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RS, Author, Novelist, Prosaist

#ScribesAndMakers 2025.05.02 — If you paint, do you have “recipes” or tricks for mixing colors, or do you eyeball it?

I paint with light. My two main recipes is to recognize bright colors on a dim background (which will render black in posts) or to recognize contrasting colors that will render a bright foreground (orange, purple, yellow, white) against a contrasting background (usually blue, brown, or green). Though it's a bit harder, I try to imagine the scene as bright against dark, as monochrome. This renders as either painterly (low contrast) or blown out (solarized). I do these things instinctively without having to raise the camera. Lots can be fixed in post.

Technique described in #altText.

[Author and photographer retains copyright (c)2025 R.S.]

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RS, Author, Novelist, Prosaist

#WordWeavers 2503.05 — What social classes do your MC and antagonist belong to?

I can only answer by analogy. When I mention a race, for example, bear in mind the Reluctance Universe isn't a future derivative of our society. That some people have wings; that makes a difference.

The WIP can be thought of as taking place in 1960s America. There will be a space to the moon, which makes it consistent. One MC is lower class black and the other is middle class white, but she's the child of an immigrant; her mother feels safer living in the black neighborhood. They become lovers.

In answers to challenge games, I often describe the main series antagonist as the President Kennedy of her era, with the black MC being the Marilyn Monroe, but she is classless—as both not having a class and sometimes lacking class. She was born at a time when women were chattel to what would be considered peasants, but she changed all that. What constitutes elite in the modern era is her choice since she's now an absolute ruler, but she rarely puts on the class airs others expect. If being disruptive aids her in accomplishing goals, her behavior will be disruptive. She's at times elegant, even statesman-like, or she can be an exhibitionist. She simply doesn't care... if she doesn't want to.

[Author retains copyright (c)2025 R.S.]

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RS, Author, Novelist, Prosaist

2503.05 5/31 — Mirror #Writever #Mars #SpaceOpera

Walking out of the cafeteria, May Ri got a ping. Her book plate read, "You've got a berth. Report immediately." When she touched her ear, Chip, her Mars T.A., shouted, "May Ri, where are you?"

Another scheme to collect his commission? "I've three more years to my degree and I'm tracked for the masters program, so No to the berth."

Her last word echoed. She saw Chip's shaggy head bobbing in the thin crowd as he ran her way, followed by a brawny brown-haired guy in a greenish jumpsuit with a EM Mars triskelion patch.

It matched the tattoo on her forearm.

"Look, look," Chip said, showing his book plate while glad-arming her down a side hall. She struggled when the EM goon clamped an aromatic wet rag over her nose and mouth.

Waking weightless and nauseated—stuffy head pounding, being floated somewhere—despite grogginess, she eyes-closed punched someone, spinning away to bounce off a wall. The click of cartilage, the thump off a bulkhead, the blare of a warning horn, and "Rig for ring spin!" rang in her ears. A tech clapped a bag over her mouth before she vomited up her last meal, while enduring the blonde's glare as blood beaded around her nose. May Ri glowered back. Sitting on the wall, dragged on her butt, her inner ear then her innards, informed her it was now the floor.

Calming down, she noticed soft pastels of the ferrous, ferric, and ferrosoferric colors of Mars on the ceiling, new walls, and spin floor: greenish, pale red, and slightly black. When the tech said, "This one's combative," May Ri saw a grey-haired woman in a ferrous colored uniform approach. She sported a tiny gold braid embroidery patch and a bored expression.

"I was kidnapped!" May Ri shouted, jumping up, nearly losing the weighty barf-bag as she clunked the ceiling with her head. The woman caught her and handed off the bag, placing her on her feet, then let her complain until she lost steam and felt the cold ventilator breeze ten minutes later. She asked, "Are you the captain?" then thought, She's a woman!?

"His wife. I command third shift. What do you want me to do? Turn the ship around?"

It struck her. She was in transit to Mars.

