala

#uspol #uspolitics #vote #kamalaharris #photography #photo Mugging for the camera. So proud. Make it so! #feminism.

@yuki2501 @thanius @pezmico

literally forcing a ceiling price on rents

It's true, FWIW, especially where I live. Too many people. Too few places to rent. Many people need multiple room mates. It's difficult. Okay, it's ridiculous. There's lots of development and little incentive to build affordably, despite zoning, because people pay the elevated rates and will even bid them higher to snag a place to live. (Same with mortgages btw).

If you can't pay the mortgage on your cash cow then... just sell.

So the landlord can't pay the mortgage, which means it isn't a cash cow, and sells the house. What next?

How do you solve this problem?

Ban renting houses? What about apartments? Allow only two rental units per landlord, or three? Rent control together with a mechanism to force landlords to maintain properties? Labor rates go up with housing costs and inflation. Rent control that doesn't allow rents to be raised with for the next tenant? Don't allow rents to exceed mortgage? What about balloon mortgages? What about repair costs? Must a landlord have another job to buy the rental? Make the government provide housing if you have to rent because you can't afford to buy a home?

What solution(s) make this work? I'm not saying give up or accept the status quo. IRL there's always solutions, maybe some that haven't been thought of. You might think of what works.

#Writever 2404.01 — Time
[/Apologizing ahead of time. —R.S./]

"Are you sure using /Unlock/ on his door— what?" Céline said, getting her first look inside the centuries old Montpellier townhouse. Dust coated everything in the foyer, and the apples in the crystal bowl on the Art Deco console looked like shrunken heads. An orange was covered in blue-green and the dried soup might have been a banana. Little flies and a cloud of spore swarmed up in the gust of air when Béatrice shut the door.

Celine covered her mouth with a kerchief as they walked around the rat droppings on the red Persian rug toward the stair. She added, "So, Risgold died?"

"Not exactly..." Béatrice's voice trailed off.

"Well, I'll miss the old fart; was missing him is why I mentioned it at the Sorcerer's Club. Always good for chuckle, his misinterpreting things in spells." They descended the stairs.

"Yeah. Always discovering the unexpected by accident—"

"Needing us to point it out. Why are we going to the servants quarters?"

"He lived alone, so he cooked."

"Ah. Of course—"

Béatrice sped ahead. She held out an arm to stop her from entering the kitchen. The stately woman shook her head.

Céline groaned. "He is dead, isn't he?" She sniffed. "Something smells off."

"It's the icebox; he left it open. Please be careful. Open the door but don't enter. There's an active spell."

Céline nodded. With eccentric Risgold, it was /always/ a spell. These days, male sorcerers wore a business suit when working with customers, or jeans and a white t-shirt when they worked because they were comfortable and easier to clean. Risgold? Robes. Shades of the 17th century. His white hair wasn't a powdered wig, but at his age looked like one. He even used a finger flame to light women's cigarettes, the few that still smoked, anyway. Then there was his candles. He used them around his house instead of electricity.

The sconce beside the door held a melted down, drippy sample.

The door was a swinging door, the better for the servants to push open with a foot with filled trays for the upstairs. Béatrice had Céline pull it open, possibly because it kept Céline from reflexively stepping in...

Risgold looked up in the light of the ten candle chandelier, blue eyes sparkling in the dancing flames. "Ah!" he said, tugging on his long wizardly beard. "I'm glad you showed up. This is a half-recipe, but should prove plenty for all of us. It's really simple—" He squinted at the /Provence Cuisine/ cookbook he had propped up before him.

Céline's smile grew as she cried, "Risgold, it's so good to—"

Béatrice restrained her by grabbing her shoulder tightly. She pointed to this side and that. The icebox door stood open behind the old man, rotted meat on one shelf, a burst carton of milk having toppled itself to the floor. Inside of a sphere centered on Risgold, everything remained fresh. The chicken on the marble top. The sliced vegetables. The stock pot on the gas fire, bubbling and steaming. The man: very much alive.

Risgold looked up, his finger on the recipe book. "Just a minute. I'm trying to figure out what this means." He tapped the page with a finger, then grabbed his ebony wand. "Don't know how to measure 3 grams of time, but I can certainly add 3 minutes—" he finished, swishing it.

The flash was blinding. The next instant, the stock pot splashed as Risgold dropped cut potatoes into it, then returned to scrutinizing his recipe. In the space of three minutes, Risgold noticed his visitors, greeted them... grabbed his wand and swished it.

Béatrice facepalmed. "Thyme is a spice."

