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?
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.
(/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..."
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.
"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!
#PennedPossibilities 211 — Where does your MC draw inspiration in life? What motivates them? Wintereyes in the Caves of Wood
Nature—it's all around you.
Imagine, for a moment if you will, that you are a little girl and you live in a small farmhouse near a forest. You like playing outside any chance you get. When you sit on a log, listening to the rustling of the leaves and watch the butterflies flit by, you feel the entire world of life speaking to your heart. Sometimes birds fly over, even land on your shoulder or head, and they chirp and sing, as if they know you understand them. You want to believe that you do, just as you are aware of a deer crashing through the underbrush and think her unhappy because of the stag she smells, just as you hear the mice skittering to their dens and think they whine about the red fox. You hear all the beasts as they pass by or watch warily.
You always have, but now you're 7 years old and the spirits pull you strongly.
One day the rain ends, and something tells you to look through the droplets spattering the glass and wetting the garden. The world is so verdantly green, uncounted spirits sing in delight that they are so incredibly alive. Your gaze lifts to the forest, to the brush and brambles.
To the left, about there...
You see...
Tawny eyes.
Your eyes meet. You know they've met. You feel your heart thump in growing anticipation. What is this? Like a friend you knew once long ago, you now recognize what you've forgotten, though you know not what it is. The beast takes a step, branches part, and you see a wolf. Grey ruff. Tan and brown fur. Pink scarred black nose.
You lift the casement window without hesitation, to see more clearly, to smell the rain freshened air and hear the dripping from the eaves. The wolf looks either way, sniffing, ready to bolt should the farmer who hates him be lurking, but he isn't. You know it is market day, and you are alone, practicing your numbers and letters. You lean out, waving, knowing your Mom and Da would say that's wrong.
The wolf trots into the clearing, then along the row of cabbages, careful not to touch, leaving prints in the mud. Not worried he might be tracked, but curious because he feels something. Within a minute he stands below the sill, looking up. You see a curved tongue for a moment, then he sniffs. You smell wet fur, and because he pants, you smell that last mouse he ate.
You can tell he feels what you felt. He sees a friend he knew once long ago and now recognizes that it is you he forgot.
"Wait," you say.
He tilts his head, eyes blinking, as you scramble to the drawer beside the tiny table that serves as your desk. You grab the tine of a deer antler you knew was special, grasping it and rushing back, only to see paws on the sill, the wolf studying your room, and you, frowning. He is /that/ big. He whines softly, tapping his teeth together.
You walk up, wondering if he might take fright. Might snarl. Might bite, but you know better. You don't stop until your nose touches his muddy wet one. It's cold. You've seen this greeting from very far away. You breathe the same warm moist air, and he blinks, not frightened at all!
You're not frightened, either, and your heart races with certainty.
Grasping the tine, you think, /We're friends and have always been. I so want us to speak again./
The antler tine warms and a silvery glow envelopes you both in the same warmth, that very warmth that kindred spirits feel when they meet again. The air sings with a chorus of half-heard voices of joy.
Friends once more.
The texture and fabric of a whine and a yip and clicking of teeth change. You understand he says, "The hunt has been good. The world is new once more and the air clean! Why do you hide from us in these caves of wood?"
-=-=-=-=-
When nature speaks to you, the spirits inspire you to know it better.
@whknott
Tall fellow: "You'd think it would look clean, or shiny, or something after it rains."
Short fellow to the left: "You would."
"I still don't get what it means."
"Neither do I! You know what I hate about civic art installations?"
"That you don't get them?"
"No—"
"That they're too expensive?"
"How much went into... Is it supposed to be a rat? Some kind of statement about urban decay and urban gentrification? You could build a small building from the steel. No, it's not that, or the expense."
"What then?"
The taller fellow finally walks under the titanic structure that straddles main street, then swats liquid off the shoulder of his suit jacket. "It's that the monstrosity drips rust after it rains."
#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."
#WritersCoffeeClub Ch 5 Nbr 20 — Do you have a blog? Tell us about it and share a link.
I have a /bloog,/ multiples, but they are enough out of date that they reveal my name and gender. I write gender fiction, and knowing my gender identity definitely adds subtext to what I write. I will correct my prior faux pas, updating the sites. Eventually, I'll share links.
My sites include:
A fine art photography site. I've done weddings and events, too.
A writing life author site. It includes discussions of what worked for me, observations about the universe, and would also promote my writing.
