WRITER FUEL: The innermost Earth-like planet in the famous TRAPPIST-1 system might be capable of supporting a thick atmosphere after all, according to new research.
#ScribesAndMakers Mar 28. What would your best creative life look like if not bound by reality?
A room by myself with a window overlooking nature, a really comfy chair, and a computer. Forever.
(Obviously, I take breaks to do other things and see my family and stuff.)
(And being super famous and beloved would be great.)
#WordWeavers Mar 28: What gives your characters a sense of self-worth or meaning in their life?
At first, their ability to survive by leaning on each other, and later, by fighting back.
#WritersCoffeeClub Mar 28: Happy Respect Your Cat Day! Who or what accompanies you when you write?
I have cats. They hang in the office. Sometimes, one of the curls up in front me, against my chest, while I work.
@leighms The same problem with #crafts and #art. Not long ago someone wrote an article about #scam #fake lacemaker books: https://www.404media.co/bobbin-tatting-lace-ai-generated-books/ When it comes to tutorials, #LLM images become a pest destroying beginners' self esteem.
The only good news: it doesn't kill.
And Bezos, Zuckerberg & Co are complicit, because they want to sell their AI. @writers
@Remittancegirl
Band Name:
Enraged Fop Commander
#designers What's the cover art?
#writers What's the genre?
#fans What's their hit single?
#PennedPossibilities 627 — How does your MC have their home decorated?
Thorn Rose lives in a neighborhood on the "wrong side of the tracks." She's a daemon living in a day angel aerie. That's a tree house, btw, archeculturely known as a village tree. It's an acacia species that resembles dozens of dozens of giant ficus grown together. Day angels can fly to the chamber-like homes grown like bonsai on a gigantic scale, but she has to climb roots and bark steps grown for purposely for people born lacking wings.
Since a lot of action takes place in her bedroom, I recently described that and how Streak enters through her squeaky casement windows. It's got a desk that's a wide flattened branch like a woodear mushroom. Leatherback books fill spiraling branchlet shelves. Pictures hung by red ribbons decorate what passes as walls and include especially "cute" hero shot photos taken of Streak acting uniquely male. Some air rackets now hang from peg-like pruned suckers since she joined that high school athletic club at Rainy Day's request. The ceiling is leaves. Sprites orbit whenever she's home, providing light for her and the ceiling. She's nerdy, so maybe there's a poster showing an exploded view detailing the shells of the crystal spheres, or a new one with the evolution of daemonically driven steam locomotives since she recently got to "disassemble" a sabotaged 2-8-2. Her bed is more of a hammock hung between upright branches than a futon despite the padding. Streak likes it better than his own. They both like her cotton sheets that wick away sweat, light blue, and she's thankful her mother is at least not overly frugal when it comes to sleep comfort. She does have a nice bronze tablecloth over the stump nightstand stacked with lit class reading.
[Author retains copyright (c)2025 R.S.]
#gender #fiction #writer #author
#mystery #thriller #romance #sf #sff #sciencefiction
#writing #writingcommunity #writersOfMastodon #writers
#RSdiscussion
#RSstory #RSReluctanceStory
Gus & Ollie turned to one of the Chipmunk informants, Hugh Jackmunk, to get details on the bizarre Jersey Devil-Deer activity.
https://www.catdetectivecases.com/year8-casefile45/
#cats #writers #cryptids #wildlife
Now Unlocked for the public: We had eyewitnesses and surveillance camera footage of the hybrid Jersey Devil-Deer behaving strangely in a large group. What was this all about? Read Gus & Oliver's #mystery, "Doemestic Terrorism" https://www.catdetectivecases.com/year8-casefile45/
#cats #writers #cryptids #wildlife
#WordWeavers 2503.27 — What small precious memento does a character keep on their person? What makes it precious?
When the devil-girl ran away, she had the choice of taking a picture of her dead mother. She instead took a paperback-sized grimoire, which she sleeps with, the cover stained with sweat and drool. It smells of her. Her mother's voice she can hear from time to time in restaurants in the background. She was an international musical theatre star. She leaves because she doesn't like to cry. Nothing will bring her back. With the 500 year old priceless grimoire, the margins of which is filled with her notes in teeny-tiny colored pen, she can learn to warp reality. She's happy with her choice because it helps her remember a big goal. Revenging her mother's death.
[Author retains copyright (c)2025 R.S.]