[Author retains copyright (c)2024 R.S.]

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@stevendbrewer This is a good tip. A friend, @taur10, has been on my case to try it. So, I guess I have a good reason, now.

#Writever 2402.10 — Purring

Robson and Omar from the security detail stood to either side of Fenrisúlfr, side arms leveled despite the mortal wolf demigod being bound in glowing energy loops. Lightning flickered around him from the magic damper. The demigod could work miracles. One had deceived a nascent multi-planet government into allying with Rouge Star Traders LLC. This afternoon, his miracles lost me three crew.

A planetary defense force (PDF) corvette and a Rouge Superfrigate raced us to light speed. The lights on the bridge flickered. I grabbed the armrests of my chair before the gravity compensators failed momentarily toward port, jerking us that way. Robson grabbed a stanchion. Omar chose to fall with his charge, twisting to strike the demigod with elbows and knee, instead of the wall. Fenrisúlfr groaned.

The Rouge threw relativistic iron pellets at us, einsteined into the ten ton range, impossible to see, except as a gamma ray blip a few seconds out. Rouge trading money hired the best galactic thaumaturgists who produced gravity loops superior to most modern militaries.

"You see that?" I yelled, pointing at the tactical tank. Green lines marked our evasions; burnt-out orange firework trails, their targeting solutions.

Glowing amber eyes bore into me. The wolf winced. I'd have to write up the rib fracture. Geneva Convention allegation, training failures, etc. I added, "Tell me where you hid the Lug you stole and the PDF will stop the Rouge from killing us. You're mortal. I know it. You want to die?"

A growly voice said, "Your reputation proceeds you."

"You think /The Sakura/ is /lucky?/ We always escape? I lost two men and a woman today!"

"I see futures. Yours, Rin, are good."

"You let yourself get captured?"

We dodged three more relativistic misses before he shrugged, smiled, and nodded. I ground my teeth.

I touched the intercom. "Engineering? Mr. Thomas. Where's that boost you promised?"

"Um, Captain Sasaki, ma'am. About that?"

"What now?" I glared at the wolf warped by spirits and gods. It bared a fang in a grin.

"Remember that power failure?"

"The upper cargo holds?"

"Lost atmosphere in—"

"—the fuel compartments?"

"Aye, ma'am. The drive isn't happy."

I rubbed my temples. The relativistic drive used a miracle to violate physics. Ours contained an avatar of Nergal, the "Burner," the Babylonian god of the sun and wanton destruction. A dual drive and weapons system. The denatured lion god required live sacrifices: Tank-grown hyenas.

Hyenas. Resembled a wolf, right?

"Ms. Watanabe, you have the helm."

Engineering looked like a gate to hell. Thaumaturgy erected gravity folds and time discontinuities to protect the environmental pod of the ship from the thauma-mechanical superstructure. The metal walls aft glowed dull red. A doorway opened into a lava-filled volcanic "host" chamber. Refrigeration like a winter gale barely kept the crew from sweating. I smelled brimstone.

After another dodge, I asked Fenrisúlfr, "How do you like engineering?" The wolf gripped the safety railing with white knuckles.

"Medievally modern? Not a thaumaturge. My magic is intrinsic. Your point, Rin?"

"We're on a first name basis, now?"

"The lady's showing me around her house, isn't she?"

"Mr. Thomas. How closely related to a hyena does the sacrifice need be?"

"Dog-like. Hyenas proved easy to clone anencephalus."

"Will a wolf do?"

Fenrisúlfr stood stark straight. "Are you mad!" he snarled. "That's murder."

"Let's see..." I counted fingers. "Let the Rouge kill us? Maybe get a death sentence? We all die? I sacrifice you, my crew survives, and we fix the shit you caused planetside? Quick! It's your ship? Your choice? No answer? Pity."

My poker hand, in a nutshell.

I walked closer to the open door, security dragging Fenrisúlfr behind. It looked like a hatch on a submarine or to the firebox of a locomotive. The heat tightened my skin. "Where's the Lug?"

The ship dodged hard three times before he yelled the location. I transmitted the message immediately. We were ten light minutes from a response.

"Doesn't that feel better? You told my future accurately."

"I had confidence." I waited near the heat, just in case.

The next instant, /Bang!/ The impact sheared off parts starboard. Gravity compensation went off seconds, long enough to float free of the decks. The ship couldn't dodge, lest we be smashed to a protein film.

Lights and gravity returned. Nobody had been thrown aside.

I'd barely sighed when titanic flaming lion's paw emerged from the glowing hell. Claws snagged a startled Fenrisúlfr, snatching him into the fire.