Her kindly eyes were caramel brown. "Engineering student? I get it, but because of a financial disagreement this may be our last transit out for years. Your contract allows managers to make decisions based on your prior choices." She pointed at May Ri's triskelion tattoo that showed the faces of Mars on it. "That's a Yes if we cannot otherwise guarantee fulfilling your contract."

May Ri shivered. Reality had a knack for beating her bloody.

"We will transit back, but insisting on returning means breaching your contract, paying back scholarships, and facing your Decath sponsor to explain why you didn't take the blessing granted you." A glance at a book plate; she frowned. "Reverend Peters? Guess you're from Chicago, too."

The one who'd told her she was undeserving of even being a housewife. Had he approved her application as Mars colonial fodder to get an a-theist off Earth?

"Few Decath ministers choose the high ground. A few recently died. Just saying. Look, other than apologizing to Anne—she's in your cohort—no hard feelings?" She offered a hand, then scrolled her book plate. "Says here you've earned prelim suit qualification. I've exterior maint that needs doing. Since you've missed out on your degree, a space qualification would rank you up. Wanna try...?"

May Ri didn't seethe for long. A woman, especially, couldn't fight the male dominated system. Five days later she found herself outside, tethered, magnetic shoes clamped to the spine of the ship. Behind, aft, she saw the black radiator plate beyond which lay the nuclear rocket. A totally reflective, totally misnamed Starship shuttle stood as a fat needle at the bow. A clip from an ancient vid called 2001: A Space— something had featured in EM Mars propaganda. The five rings looked like that, but silver. The stars, though: Static, unmoving, except as reflected in the rotating rings. Enthralling.

Still...

She regarded herself in the mirror-sheened stainless steel cladding of the transit vehicle. Her tools? She could easily mischaracterize them as a mop and a wash bucket (they weren't), and herself as an exhausted housewife with a sweaty brow (it was) left home to do worthless work. Yet... she could properly characterize it as removing rocket burn debris and polishing out micro-meteor gouges. Most of all, she was doing it in a spacesuit, not Mom's kitchen apron.

"Kind of exciting," she said.

"May Ri?" a comm duty officer asked.

She smiled. "Nothing." #RSMarsNeededWomen 05

[Author retains copyright (c)2025 R.S.]

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RS, Author, Novelist, Prosaist

2503.04 4/31— Glue #Writever #gender #fiction #SF

The young woman—no, teenage Martian—leapt up from her frog squat, unstrapping her respirator mask and removing thick rust-stained gloves when May Ri entered the dome. The place smelled of chemicals. Filter fans whirled loudly as she said, "I read that you want to build things. Right?" Slightly taller than than the Earther, she reached out a hand, smiling.

"Right." They shook. Warm, firm.

"Didn't get to finish school before the emergency boarding call? I got you assigned to me. I'll be your teacher. Isn't that nice?"

Emergency boarding, May Ri thought. A euphemism for kidnapping. Not this girl's fault.

The woman squatted, like a frog. Her thighs showed muscles, which in 1/3rd gravity spoke volumes. May Ri sat beside her. She saw no EM Mars tattoo anywhere on her body, easy enough since the Martian basically wore skimpy tight underwear despite the temperature being at most 12ºC. Some sort of synth silk that outlined too much, with rubber-soled powder blue knit socks. She displayed serious curves, but only needed the tight black tank top on Mars to contain it. On Earth, scandalous; Decath propriety police would arrest her on the spot.

Pointing, the Martian said, "These cans are myco-epoxy. These bricks are shrooms grown with symbiotic proprietary algae and bacti." The cheerful egghead rambled on, thumping the rubber balloon outer dome membrane to show where the bricks would go.

"What's your name?" May Ri asked.

The girl stopped short, looking shocked as if static electricity had jumped between them. Redheaded, faintly freckled but with Asian eyelids, and very innocently sexy, her grey eyes blinked. "Um. S-sorry. I'm the first nisei—" First generation. "Reina Itō. Most people call me Onēsanue, which is kind of stupid." She continued her mycological construction techniques lecture.