#gender #fiction #writer #author
#mystery #thriller #romance #sf #sff #sciencefiction
#writing #writingcommunity #writersOfMastodon #writers
#RSdiscussion
#RSstory #RSReluctanceStory
2503.27 /31 — Voice #Writever #Mars #SpaceOpera
May Ri's daughter Marisela barged into her book plate on a priority director level key. "One of the warships reignited its torch!"
May Ri had been caught in the gym, running. Her sweat cooled immediately. "Not happening!"
Reina camped on. "We've gotten a channel 16 distress call:" A man's voice, warbly due to filters, cried, "Mayday, mayday, mayday. This is the NADSS Bonhomme Richard attempting Mars orbit with forward ship section lost. I require…" Reina added, "LOS."
"Still boosting," Mari confirmed.
May Ri buried her face in terrycloth. "Spinlaunchers?"
"Most report 'Regenerating.'"
"Whatever's ready, target it."
Reina said, "We need to attempt a rescue."
"Bad idea." Very nisei.
"They're transmitting on the deep space network."
"They're staging this. Worse idea."
"Take precautions?"
May Ri remembered a broken condom over 20 years ago…
The cargo ship sported a railgun and a docked tug. She didn't pilot. The NADS warship had achieved a highly elliptical orbit as if aimed by eye, and would soon thunder past Mars. No-grav had delighted her once, but the thumping feeling of pooling blood made her stomach clench, heightening her worry.
She'd failed to make the Earth fleet disappear without a trace from Earth's POV. She recalled who'd murdered Raymond and her father as she studied the truncated stack of cylinders, strap-on tanks and cargo trucks, above a reactor plate and a badly dented engine bell.
As reported. Truthful.
The railgun hummed through the ship superstructure. Unnecessary, but May Ri had made it a feature to ensure people knew they held a sword. Deadly force was a game to men, never to women.
She'd convinced Reina anything could be recorded, rebroadcast, and used against them. If they had radar or a lens, Earth would see a vid of a Sorority "warship" approaching, backlit by the growing disk of the planet of war. Couldn't be helped. May Ri shivered, despite the warm enviro suit. Her fingers on the board, constantly readjusting the targeting, literally itched. They ached to push Launch. Aware she watched a wounded wolf, her heart raced.
So easy to end her misery.
"Go, Helen," she instructed over laser comms.
"Ack." The blocky silver tug retroed toward the kilometers-distant threat.
Later: "Not sure how anyone survived that. Must be an engineering pod with the lit portals. Infrared shows it's not cooling to ambient. Ask?"
"Ask."
"Bonhomme, this is Search and Rescue. Can we assist?" rang over channel 16. "Wait, what's that?"
"What's what?" May Ri cried.
Her vid feed lit up. Doors on the strap-on trucks jettisoned, tumbling away from the hulk, a tiny cloud of sparkles (bolts) reflected ruddy light. More doors sprung away.
Her ship shuddered seemingly before she pressed the button. The recoiless action pounded metal and her joints. An electric Thwat! resounded through her magnetic boots. Again and again.
The view of the warship receded at high-gee as Helen retroed away. Small black spring-loaded missiles, smaller tactical short-range types, lit up even as steel bars tore through bulkheads and ripped cargo trucks, bashing off twisted debris, jerking and rattling sections of the hulk. May Ri saw the lit engineering section's portals explode outward. Little comfort, that.
Later she'd think she'd screamed inarticulately, but she hadn't. The pilot reported seeing spittle spraying her visor.
Targeting solutions against stealth missiles flashed past her eyes; she accepted repeatedly. The high tech machine-gun fired manically, vibrating her flesh, rattling her teeth, as it heated rapidly toward mechanical failure whilst her ship rotated toward the planet.
She swatted poison needles flung into the face of Mars. Debris of a missile shot past her ship unnoticed.
— 2 —
Marisela froze when her mother's voice shouted over the speakers. "They've launched missiles. Take cover!"
Raquel, who worked Alt Comm also, dragged her from her workstation chair, scraping open her arm against a corner. She shoved her down a hall filling with people running for the bomb shelters. Her mother had been so confident, but she'd always thought her Earther cynicism overblown, so not nisei. When Raquel dragged her past a bleeding man who'd been shoved against a wall, she flashed on her spacesuited father stabbed and bleeding onto the red martian sands outside Elysium. This time, all she could do was run.
Run faster.
Run farther.
Run deeper.
The deep thud made her stop. It traveled faster through rock than through the compartmentalized air of a domed city built of regolith concrete and archecultured schoom brick. She never felt the heat blast.
— 3 —
"Two got through. They nuked Herschel." #RSMarsNeededWomen 27
[Author retains copyright (c)2025 R.S.]