The engine began purring.

Turns out Fenrisúlfr had predicted my future correctly, not his own.

[3½hrs Author retains copyright (c)2024 RS.]

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#Writever 2402.7 — Litter

Cats aren't necessarily cute, but kittens certainly were. My big sister held a basket of the squirming fuzzy creatures. Grey stripe tabbies, but one orange one with sparkling brown eyes. He liked to wrestle, then try to jump free to explore. Old enough to be taken into town and given away, it was why the footmen carried our two-seat litter so soon after the rain. Their playful mewing masked out the rustling of the forest, the slap of sandals on the wet road, and the splats and drips from tree branches on the canvas above us.

I tore off another sketch, balled up the paper, and tossed it out the curtains. I quickly drew the orange kitten again, roughing it in with charcoal, then filling in patches of color with orange, brown, and red chalk. I was well aware of Sister's eyes on me, but quickly forgot, caught up in the moment—

"What are you doing?"

I jerked the blue chalk I held, coloring the pillow under the kittens, slashing a dark line across the page, tearing the center. I growled in frustration, ripped out the page, and crumpled it angrily. "Drawing! You did that on purpose!"

She giggled.

Face warm, I threw the new paper wad, but hit the pink curtain. It bounced onto the tiny floor between us. The litter held two small chairs, with room enough for Father's and his bodyguard's knees between us. The bamboo construction was light enough for six to carry for a journey.

"No, that." She pointed at our feet as I bent over. I smelled her jasmine perfume, then got batted by the orange tabby on my forehead.

"Mew, maow!"

I touched my head, annoyed, thankful for finding no blood on my fingers. I could have stayed home, practicing my caligraphy, but no! Father had told Sister to bring me to the merchant's guild, today. I held up the paper.

"Yes, that."

I shook the ruined drawing. "This?" Orange followed it with his eyes. "Trash? I'm throwing it away. Not like we have room to leave it on the floor."

"Men are carrying us."

"So?" I asked. With a flourish, I pulled aside the drape and tossed it out.

"Ow," someone said, just as the kitten who'd been squaring and wriggling his hindquarters, pounced to follow his new cat toy.

The tabby sailed, or rather tumbled ungracefully, out into the open air—

Followed instantly by a thump and an, "Ow!"

Then by an outraged, "Rowrlll!"

Finally, following by slipping, and clunking and rattling the litter, and a final, "OW!"

Sis had jumped up, barely holding the kitten basket upright—as the litter tipped. Men shouted at each other, and we spun right as one after the other of the men lost balance and we fell. With a thump, I rolled through of the pink curtain, chalks flying, the fabric ripping as I slipped out. We missed the rock and mud road, but I tumbled onto the soggy late autumn leaves piled there. I soaked a moment later in a pool of cold water, essentially a dark tea steeped from yellow and brown oak leaves.

It stunk of rotting wood and algae.

The kitten batted his white cat toy until it hit my knee. He looked up, then jumped on my lap, making my pantaloons now both muddy with cat paws and wet. He gazed into my eyes with his caramel ones, as if saying, "Forgive me?"

I bit my lip. I may have snorted, not admitting it though.

Sister started laughing. Her long hair lay wet and limp on her shoulder. Mud streaked her blouse, but she grinned, then laughed some more. "I never thought I'd see it, but you look cute sitting there."

I growled.

[Litter of kittens, litter as in palanquin, litter as in littering, litter as in leaf litter. The kittens might be scratching the leaves at this point, so maybe also simply cat litter? 1hr. Author retains copyright (c)2024 RS.]

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#Writever 2402.8 — Kibble

The other joy of your first time sleeping over at your boyfriend's house:

"Maowww... Meow?"

"Like an alarm clock," I said, blinking out the window. A row of blue clouds filled the horizon with white-topped cumulus, slightly purple in the brightening dawn light. I squirmed, cosy under the covers beside him.

Touching me lightly on the shoulder, he yawned and said, "Remember what I told you about the Grey Mouser?"

"Get the timing or quantities wrong, and she'll use it against me until I'm in my grave? Aye Capt'n. What should I feed her, Sir?"

"The kibble over the sink."

I padded out of bed. He kept the house warm, so no clothes, which would be to my advantage later. A Russian Blue, slender and whiskers abristle, waited with thinly-veiled stately impatience on her haunches. The flick of green eyes into the dark behind me said, "What sort of perfidy is he up to now?"

Before she'd lifted her hips and slowly moving tail in the air, I'd closed the door behind me with a gentle huff.