When May Ri held up a hand, Reina interjected, "No fears! I'm teaching you all about martian building techniques and engineering because you missed out. I'm tops in it! I've got all the books."

She looked the age to be growing out of dolls and rebelling against her mother's clothing choices. It said something about Martian society, but May Ri wasn't sure what. "How old are you?"

"Just turned 7." She grinned brightly, holding up a left hand with long fingers. She proved her age by one thing: a barely suppressed squeal as she rotated a rusted-and-waxed steel ring on her fourth finger. It had a pebble texture that might be interpreted as artsy.

May Ri blinked, shook her head unable to not convert in her head: 13 years, 2 months? "The ring?"

Now Reina smiled. "Roger paid for it. He's on the Belt Asteroid Assessment crew. I married him on vid downlink on my birthday. He's a very cute hardworking import, like you, though kind of quiet, your age, and he'll be returning on resupply in half a year for our honeymoon!"

A Martian half-year. Reina bounced in her squatting position with tendons of elastic, but it was low gravity. May Ri thought it fortunate that no men were there to witness the spectacle. The movement caught her like a magnet to steel.

"We are going to be the people-glue that makes Mars strong, my sansei children and I. Can't wait. Sooooo excited...!" #RSMarsNeededWomen 04

[Author retains copyright (c)2025 R.S.]

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RS, Author, Novelist, Prosaist

2503.03 3/31 — Housewife #Writever CW: Dystopian

The day May Ri found an advert for the EM Mars Colonization effort wasn't a good one. During school prayer in history class, she moved her mouth with her head down, reading her book plate instead. She hadn't suspected the substitute teacher could read lips.

"Miss Ri, continue alone."

When she did an imitation of a gasping fish, the whole 9th grade history class watching, the teacher asked, "Were you even praying?"

May Ri went from embarrassed to angry in a heart beat. "I'm an a-theist. What do you think?"

That got her a meeting with the public school's Decath minister. Her father had told her to hide it, that the laws made pro forma good enough so long as she didn't hurt the feelings of her classmates—but it depended on the believer you mouthed off to.

When she later told Reverend Peters, "I don't have an invisible friend like you do," the elderly man smiled, turned away, hands behind his back, to look out at Lake Le Salle from their vantage on the 95th floor of the Chicago Lakeshore arcology. After minutes being ignored, she stepped beside him, to examine the expanse of blue water, framed by storm clouds to the north, wondering what caught his gaze.

He said, "Makes you feel small and insignificant, doesn't it? God knows you are. What are you planning on when you grow up?"

"I—I like building things. I can do maths."

"Not happening."

Her face heated up as he added, "You lack the necessary blessings. Let me explain it in a way even a girl can understand—" His lips were pursed as his brown eyes caught her gaze.

Only then did she realize she'd begun to sweat, that the temperature in the room was dropping quickly.

"Learn to keep your mouth shut," he said, counting on his fingers, lifting his forefinger. "Some man will marry you not because you are passably pretty but because you look strong enough to bear healthy sons." Another finger. "Become a housewife, do as he tells you, keep quiet, and allow him to teach the blessing to his children." Another thin finger. "Do so and you may yet live a good life, if undeserving..."

After school, she studied the advert posted outside the admin office, later saving it to her book plate. EM Colonizations paid a premium for women, provided schooling. It was understood in not so many words that she needed to bear children, but all hands male and female were precious so she didn't fear that. She understood also that she'd be able to build things, that she'd be able to put to use any engineering skill she acquired. If she couldn't prove Peters wrong, starting that day she had a plan.

Becoming a revolutionary? That was something you don't plan for. #RSMarsNeededWomen 03

[Author retains copyright (c)2025 R.S.]

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RS, Author, Novelist, Prosaist

2503.02 2/31 — Rights #Writever CW: Fictional Violence

Prologue

May Ri clanged the arm of the mining exoskeleton into the wall of the habitat, drawing sparks, blocking the onrushing man, cutting him off when he tried to dodge under—before flipping him backwards back down the corridor. Blood gushed from his nose to match what stained his hands.

