#writever Sauce
The climate crisis was fatal to humans, both directly and also because it didn't affect zombies--Well, it did, a little: it forced them to cook brains in sauce, otherwise they were too dry.
#SmallStory
#writever Moistening
"We do not fear moistening," said R42. "We function underwater, on the ground, and in space, and our metals do not rust... You Terrans are the only ones who see us as literal iron men."
#writever Stock
"Right," said the Princess, "I've gone through the Knights' registrations, and we've got stock for up to mid-July."
“Sign up the next ones from mid-August on,” said the Dragon, “I'll be taking my holidays in between.”
#writever Juice
The main problem with hyperspace is not to have enough juice to enter it. The main problem is to have enough juice, once in, to exit back.
#writever Mandolin
The knife thrower and the strong man were clearly assessed as dangerous. The mandolin player, on the other hand, was not suspected until she slit the Count's throat with a clean stroke of her plectrum.
#writever Food
"The problem with Earthlings," the Spacers said, "is that they always consider themselves to be at the top of the food chain. They cannot fathom the existence of a species to whom *any* matter is, as they would say, grub."
#WordWeavers 2025.06.22 — What does a typical dinner/last meal of the day look like for your MC?
This calls for a short #excerpt:
[Streak narrates:] I sniffed the air, raising my nose, smelling—
Rainy Days, The Director of Home, clapped and said brightly, "I hope you don't mind takeaway?"
In the context of sitting in the Grand Residency Dining Hall belonging to the most powerful person in the world, both in the sense of governance and reluctance, ordering food out hit me as misheard as hearing someone stating 1 + 1 equals 11. (†)
Rainy Days laughed, pointing at me. "I followed you! And reintroduced myself to popup tent cuisine. Must've been a half dozen years since I frequented my city's angelic rooftop food courts. When you finished your snack, I swooped down and announced that I wanted chefs to compete to guest in my kitchen. Two of the least timorous volunteered, Chili Feathers and Flying Fish Flavor-wright. I hope you appreciate their effort!"
A dish of charred crawfish clinked down before me on translucent lavender porcelain, surrounded by steaming sautéed peppers and squash in a chunky hot sauce. I didn't even look up to see what Thorn got. I heard her delighted eating sounds, though, and smelled cumin and garlic. That was only the first course! What can I say? What's more delightful than salty, vinegary, garlicky, peppery, often breaded, vaguely greasy vegetables and fish? A whole fish, split and crinkly fried, overflowed Rainy Day's plate. Generally vegetarian Thorn ignored the smell and toasted eyes as the two gabbed about a scientific discoveries way too esoteric for me. With all this attention from a teacher, from the world's most exclusive teacher, Thorn's ego soared in the stratosphere, maybe higher; were Rainy Days to suggest that they get passionate, she would have gladly consented, simultaneously combining riding and talking science with a creative flare only my brainy friend concoct. Seeing Thorn happy inscrutably made me glow inside.
Thorn Rose was a perfect fit for Rainy Day's Academy of Thaumaturgy. Me? Not so much.
Dessert, fried dough balls filled with candied pickles and frosted with deep magenta rock-beet-sugar left me feeling particularly pleased and patting my stomach, and maybe feeling a bit sleepy. I sat there, ignoring everything. Some great male protector, was I, of the devil-girl in my charge! I rolled a toothpick between my thumb and forefinger, thinking that this day could not get much weirder.
I missed the silence until Rainy Days said, "Day Angel Carryingaton?"
My hands slapped down on the table, and WHO knows where the toothpick went!
This scene takes place before yesterday's 2025.06.21 entry.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=
† Yes, that's a programmer joke. 😋
[Author retains copyright (c)2025 R.S.]
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#mystery #thriller #romance #sf #sff #sciencefiction
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#RSdiscussion
#RSstory #RSReluctanceStory
#microfiction #flashfiction #tootfic #smallstory
#WordWeavers 2025.06.21 — What does a typical breakfast/first meal of the day look like for your MC? CW: Intimacy
This calls for a short #excerpt:
[Thorn Rose narrating.] I mean, I'd slept very well, and since we'd gone to sleep very early (and I had caused our exhaustion because I'd really really missed Streak), we woke very early, too. Before he could set his mind on revenge for me having surprised him awake mid-night for our second session, I grabbed our shower wet towels, got my school books packed, and threw open the windows. My room was high in our treehouse.
"Breakfast," I declared, crouched as if I, a wingless daemon, would dive into the air.
The instant I sprung, my day angel friend grabbed my waist as he flew past into the sky. With a toss as he flapped hard, he got his arms under my knees and back. I nuzzled his chest.
Soon, under a sky filled with orange painted clouds, seated in a bustling day angel rooftop food court, I slurped noodles. Rude not to slurp loudly, but they were hot; I dripped salty fish broth that glistened with golden globules. I finally grabbed for a napkin, fanning my hand at my mouth at the heat; redolent of horseradish, it was peppery too—as if I could fan that away! I huffed and chewed as Streak patted his pockets, then reached into his book bag. I wiped oil from my chin as he found the something and struggled to lift my next slippery glassy noodles in the air to cool.
Pictures of him… and another woman. Rainy Days.
This scene takes place before tomorrow's 2025.06.22 entry.
[Author retains copyright (c)2025 R.S.]
#gender #fiction #writer #author
#mystery #thriller #romance #sf #sff #sciencefiction
#writing #writingcommunity #writersOfMastodon #writers
#RSdiscussion
#RSstory #RSReluctanceStory
#microfiction #flashfiction #tootfic #smallstory
#writever Reducing
"Should you invoke the Reducing Spell on yourself in hopes of hiding, then only do it standing on stone. Your more than a hundred pounds over an inch in size wold burrow into soil, even dry, as into butter."