I whispered, wagging a finger, "A good ship has a hierarchy of command."

Her nose in the air clearly stated, "To the mess hall with you, /tout suite/."

I followed her inverting question mark of a tail to the kitchen. I washed her little pedestal ceramic white dishes with little XO's on it. A nautical pun. Having a navy man could be endearing.

I set down the bowls—all spic and span, dried food polished off, cool filtered water added from the special tap.

"Mew?" Green eyes flicked from the empty food dish to my face, saying, "Explain yourself, sailor!"

"Procedures," I said, closing the drapes for propriety reasons over the sink before reaching. "Ooo. /Cat Carnivore Herring and Salmon!/" The ocean green bag boasted a stylized cat with happy eyes, above a body of a kibble bowl filled with brown pellets.

The cat sat back as if startled. I squatted before her. As I reached into the bag for the scoop, I heard a faint hiss. I blinked at the scent of fish. Despite being raised in a fishery town, I liked fish. I could navigate the shoals of any seafood market and prepare a meal that would make am exotic chef envious.

"Not bad," I said.

The cat got up and paced away, with a /hurruph!/.

I poured a scoop regardless, with a musical clatter.

The cat sat /agast,/ her straight tail an exclamation mark. Her right ear atwitch, tail now moving... ponderously... side to side stated, "You clearly don't know how to treat a superior officer!"

She turned her little nose away.

"Smells good to me."

"That's clearly /RATIONS!/"

I looked at the bag. "Real herring and salmon. I prefer sardines myself... 'But no grains! All Premium,' it says right here." I tapped the bag.

The cat blinked at me. "Premium shit on a shingle—!"

She'd stopped annoyed, mid-meow, when she heard a loud crunch. The Grey Mouser had heard and now seen something she had never with any of my boyfriend's previous catch. It flabbergasted her.

I said, "This tastes pretty good!" I crunched a few more bits. The herring flavor definitely overpowered the salmon, which considering the costs involved made sense, but it wasn't as dry as you'd expect for the level of /croquante/. With a grin, I added, "Too bad they don't make a cracker, too."

The cat blinked, then lifted her nose.

I crunched a few more samples, then sat on my rump and lifted her bowl, tasting a few more. "Kind of grows on you."

The cat's expression stated, "Now you know why I'm the officer and you're the swabby."

I shrugged. Clearly the new boyfriend bought only the best for his kitty. I took a few more bites as the cat waited for better, then stood. I walked to the breakfast table.

That merited me a "Where's mine?" glare.

"You're not hungry."

That "maOW!" clawed that misconception to shreds. When I lifted the bowl toward her, however, she turned tail, huffy.

I set it on the table. I reached for the /Atlantic/ under his glasses and sat back. I'd crunched a few more when I heard, "Meow?"

With a sigh, I lifted the bowl down to her. With a nasty look, she settled above it.

/Crunch, crunch!/

"Aren't you cold?" asked the new boyfriend, holding a hand over his mouth. He ought know; he was as nicely dressed as I was.

He glanced down at the cat, eyebrow up. I nodded, he smiled, then walked to the coffeemaker. He shook his head slightly.

"What?" I asked.

Hand on the grinder, he said, "Not sure if I should kiss you."

I stood beside him in moments, grinning. I said, "I was going to make Cajun salmon and crawfish stew tonight? Don't you want it?"

He started chuckling the moment he smelled my fish breath, eyes giving me the once over, reviewing the menu.

Yes, my navy man kissed me.

[1½ hrs. Author retains copyright (c)2024 RS.]

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#Writever 2402.9 — Pelage Wearing the Cat's Coat A #cat story about #cats on #Caturday.

"Hey, Neko-chan!" Something soft and nerfy hit my forehead and I jumped up confused.

A yellow tom tilted his head at me, then said, "The Queen wants her crème. Chop-chop, otherwise, /chop chop!/" He leapt right and disappeared off the table top.

"What just happened?" I whispered, blinking, realizing quickly nothing I saw made sense. I sat on a colorful Catalina tile top café table, feeling drugged. Looking further, I saw dozens of tables but no other furniture.

Coffee houses had more than tables, right?

Elite cats with snooty noses in the air—Siamese, Persian, Abyssinian, Bengal, Egyptian Rex—sat on these tables, with little rose decorated porcelain bowls before them, tiny lace napkins beside them, and lumps of sugar and a milk pitcher at the center between them. Conversation ebbed and flowed, but sounded like a muffled prelude to a cat fight.