A commented link site. It's primarily about automation and stupid AI implementation destroying the fabric of society, impoverishing the very consumers people want to buy what automation and AI make more profitable. I bring up BASIC income and other unpopular ideas quick-envy-slow-to-think people hate because someone might be getting a free ride that they never got. /Never mind the pitchforks silhouetted in the distant torch light./
#WordWeavers 2401.15 — Do you write about dysfunctional relationships?
Sometimes. Rarely. I was brought up in a loving situation by a strict but reasonable parent. I write mostly about what I've experienced, which is character internal issues or external forces causing the conflicts and being the obstacle, not relationship dysfunction.
I have modeled my villains on some bad actors in my life, though. So be warned.
#PennedPossibilities 188 — Is your SC one to be loyal in relationships, or are they likely to quickly move from one bond to another?
Good opportunity to change to another WiP, /Inkling,/ to think up a tentative deep background for the SC. Sorry if this comes off as a jacket burb, but I hope you enjoy the implications.
The unnamed exchange student is from a nation in the Island Sea called Ink's Mage, where he is the fifth son of a chieftain. Never expected to succeed his father, he's a fisher, an apprentice builder of boats, a painter of promise, and skilled in household not offensive wand use. He's learned to read, which means learning the language of traders. He has little to prove, unlike his brothers. Most women like him but stay away—most of them. He has a girlfriend people often see him sailing with, but children would be a problem. They say they were childhood friends; they were. He's essentially an extra prince. That's dangerous until the next chieftain is known. When his father is murdered and blood squabbles begin, the chieftain's wife wants to send him to Capital City on the Endless Island (the continent) "to train to be a diplomat." He agrees when his girlfriend is threatened and he has to disappear to save her.
Women on the continent, especially at the school he attends, are different. They know what they want. Despite saying they adhere to strange proprieties, they practice being discreet—and he's exotic, covered with prismatic tattoos of palms, mountain flowers, the sea, and the monsters below the waves. Discreet works. It's not so much him moving from one bond to another, but them. One that came close to feeling permanent, moved far away without ever warning him she would when she graduated. He's not exactly sure what to think of these skinny frail women, all with pure skin hidden away from the sun's tanning rays, all unbecomingly devoid of ink like underaged children. He's become unsure he'll ever find a lasting bond, were he forced to live exiled forever.
Then he mets an exceedingly shy woman as tall as palm trees, as lithe as fronds. He spots a bundle of stunning sky blue feathers inked below her right knee.
He doesn't know a wolf follows her, hidden in the bushes...
Friendship is hard to explain. Liking someone so much that the fire burns in your heart instead of your throat? Significantly harder—especially when kith and kin see him and think "thief" or "Is he thinking of killing me?" Maybe I shan't try to win acceptance, but I don't want to give it up. Won't.
You look at the harvest moon in the purple and pink glory of an autumn dusk, breathing in the smokey dry air, standing amidst the crinkle and rustle of the dried fallen leaves /and/ you /realize./ I realize. We see the same thing! We both think, we both appreciate beauty.
When the pink and pearlescent kale sprouted across the Fair Empire that spring, people stood amazed. It unfurled into leafy heads within days as the air warmed and the rains receded. They sprung from soil, rock, or building. Their leaves tasted good, especially sautéed in butter and garlic. Better, people thought: harvest one, three filled in. Blessings from heaven?
I saw weeds not beauty. Few had. Putting them to the knife made them multiply, but kept them immature. The first hot day, the grown heads bolted, so I was spared the worst of the stink that drifted through closed windows. They'd flowered in darkness, expelling darkness. I wrapped my nose and mouth with wet cloths and ventured out.
I saw this: Abandoned carriages, barrels and bales forgotten. Empty boats bobbed in the canals. Silence but for the wind and rustle of leaves. Horses gone.
People gone.
I ran from the pink cancer, from the pearlescent tumors that disfigured our prosperous city. From the evil enchantment, and its killing spores. Others ran. The lucky few. I saw people vanish even so, into dust devils of swirling ash. I know not how I survived.
This, my daughter, is why we never venture near the valley of Death.
I still don't understand why you did what you did. When the detective reneged on the deal after you'd caught the Boss for him, you shoulda run! I was, am, nothing to you, just some idjit girl who'd gotten herself blackmailed into a gang because I really was that flapping stupid and trusting! I'd borne so much bad news to you over those months. We'd shared being caught in his deceit, forced to do horrendous things, having lost everything, our dreams rubbed in our face.
That don't make us two sisters!
Why didn't you run? Why'd you turn, get in the face of the copper that had me on the ground, then spirit me away?
You saved me. You helped discover how to start my life a new. I will be forever thankful. I may never be worthy of such a gift, but—