"I have the right!" he yelled, arm across his face to stem the flow. "She's my wife!"

May Ri's footsteps clanged as she stomped forward. He slid himself back on the floor as the other women in the Vigilantes caught up. They'd used the ugly word, Vigilante, intentionally; women weren't allowed but needed to police their domes, or risk injury from stronger men who suddenly got ideas.

She said, "Your wife is an import, like me? You left her to give birth alone, to raise her daughter, and now you want to take that daughter away? To sell to your boss? Really? Your right?"

She looked at the harried women, some breathing hard, sweating. Faces gone pale in fear, others with wide eyes trying to process how cruel reality had once again smashed all sense of security. May Ri understood: if they kept the male returnees from the inner belt disaster locked out of the habitat long enough, they'd have to capitulate. However, if she failed to demonstrate now that the Vigilantes could hold firm when a man broke his wife's arm, beating her to have his way—

He yelled back, "Marrying her off to a better life? Yes! Who are you to argue a man's God given right—?"

"Really?" she interrupted. Women had never had reliable rights, if you trusted history hadn't been rewritten. She didn't. She'd read books made of paper, yellowed, that smelled of centuries past! Her five kilogram gauntleted hand already in motion, she screamed, "Mars is not Earth! It never will be!" #RSMarsNeededWomen

[Author retains copyright (c)2025 R.S.]

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RS, Author, Novelist, Prosaist

#PennedPossibilities 324 — SC POV: If you could relive one day of your life without changing anything that happened, which day would you choose? Tootfic: Reframing the Experience

[When my SC says armor, it's really a weightless magical exoskeleton that melds with her body. It looks like blackened bones, because it is. —R.S.]

Oh, there's plenty of days I'd relive unchanged. Like the day I fledged, when I first flew on my own. Or the day learned the thrill of hauling things through the sky. Both good events in a rather dull and awful childhood that turned to cinders when my parents disapproved of the way I wanted to live my life. Said I aimed for the dirt not the sky. Maybe they weren't so dumb—I ended up badly, flying messages for a crime boss over a dozen years. But, then, there was that day last week...

I've told you a few times how I ended up with the armor and a new job training as a pretorian, you know, having faced down the greatest thaumaturge who ever lived, having nearly killed her. Impressed her.

I thought.

Well, my drill instructor was training me that dawn. I wore the armor. The thaumaturge dove at me, full speed. She's a monster flier, taller, more massive, immortal. I jumped into the sky. Fled.

She followed.

Though the armor let me fly like a sparrow, change direction in a heartbeat, and take a thumping only slightly changing my course, it had been her armor once. She kept appearing before me, striking at my face or heart, sending me into spins toward the ground, stalling me out, almost panicking me into flying into trees or buildings. For all her mass and the inertia that implies, I barely avoided her, half the time with her cackling at my barrel rolls or dives that sent down feathers flying. She had muscle; I tired despite the armor until I thought my heart would burst from my chest, at which point a flyby pitched me into the ground.

I skid across the running track on my belly right up to my instructor. I don't know how I didn't break a wing or my neck. Ok, I do: The Armor.

She landed beside me with a loud thump. She wasn't even winded! She told him, "She lacks stamina. Train her harder."

She leaned down until her face was in my face. I smelled maple syrup on her breath. She said, "You need to use the magic in the armor. There's a class at first bell in the Ivory building, room B7. Shower and be there ON TIME."

I have wings.

I don't do magic.

I showered though, once my legs stopped shaking. I slunk into the class still half-frightened out of my wits. My new friend was there, the curse breaker, a former prizefighter, the one I'd fought beside against Her, that ended up with me getting the armor. It was some sort of advanced special Ed class for mages. I suddenly felt totally inadequate and I cried. Me. At the age of 27, I cried telling her my story, pointing to my purpling bruises, complaining that had She gotten in a good strike She would have caved in my rib cage.