Beyond, I saw a bar. It was all dark wood, rounded, with a bright Catalina tile surface, appointed with brass. All domestics "manned" the espresso machine, washed dishes, and managed order slips: an American Shorthair and two Wirehairs. One operated the filter holder, banging out grounds; another poured into a blender. I watched them doing this, but still couldn't figure out how they did it with paws. They just did. My head wasn't working, though I apparently was working—waiting tables!

"Chop-chop!" called the yellow tom. My heart jumped into my throat. My head insisted there had to be furniture to sit on, but why if table tops were perfectly large enough? I looked over the edge of a three story drop to the tile floor and gulped, suddenly finding I couldn't move, as if I were paralyzed.

Worse, I realized I looked down at /paws./ I had a coat of light grey with dark grey stripes. With effort, as if pushing through molasses, I managed to brush one paw against the grain to feel how soft it— no, /I/ was.

This wasn't right...

Something softly patted my nose. I expected to hear "Chop-chop" and to see the tom. The world tilted. Seeing my fur, the table, and being patted all occurred in the same space of nonsense reality.

Pat-pat.

/Pat-pat./

/PAT-PAT!/

"Gah!" With a gasp, I opened my eyes. Mau-mau, our little Siamese sat there, blue eyes on me, paw pulled back, obviously wondering what happened. My right ear felt crushed against a hard surface. I'd lain my head on a table.

Mau-mau cautiously touched my nose.

"Sleeping on the job, again?" Alex, our busser asked.

I shot upright, causing Mau-mau to hiss and jump away. 3 PM weekdays, /Cat Café Plush/ was always dead. I glanced around to see our café chairs with green cushions had returned, as had the plates and silverware. A single patron sat on a green corduroy sofa, surrounded by cats vying for his warm lap. He had all our hosts and hostesses to himself.

I smelled the coffee, before Alex clacked down a double shot before me. "Sakura will be back any time. Wake up. Chop-chop!"

I smiled up at the blond guy. "Thanks."

"No problem."

I drank it with a spoon of turbinado sugar. I rubbed the fine hair on my wrist and thought about the three story drop from the table top and shivered.

I didn't like heights.

I certainly didn't want to be a cat!

[2 ⅓hrs. Author retains copyright (c)2024 RS.]

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#Writever 2402.6 — Food

"Someone explained to me that you were a prizefighter," the blue-winged day angel said unexpectedly. "Makes sense why you were such a good enforcer for the Boss." Bolt had been thoughtful the last block or so. Like the approaching clouds in the sky and hot rising humidity, I saw it coming on her face.

"He blackmailed me," I said, shrugging. "Fun work, though. You saw, I frightened people into paying. Acting crazy. Fists, sometimes." I cracked my knuckles. "Which was fun, too."

"Blackmailing you was his first mistake."

"And his last."

Bolt chuckled, but paced me, slightly in front, evaluating my expression. An ask? "I'm told you don't like dairy—"

/Okay. Where's this going?/ "Upsets my stomach—"

"—and rarely eat eggs. Just veggies. Even with beans and lentils, that's piss-poor low-grade protein for all the physical training you do daily."

I shrugged.

"No fish? Not pescatarian?" Arched brows. Her wings lifted, expectantly, feathers rustling in the breeze.

I studied her. Bolt was a new friend. I'd saved her during the sting operation to topple the Boss, from being shot by the constables—spiriting her away before they could arrest her, and me. The next day, she'd saved me from being blasted by a thaumaturge far stronger than me. I'd have been incinerated. She had healing burns all over her legs for her trouble. We'd both been used all our lives, and bonded over that, when it came down to it.

Yet... Someone had fed her misinformation about my diet. I suspected who. An old friend, a devil-boy who'd once worked for me, loyal to a fault. He had a crush on me, but was accepting my new boyfriend, not fighting it. For the time being, at least.

He was testing her.

I shrugged, just as my stomach growled, loudly, and my face warmed.

She pointed to the top of the building we walked under. "Just so happens, the best Fish & Fry pop-up in Home City is topside today on the terrace." Day angels "roosted," living on the top floors of buildings (or the canopies of forests, or on cliffs. Wings. Naturally.) The physical requirements of flight made them pescatarian. Devil girls and boys were never that strong. I was an exception. Prizefighter. For others, fish was yuck! Eyeballs, don't you know?

"Wanna try some fish?" she asked.

"Um..."

"Mackerel's got the crispiest, sweetest, lightest batter in existence. Shrimp, also. Broiled. Fried kippers and onions. It makes me drool, thinking about it."

