Though Santa Claus is based on St. Nicholas, some people have noted similarities to the Norse god Odin (a flying steed, all-seeing wisdom, etc.). They don't realize that this is because Odin has disguised himself as Santa as a scam to steal modern worshippers. #FairyTaleFlash#FlashFiction
I'm really counting my blessings with all the publications of my work this year. The latest is my poem 'The flavour of friendship (for Margo)' in 'The Auroras & Blossoms Magazine: Issue 1'. Price: $/€/£ 1.99 only.
Since we are talking R.S., it has to be what inspired the character.
My WiP is as mechanically constructed as you can get. I realized my character had a half-year where nothing happened between stories, and that got me thinking.
The difficulty here it that because it would be both a sequel and a prequel, I needed the story to have a reason never be reported while still being knock your socks off. Something that could still be shoehorned into later stories with a phrase like "Oops, that's a state secret. Don't repeat that," and not cause a disruption.
(I actually did. You know. Shoehorn that line into a later story, before completing this WiP.)
So what ideas did I throw at the wall?
An invasion of Earth nobody knew about (which comes from five chapters I never continued). My devil-girl had to had to stop it. I wanted to make it useful for ongoing stories by getting the devil-girl back on the main antagonist' radar by my devil-girl inadvertently doing the MA an enormous solid (i.e., saving Her ass).
Check. Check Check.
Didn't quite take off. My devil-girl wasn't biting. What was the story idea missing?
[Bolt speaking:] I spent the last seven years of my life working in a gang as a runner and bearer of bad news, until /she/ decided we were alike and took me along with her as she decapitated the organization. The event did not go without notice by the constabulary she played to get the job done, or by the powers that be. I saved her, she saved me, then I threw a border stone at the most powerful person in the world to save us all.
Looong story.
Every flapping day since, she makes me feel needed. I had lost my freedom and my life in a cycle of blackmail and darkness. I owe her—for changing me, fixing me, freeing me—though she sees me instead as a helpful friend. Together, I help her make a difference /every/ day.
The east coast of the continent in the piedmont over looking a large bay. In terms of what your people know, the powers that be built a large English country estate around me, including the manor house, in order to isolate and train me every waking hour for talents I didn't know I displayed. We had plenty of servants and tenants to teach me about inequality. In retrospect, my being drilled in empathy might have been on purpose and those servants, also, a lesson. Hot breezes from the bay, a days travel east, laden with humidity did not make the location more pleasant. Working out was always in the afternoon and always sweaty. The baths were a pleasant memory. I ran away from my responsibilities when I grew old enough to pass as an adult.
Bolt reflexively tries to avoid confrontation with people more powerful than herself. She'll explain to you how she expects how she thinks the Boss will react, how he will hurt you, how you'll he'll punish you for your temerity. She rarely thinks of solutions to effectuate what's proposed. She's obviously been beat down one too many times.
Around the MC—who rewards good solutions, says what she expects, and backs her people who don't act stupid even when their attempts at solutions fail—Bolt acts less like a kicked puppy.
#PennedPossibilities 139 — If your MC was a genuine psychic for hire, what would be their main specialization? Astral projection, aka soul travel.
Diana Shadowdancer is a shaman in 2023 working on a DARPA project to make soul travel reliable enough that the practitioner can move things like a poltergeist and remember information read or witnessed. Her discovery is that it takes /two/ people working together to do this /and/ there was good reasons that traditional shamans, in every culture, always worked alone. The word "poltergeist" might give you a clue...
This is a concept from a decade ago I just realized I could write as concept short. Consider reading Soulmate?: https://eldritch.cafe/@sfwrtr/111359427361655491. I will eventually expand it into a science fiction novel.
The waiter reached for the coin on the plate. I smiled because he was well muscled, lean, hips attractively lit in the incipient dawn; everything my body desired. Laying my hand over his, I asked, "Any plans for after your shift?"
"I'm attached," he said demurely and walked inside.