My friend was having none of it. She said, "You're a day angel who just went ten minutes fighting Her. Somehow, you're still alive."

I hadn't thought about it that way. I later learned the word, "Reframing."

The instructor came in with a truckload of tomes and grimoires. She had prepared him for me. He gave me a magic primer. I knew it was a primer because it had PICTURES of youngsters playing. Despite the stares of the other students, I read the book.

Half hour later, I got the armor to glow dull red, like iron out of a forge. Truly. Awesome. Didn't know what it did except look intimidating, but still...

Awesome.

I felt my heart grow large in my chest, and it struck me. Someone (okay, the ruler of the nation) wanted me for who I was and who I could become, and because I was capable. She wanted me to aim for the sky. My new friend supported me and pushed me forward. I liked this, who I was, what I was finding I could be, could become.

And.

Oddly.

I realized, for what it was worth, my parents would approve. (And flap them if they didn't!)

Best. Day. Ever.

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

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RS, Author, Novelist, Prosaist

As an #author I often assume knowledge that I should ask about. So, here's the ask: As an average person, if you saw a woman in an urban situation with a #wolf (it is a wolf but nobody is saying it is a wolf), would you assume it was a #dog?

Please boost for maximum sample size.

Feel free to comment if you have experience with telling the difference or studying #wolves.

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#Writer #Writing #WritingCommunity #WritersAMastodon #Fiction #Fantasy #UrbanFantasy
#WordWeavers #WritersCoffeeClub
#RSInklingsStory #poll

· 58 people · Closed
RS, Author, Novelist, Prosaist

#WritersCoffeeClub Ch 3 Nbr 21 — What things make a good book cover design?

Something that will intrigue readers into buying the book. I'm no designer and suspect I'll seek professional advise if I self-publish. If I conventionally publish, the publisher will consider such a thing advertising and I will consider myself lucky if they ask for suggestions.

Once I was asked. Two main characters got on the cover, a Japanese teenager and a sheepdog/human chimera. What was drawn were a caucasian vogue model and a wookie. The book sold out the printing, so I guess I can't complain.

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RS, Author, Novelist, Prosaist

A #Fediverse #feditips #mastodon question as a poll: How does markdown render in your web-UI or Masto-app?

I was astonished when I realized what rendered in my web-UI didn't render at all an app. See the images in the first comment to see what choices A and B would look like. If you see lines rendered without leading symbols or italics, the rendering engine is eating the markdown silently, which is choice C.

This is quoted text starting with a right angle bracket and a space.

This paragraph includes italics quoted by a single asterisk and bold quoted by double asterisks.

  • This is a bulleted list item starting with an asterisk and a space.

This is a section header or title starting with a hashtag and a space.

Please boost for more visibility.

Hit up the comments to add further detail, especially if choice C is applicable.

Writing hashtags because having your writing render as expected is important.
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RS, Author, Novelist, Prosaist

#Links to #Story Samples Written by R.S.

I've written very short fiction stories in my universe for #Mastodon under various hashtags. They're first citizen samples of my 1st person writing, in my casual—made to be read aloud—writing style, and include my still evolving characters. None tally much more than 750 words, with a hard character limit set by my instance. I think they're an easy read. Some are based on my earlier works, some on works not yet written. Most of what was written for Mastodon was written quickly, edited immediately, then posted. It could be better, but I've resisted more than revising typos or inappropriate words. Everything is experimental; nothing should be considered canon.

Stories:

Excerpts with proposed titles:

Interviews:

Other:

[Author retains copyright to all posted words]

All my answers to #writingWonders can be found by clicking: eldritch.cafe/@sfwrtr/tagged/W

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#suddenFiction ~750 words

Eldritch CaféRS, Author, Novelist, Prosaist (@sfwrtr@eldritch.cafe)Content warning: #WordWeavers 9.1 —Introduce your antagonist with as much sympathy as possible. CW: Mild fantasy battlefield depiction.
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RS, Author, Novelist, Prosaist

@hannah Whilst I realize the picture is humorous, since you have an iPhone you can actually take a good moon picture.