I looked askance, waiting to see where she went with this, equivocating non-verbally.

"I'll fly you up! You'll love it."

"What makes you think so? I am no kind of angel."

"The extra protein will help your training, but I guarantee the taste will win you over. I'll even buy."

"Guaranteed, huh?" I stopped. Looked up. Counted fifteen stories. A lot of stairs. With a ride? /Let's test this!/ "Wanna make a bet?"

She sniffed the air. She pursed her lips. "Yeah, sure."

"I don't need money." I gave her a look, grinning, wanting to test her certainty, her resolve. "You kiss me." I would not force her to pay, of course.

She took a deep breath. She looked away, so I didn't know if she flushed. "I can do that. Deal!" She grabbed me around the chest before I could renege, under my armpits.

She hoisted me skyward. It was thaumaturgy: Gravity fields warped around us, playing with my inner ear as she flapped, manipulating them with her wings. A minute later, she set my feet on terracotta tile. The scent of fried food hit me. Super fresh oil. I heard the hiss of fryers, the clack of plates, and flatware tapping against earthenware. Day angels swarmed the vendors. I saw none but the feather folk. I captured every eye.

Of course, I /loved/ Fish & Fry. Kippers and onions, too. Everything she bought me.

Bolt said, smiling nonetheless, "Were holding out on me, weren't you?"

"Don't know who sold you that bridge, but they made a profit. This is as good as any place on the sea coast." I shivered. "Crispy. The perfect amount of oiliness. The homemade hot sauce... the right amount of malt vinegar and salt." I licked my fingers, my lips, then wiped with a tissue. "Thank you! As for our bet—"

In front of all the angels—who minutes ago had watched wondering if I'd turn green or upchuck—she kissed me. Not on the cheek, either. One of those tilting your head kisses. Deep. I—

Was she testing me?

I returned it, though I preferred devil boys, myself.

After a minute, when she decided she needed to breathe, I decided she wasn't a half bad kisser. Maybe she liked me? More than the being-grateful-for-saving-her part? We'd have to discuss, but she needed to buy me a second helping of the rice-battered shrimp, first!

[Author retains copyright (c)2024 RS.]

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#Writever 2401.3 — Mammal

Her Certain Future

Technology and science wasn't magic, and Sharp Eye knew this more than ever. Five generations ago, Fleetmaster Running Talon had turned a portable cannon on his first Tyrannosaur, and ended their species rein of terror. Since that day, science and progress had ruled their world. Telescopes and the study of astronomy were unknown to her grandkin. The laws of orbital dynamics took a decade to render correctly, and her own grandmother had invented the slide math-relator that made verifying it all possible.

She lived in a world that promised her hatchlings steamships that could cross the Great Ocean between ports reliably, in days, because it need no sails. It offered /their/ hatchlings the possibility of powered flight using a lightweight heat engine. Literature discussed the not too fictional possibility of one day visiting the moon.

She ought have been happy with life and her grand future.

This wasn't the case. She turned the great telescopes with there photo capture plates toward the sky every night.

She'd found a streak.

Not a new planet. Something far smaller. Something far closer.

The rodent was very brazen outside the window. She'd been throwing the mammal bits of meat for the last month as she'd directed the telescopes, so of course he was. It chittered. With googly eyes, needle teeth, and the rotted smell of offal, the creature wiggled its pink nose and whiskers at her. It could see through a window! So smart. Its furry kind survived the freezing nights on the mountain, where despite her downy feathers, and a heavy parka, she could barely breathe the frigid night air. It burned her lungs.

She'd found a giant rock in space. A week later she confirmed it was two. The latest plate insisted she'd found a co-orbiting swarm, the biggest the size of a city or larger, the rest not that much smaller. Its mass made her think it was mostly iron-nickel. The length of the streaks on the plates grew smaller as the planet's gravity well influenced the orbit, sending it down on their heads.

Physics was physics. The ellipse calculations were irrefutable.

Between the constantly erupting volcano lands on the opposite side of the continent—which made sunset burn orange and purple, and sometimes caused snow to fall at the equator—and the dirt and dust that would be kicked out of the atmosphere by the meteor impact to rain down molten rock across the land, would it be that prolific mammal's descendants who'd inherit her decimated world?

Sharp Eye took a deep breath, inhaling the steam of her tea. The big question was: Did she announce her findings? While she had time?

Did it matter?

Who was she to break the world's ignorant bliss by announcing the inevitable? Fame didn't matter any more. How could it?

She sipped her tea and watched the soon to be victorious vermin nose through gravel, looking for roaches. She set the cup down, thinking how pleasant living only in the present was. She knew the future.