#writever Whisk
The art of ghostweaving is a subtle one. It takes decades to learn to whisk ectoplasm into long wisps, and then to thread the wisps together into a ghost sheet.
And it does not pay well.
#writever Batter
Every single member of the robots' cricket team was an excellent batter *and* bowler, and an incredible runner. They'd have won the international competition, had the French not remarked that playing without any clothes on was forbidden.
#writever Rod
That was typical of men. Believing that, since spells cast by a Witch looked like lightning, then a metal rod stuck in the ground would attract and absorb them.
She sighed, picked the rod and the frog, and flinged them both toward the lake.
#writever Chef
The highly trained assassins sent by the Vizier to settle the King's account found is wise to avoir the guardhouse and go through the kitchens instead. Sore mistake: the Chef and the staff minced them. Literally.
#writever Sweat
The Knight was taking his armor off. His skin was various shades of red.
“I knew the Dragon was cooking something up…” said the Princess, smiling.
“Don't say it.”
“…He was keen to make you sweat.”
The Knight sighed.
#writever Buckwheat
"Er..." said the apprentice. "Does it matter what sort of batter you put the remedy in ?"
"For medical efficiency, no", saif the Witch. "But this is Britanny... Is the remedy sweet or salty?"
"Salty."
"Buckwheat, then."
#PennedPossibilities 700 — Is there a particular memory that your SC wishes they could forget? Celebrating the 700th Penned Possibilities prompt with a short noir tootfic. CW: violence.
This:
She checked the address on the slip, having expected to find an aerie on one of the big downtown buildings that she would have to fly up to, but it was just three stories with a wide square courtyard. A day angel lived down here? Slumming it like a daemon? She'd been instructed to enter overhead, so she backflapped until she landed in the dusky courtyard, scattering dried leaves, causing a surprising amount of litter rustle, and lofting dirt. Her nose tingled. A half dead tree with three green leaves stood in the middle along with badly rain stained redwood garden furniture that looked as if it had petrified over time. She stepped toward shipping boxes, most ripped open—recently by their cleanliness. The building cut off the sounds of the city, rendering the atmosphere eerie. Judging by the soot and overlapping footprints, the last time somebody had swept was, well, never.
A gleam under a torn newspaper in the shadows caught her eye, so she fluttered over. Eyes not yet adjusted to the dimness, she picked it up reflexively.
A chef's knife.
Used. Wait? Had someone cut themselves and flung it away? She looked at the fresh looking red.
Spotting fresh footprints in the dirt, she padded along side to the open door of an apartment. "D," read the letter above the lintel; the one she looked for to deliver the message. She crept in, but stopped when she saw someone laying facedown on the floor. Had the day angel fallen? She rushed over, kneeling before she noticed the puddle on the dark wood.
It wet her knees.
Red. Sticky.
She looked to the knife she still held, shrieked, and flung it away. Stomach clenching, gagging from the smell of blood—and the iron tang of it, which she suddenly tasted with the scent—and from the realization that the man had soiled himself in death. Gagging, heart racing and making her dizzy, she ran for the still open door. For fresh air.
In the courtyard, her legs gave out and she vomited on all fours, her wings flared out limply around her.
Strong arms grabbed her shoulders, wrestling her to her feet. She shrieked again and tried to flapped the wingless woman away, but the woman had the fighting know-how to avoid her untrained teenage resistance. She kept her from flying. The newcomer hissed. "Stop it! The constables are coming. This way! I'm with the syndicate, too."
She heard the whee of constable whistles as she got hustled down a hallway, down stairs, through a basement passage that connected to another building that eventually exited two streets over to the more distance sound of constable whistles and sirens. The woman handed her a kerchief to wipe her mouth. A bile flavor lingered. A day angel in a uniform flapped past overhead for all she was worth.
They walked away.
Another woman rushed up and paced them. She waved a camera and grinned. "I got photos of her kneeling beside Greenway, holding the knife. She didn't even notice me!"
Bolt's heart stuttered. She looked and saw specks of blood on her companion. Greenway's murderer tightened the grip on her arm, pushing her forward, keeping her walking. "Don't freak on me."
In her mind, Bolt saw the bloody knife. That she had held. She relaxed by force of will, shivering.
The woman gave a half smile, "So, what name are you using? Lightning Bolt? Boss tells me you're the syndicate's new winged-messenger..."
Streak won't forget the day she was blackmailed into the mob. She relives it in her nightmares. She'd run after breaking a window and rolling a van downhill in her hometown. She couldn't collect her basic income in the big city for fear she'd be discovered by the constables. She'd needed a job. She'd needed to eat. To think what to do next.
Well, that worked well!
[Author retains copyright (c)2025 R.S.]
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#mystery #thriller #sf #sff #sciencefiction
#writing #writingcommunity #writersOfMastodon #writers
#RSdiscussion
#RSstory #RSReluctanceStory
#microfiction #flashfiction #tootfic #smallstory
#writever Fat
"Guys, the supply ship just arrived... and it seems to bring quite a lot of high-fat meals. Ordered by you, R42."
"Indeed. It will be a reasonable substitute for the mineral oil which you decided not to order."
#writever Assembly
"No," said R42, "We robots do not have a learning stage. On our first power-on, a copy of a complete mind is written into our brain, so that when we leave the assembly line, we are already perfectly functional."
#writever Prune
"Did you know," said the Princess, "that all Knights are related? All branching off, as it were, from the same family tree."
"Are they?" said the Dragon. "I do good then, when I prune it from time to time."
#writever Roux
“AAH, HOW HORRIBLE, WITCH, YOU COOKED MY DOG!”
"Hmm? Ah, no, that's a roux I just made for my dinner. Your dog is in the garden. My cat is teaching him to meow, I believe."
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