  • Open camera
  • On line that reads ... VIDEO PHOTO PORTRAIT, slide upward to reveal settings.
  • Tap the one that is a ± in a circle. This is exposure compensation.
  • Set to -2.0.
  • Zoom in on Moon.
  • Tap until it comes into focus in the yellow square and hold until AE/AF LOCK shows at the top.
  • If the moon is still too bright, slide the little yellow sun to the right of the yellow box to make the image dimmer until you can see the mare on the moon properly.
  • Unpinch and recompose the image, if you want some background buildings, trees.
  • Take a burst of pictures by pressing and sliding the shutter button to the left. You'll hear rapid shutter sounds. Hold for a few seconds. (If you are taking video, you slid right. Try again.)

Since your hand is shaking (everyone's is), the burst technique combined with the camera stabilization will find the few instants between the up/down/side to side where your hands stopped.

Save the best image in the burst, which will be amazing.

IMPORTANT: Reset the exposure compensation to 0.0, or you'll be cursing me out for the next few weeks.

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RS, Author, Novelist, Prosaist

#WritingWonders 4.3 — The Wanted Poster by R.S.

Someone knocked with what proved to be a clipboard before coming into the conference room, and the various lieutenants' bodyguards stiffened. The thug still had a bandage over his eye and an arm in a sling as he walked in and discreetly handed the clipboard to me. I looked at the single page.

"Not a joke?" I whispered, my mouth wide open.

"No, Boss."

The poster had official diffraction stripes with rainbow lettering. It displayed two images, one snapped after I'd shoved the boss down on the seat of the brougham as we fled the summit, less than a minute before the carriage exploded. It showed me in a hooded cape with my chin mask up, unluckily glowering at the lens. The second was a bank image. The scale showed my above average height. This time my hood was down for visibility and my hair up in a gangland bouffant. The chin mask was intact. Despite soot from the riots on my face, you could see my flattened nose and brushed eyebrows, but not the most important part. I escorted the boss past on the sidewalk. Between the crash gate grate and her having just darted to my right, you couldn't see her wings or face.

You could identify the Old Harbors Post Office across the street by its century old architecture.

Fortunately, the image of me drenched in blood that evening, the one under the headline in the morning edition, wasn't included. The constables hadn't made that connection, except to the extent that the first line of the wanted poster read, "Detain for questioning by order of Rainy Days, Director of Home".

I shivered. The evil woman was too close to connecting the dots. I had to excise the Mustang elements that could take advantage of the chaos and to prevent the syndicate from spinning into internecine war. I was already responsible for too many deaths because I'd been too cowardly to do what I knew was right. This poster meant I had to disappear and leave the east coast sooner than later. It was if I watched my plausible deniability lining up at the window like a string of rats and, one by one, defenestrating itself.

It read further, "Wanted for questioning in regards to the Old Harbors Post Office and the Three Forks Bridge explosions. Suspected of transporting illegal goods and wanted persons, assault, racketeering, attempted murder, and terrorism. Goes by the name Gelding and other aliases. Aged between 15 and 35."

I muttered, "A two-decade range? I'm not even two decades old." I really worked on disguising myself, and it paid off.

"High-level thaumaturge without a limiter. If apprehended, shackle to a hard surface to prevent escape. Consider dangerous. Reward for information leading to arrest: 2 years basic."

I loved praise and grinned at being recognized as high-level, but added, "I'm not dangerous."

South Beach snorted, then sat there her chest bouncing as she struggled with a hand over her mouth to hold in her laughter. I looked around the room. The men and women smiled, getting the joke, but others looked serious. Feathers made rustling noises. They knew I had the kiss of death.

I grinned, handing the clipboard back to my thug secretary. "Burn that."

"Yes, Boss."

[Author retains copyright]

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