I sniffed at my shoulder. I'd chosen bread over a bath. I could smell the road on me and shrugged, standing. It didn't help that despite looking pretty, I looked odd.
A greyhair exited the same door, wearing a reflective apron. I spotted the flame brand on his right wrist, then the seagrass idyoglyph that climbed up from his right ankle, down his arm, twining around his fingers. He fueled stoves using a dangerous government-controlled miracle.
Blue eyes blinked at me as he changed course. Not too old, if not repelled by my exotic looks; I valued vigor and competence over youth. His eyes took in my rookish legs, their hooves, then flicked to the ibex horns that encircled my head like a laurel wreath. He looked like he'd walk past, but stopped to regard my back. No hiding what peeked out under a smock.
He asked, "Is there a village with people like you? You remind me of my mother."
No. My legs, my back: not somatic changes.
Had I lived here once? Circling the table the /opposite/ way, I asked, "Where's the bath house?"
"I'll show you," he said, not taking the hint.
The cart of wrenches, hammers, and oven parts rattled. He steadied himself with it. I asked, "How young—"
"94." Made sense if he worked difficult miracles his entire life. I felt eyes on my backside. I lacked a rook's horse tail, so I couldn't run as fast. It wasn't what held his attention.
I pointed as we walked east. In this hot region, most buildings were adobe domes with ramadas. The other dozen-floor chimney-like buildings were where the day angels, flying and hauling items through the sky, lived. Scattered shade trees didn't hide the horizon. I smelled the iron smell of a sweaty metalworker as he passed, following my finger.
He didn't see a glow surround me. The horizon brightened.
I felt the heat as I looked away, but it wouldn't go above -3º blood temperature, like everywhere I traveled. "The baths?"
"Left. I-It's shift-end and—"
"I'll treat." /Unbalance, then distract./ "Any news in town?"
"We're getting a railroad spur. Little Star is officially becoming Star Junction..."
/Little Star/ sounded familiar.
A spring fed a series of roofed-over pools. He fueled the owner's stoves so I saved my coppers, while I chose the busy baths for the "unattached" as I had /plans./ When he showed up with a towel around his hips, meaning "not hunting," I told him to scrub my back, hopefully answering his question or cluing him into leaving.
While I sat, shampooing, he grabbed a soap bar and sponge. He knew how to preen feathers.
/Ohhh!/
It was a manly skill, though.
"Mother had a large blue wing and a smaller red one—" He knew to not over-soap, and to zip them together with a dot of oil. "—like you."
I glanced back, having to blink away suds. His skin had the same chalky-white pigment as mine. Two small horns above his temple twined together like trees. Ibex. I shivered. "You remember her?"
"She left her business and my sisters to raise me when I was 7. Yeah."
"Two sisters?"
He nodded. "A red day angel..."
Like her father. Another, raven-haired, with—
"—horns like ours."
I dumped the water bucket over my head. His stool skidded back on the tile as I recalled settling for 19 years, having gotten pregnant. Star looked modern now, had more trees, but was smaller. That this bath hadn't existed didn't make it less likely he was my son. I still looked 24.
Always would. Thus his question.
"Nieces and nephews?"
After a pause: "33, over four generations in the registry." Not counting the ones /he/ and other male children had fathered in other women's registries. The genetic math meant I was closely related to many my apparent age, many I'd consider spending time with. It didn't help that, at my age, I shared genes with everyone alive. Except, /probably,/ dragons.
I flashed on a crying little blond toddler whose horns were erupting, strangling my leg, refusing to let go—dotting me with blood. So adorable, with his big sis manically flapping red wings to tug him off.
My hair dripped, which helped—and I had the excuse of suds. A head only had so much space for memories, not ones I worked hard to forget lest I be haunted by generations who'd lived, loved, and left.
I turned and hugged him, sobbing. He patted me after a time. Later I stayed at my daughter's former home, enduring, never admitting any relation to a great-great parent who'd left no pictures of herself.