Then she thought, surely roaches would survive. Right?

[Author retains copyright (c)2024 RS.]

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#Writever 2401.2 — Whiskers

How many years was it since I adopted this family of two-legged monsters? I'd trained them well to feed me on demand and provide me a warm bed and reliably clean litter. In return, I kept their house free of cockroaches and sometimes left a fresh bird on their doorstep.

It took me all this time to figure out the sounds they'd been babbling at me were actually a name! My mother had named me Flash Claws because no kitten was faster.

My monster family had named me, "Whiskers."

How much more demeaning could it be to be named for a body part that every cat had in common? Not much.

I. Was. Soooo. INSULTED.

I immediately took it out on the roll of paper the two-legs mounted for me to get my frustrations out, but the folds of white did nothing to ease my frustration. I walked by my scratching post and took it out on the sofa instead, but that wasn't enough.

Whiskers? REALLY?

The female monster with her kittens left the house, and I thought maybe I'd give her a scratch. I rushed out the cat door. I stopped quickly when she dropped her set of metal door openers. I snatched the keys and jumped back through the cat door.

The thumping on the door was gratifying, but then there was the male, who'd probably come up with the ridiculous name because he was just that stupid. He often sprawled on the sofa—the one I'd just scratched my frustration out on—containers of smelly liquid sometimes foaming all over him, watching his flicker box and farting when nobody was looking, right in front of me where I could smell it. Like an old dog. Many were the times he'd not let me sleep on his stomach. So uncouth.

I loped into the room with the bed and the clothes, selecting a nice white shirt. I dragged it to my litter box.

I peed on it, before trying to bury it.

Whiskers, though? REALLY?

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#Writever 2401.4 — Toy [Minor context edits]

(/Toy/, n. An object for an adult to play with, especially a gadget or machine.)

The shop door dinged sharply when I pushed inside. Quaint. A real brass bell, darkly tarnished. I smelled sandalwood incense. Everything was appointed in dark wood, from window frames to crown molding, with scattered green velvet chairs. The floor was oak parquet. Walking by you'd think it was an old-timey bookstore, a pricy one, had it also sold coffee.

It did not.

Dimly and comfortably lit, the illumination diffused unseen from the walls and ceiling. Asian pulps and read-onces stocked walnut bookshelves. Lines of garishly dressed and barely dressed anime figures filled locked glass cases. Some museum pieces reputedly dated back a century or more. You could be forgiven for thinking you entered a super premium anime and manga store.

On closer inspection, there were plenty of circuit cards and hard plastic parts for sale, all used and multiply repaired, securely preserved in vacuum seal bags. Assuming you were a low-res fanatic still into toying with old fashioned electronic compys, this shop fed your addictions, too.

It fed all your addictions, thus the shop's name. Further back, from whence an eldritch neon glow radiated, I spotted what I'd hoped for: The newest in liquid metal and automata.

I stepped in, avoiding an aisle with a sloppy greybeard elder who looked undecided between two stupid looking box fans dangling wires.

(/Toy/, v. To treat without being serious, especially in a superficially or tauntingly amorous way.)

I didn't make it to the rear before an android stepped up at the end of the aisle. /She/ smiled as I approached, liquid skin quickly flicking between various manga costumes worn by unusually voluptuous women, sometimes holding an unclothed bouncy shape in between changes. Once she was instead a fully featured male.

The android touched a palm to my chest, stopping me. "I am the latest model, COSPLAY 7C. I can be anything you desire."

I frowned and shook my head.

"Or /do/ anything you desire."

I rubbed the scraggly beard on my chin, deciding if I wanted to end the amusing show. I'd just left a business lunch and wore my tailored suit.

Maybe that was it? "I'm not here for your hard sell."

She frowned, transforming into a mid-thirties shopkeeper with her red hair in a flip, wearing an /Addictions Shop/ sweatshirt top, in green and brown, but nothing below. Her garment was barely long enough to hide her ample hips.

She said, "We have better priced models, like the 3A, which you can program to be a receptionist, a clerk, or a cutesy executive secretary." She touched her middle finger to her cheek, which dimpled when she grinned toothily.

(/Toy/, n. Denoting a diminutive or specific breed of creature.)

I shook my head. I pushed by her. She scooted around the counter to face me there. The glass case held a selection of the latest eVR games with animations running around the box, as well as helmets, gauntlet controllers, and paint-on liquid metal body suits.

The android noticed where my eyes darted and added, "The 7C can act as a body suit, and can walk with you inside, carrying you through the 3D world, allowing you to be—at first glance only because of Autome laws—anybody, any person, and functionally any gender. With a full sensorium access, even to genitalia—

"I'm a wage runner," I interrupted her. "I don't have that kind of money, and that's not what I'm here for." I reached into my suit jacket and brought out a holo. I placed it on a laser pad, saying, "An article on bugler.automations stated you do budget customs."

Illuminated, Freddy returned to life. A video recollection captured in the holo, anyway. The black and tan toy dachshund jumped up, yipping at the lens, tail spinning like a propeller. I blinked, but my eyes burned as always. The android clerk, of course, caught the sudden tear. I was willing to pay, in any case.

Pursing my lips, I said, "She died last week and, uh, my— son is heartbroken..."

[2hr. Author retains copyright (c)2024 RS.]

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#Writever 2401.5 — Hissing

The wind changed abruptly and it blew the smoke and flames out over Kill Lake. Let the long-necked flippered monster that always tried to tip over my raft, and the daggermouth fish that made swimming problematic, deal with the tarry grey clouds. I accounted for the change in wind direction as that the forest spirits had found it in themselves to stop feuding long enough work together, for once, lest fire consume their leafy homes. The relatively clean air allowed me to stop blinking with tears long enough to see and pad past embers, to close in on the source of the forest fire. Everything smelled like a campfire.

I heard hissing.

Burnt but not consumed birch hisses. It's moisture escaping the green wood through the enveloping bark.

Unexpectedly, I heard the arsonist before I saw her. She hissed, too. Canvas-like wings snapped closed, which made me look right, moonlight and fire combining to resolve shadow into deadly substance. Charcoal crunched under heavy weight. Branches hosting tiny flames, cracked and snapped.

Red pebbly skin glowed with a metallic sheen. The wyvern, the size of a small cottage, lumbered into view through the trees, walking on the knuckles of her wing claws and back legs. Her massive tail swished through burnt brambles, brushing them aside and throwing burning sparks in a spray skyward. The hiss sounded each time she exhaled. Her breath caught fire an arm length from her mouth.

I smelled kerosene.

One amber eye looked my direction, then both as she turned her lizard head my way. Her eyes were bright amber because spirit fire flickered inside those orbs. A snake's tongue briefly flicked out.

I did not know at that time the red dragon was a she. I did not yet know that the hiss and the fire were her trying to speak to me.

The wolves I lived amongst understood how I'd befriended them, why I lived amongst them, and how my gift made their cubs lives better. I'd shared my humanity with them in exchange for what made them wolves. Now, for the sake of the pack, and Fell Forest, they begged me to share my gift again.

I was part wolf, now. Part other beasts, too. It scared me to think how becoming part dragon would change me. Dragons weren't beasts; they were monsters. She would be my first monster. Wyvern eyes, set in her head like a predator, centered on me. She blinked. Like a bird, causing my breath to catch. Flames bluely flickered in the air between us—a deadly earnest warning not to do what I must.

I was part of the pack. I had to save them.

I understood one thing, however. The best way to handle misunderstandings, like incidentally burning down a neighbor's "home," was to talk matters out.

Only after that failed did you bite off part of the alpha's ear. The red dragon had no ears.

I walked into the open, elbow over my nose, coughing, stepping over smoking charcoal. I tightened the wet fabric over my mouth, hoping I could get close enough to use my gift before being incinerated.

I needed desperately to make another friend.

[1½ hrs. Author retains copyright (c)2024 RS.]

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#WordWeavers 2401.24— Out of all your writing, what was the hardest scene for you to write? Why? CW: Fictional violence referred to.

The scene where the MC wakes up, being dragged through the mud, and realizes she's about to be murdered by a man who savaged her.

I knew I needed this scene but had no planned ending. I had to get beyond it to define her character. Without it, she'd be just an elite runaway prat readers would eventually see as entitled and over powered. She had to have reasons to fight.

I wrote the scene cold, very aware of her undeveloped flawed magic skills and that she had nothing physical to help other than defense training. Against that, she had lack of leverage, because of the mud, and a seemingly insurmountable mass and strength disadvantage. It leaves her seemingly doomed.

It felt too real, too cruel to execute.

The scene as written, especially how she thinks emotionally and cerebrally while fighting, and her reaction later to what happened to her, colors her character even in the sequels.

A reader today referred to the scene and left me very pleased:

"I'm glad you didn't have her forget the unfortunate encounter with The Monster. The subtle effect it has on her every day does help with the realism of her character."

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