#writing speculative fiction

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

🍖 How to Build a Culture Without Just Inventing Spices and Necklaces

(a worldbuilding roast. with love.)

So. You’re building a fantasy world, and you’ve just invented: → Three types of ceremonial jewelry → A spice that tastes like cinnamon if it were bitter and cursed → A holiday where everyone wears gold and screams at dawn

Cute. But that’s not culture. That’s aesthetics.

And if your worldbuilding is all outfits, dances, and spice blends with vaguely mystical names, your story’s probably going to feel like a cosplay convention held inside a Pinterest board.

Here’s how to fix that—aka: how to build a real, functioning culture that shapes your story, not just its vibes.

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🔗 Culture Is Built on Power, Not Just Style

Ask yourself: → Who’s in charge, and why? → Who has land? Who doesn’t? → What’s considered taboo, sacred, or punishable by death?

Culture is shaped by who gets to make the rules and who gets crushed by them. That’s where things like religion, family structure, class divisions, gender roles, and social expectations actually come from.

Start there. Not at the embroidery.

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2.🪓 Culture Comes From Conflict

Did this society evolve peacefully? Was it colonized? Did it colonize? Was it rebuilt after a war? Is it still in one?

→ What was destroyed and mythologized? → What do the survivors still whisper about? → What do children get taught in school that’s… suspiciously sanitized?

No culture is neutral. Every tradition has a history, and that history should taste like blood, loss, or propaganda.

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3.🧠 Belief Systems > Customs Lists

Sure, rituals and holidays are cool. But what do people believe about: → Death? → Love? → Time? → The natural world? → Justice?

Example: A society that believes time is cyclical vs. one that sees time as linear will approach everything—from prison sentences to grief—completely differently.

You don’t need to invent 80 gods. You need to know what those gods mean to the people who pray to them.

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4.🫀 Culture Controls Behavior (Quietly)

Culture shows up in: → What people apologize for → What insults cut deepest → What people are embarrassed about → What’s praised publicly vs. what’s hidden privately

For instance: → A culture obsessed with stoicism won’t say “I love you.” They’ll say “Have you eaten?” → A culture built on legacy might prioritize ancestor veneration, archival writing, name inheritance.

This stuff? Way more immersive than giving everyone matching earrings.

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5. 🏠 Culture = Daily Life, Not Just Festivals

Sure, your MC might attend a funeral where people paint their faces blue. But what about: → Breakfast routines? → How people greet each other on the street? → Who cooks, and who eats first? → What’s considered “clean” or “proper”? → How is parenting handled? Divorce?

Culture is what happens between plot points. It should shape your character’s assumptions, language, fears, and habits—whether or not a festival is going on.

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6. 💬 Let Your Characters Disagree With Their Own Culture

A culture isn’t a monolith.

Even in deeply traditional societies, people: → Rebel → Question → Break rules → Misinterpret laws → Mock sacred things → Act hypocritically → Weaponize or resist what’s expected

Let your characters wrestle with the culture around them. That’s where realism (and tension) lives.

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7.���� Beware the “Pretty = Good” Trap

Worldbuilding gets boring fast when: → The protagonist’s homeland is beautiful and pure → The enemy’s culture is dark and “barbaric” → Every detail just reinforces who the reader should like

You can—and should—challenge the aesthetic hierarchy. → Let ugly things be beloved. → Let beautiful things be corrupt. → Let your MC romanticize their culture and then get disillusioned by it later.

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📍 TL;DR (but like, spicy): → Culture is not food and jewelry. → Culture is power, fear, memory, contradiction. → Stop inventing spices until you know who starved last winter. → Let your world feel lived in, not curated.

The best cultural worldbuilding doesn’t look like a list. It feels like a system. A pressure. A presence your characters can’t escape—even if they try.

Now go. Build something real. (You can add spices later.)

—rin t. // writing advice for worldbuilders with rage and range // thewriteadviceforwriters

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🕯️ download the pack & write something cursed:

[yourlocalcringekid]

GUYS

Idk if someone else has thought of this before, but hear me out on this new worldbuilding headcanon for Minecraft. Phantoms pose the same ecological role as IRL vultures. That being, they eat dead bodies. The reason a lot of them swarm (and even attack) the player when they haven't gotten sleep is because they sense lack of energy (which, for a lot of animals means death is nearby) and assume the player is either dead or dying.

[taraxippos]

I think people tend to assume that any criticism of worldbuilding is ultimately a demand for a story to grind itself to a halt and give the reader 20 paragraphs of exposition, and like. Most of the time good-faith criticism of this nature is coming from a core aspect of the story not being grounded in the setting in a way that outright detracts from the story's quality. You fix it not by Explaining but by Showing it passively in the makeup of the world.

Like the last instance I saw this critique in was like 'you can't expect an author to stop and exposit the nuances of gender roles/Queerness in a fictional society' and it's like yeah I don't, and in fact this is actually one of the easiest things to show in the text without exposition. If a society has gender norms to begin with you'll see aspects of these norms baked into EVERYTHING. You'll see it in its stories, its religion, its taboos, its etiquette, its clothing, its family structures, its language, its insults, its labor, its leadership, etc. It will have massive impacts on how characters interact with one another and how they perceive themselves. It will help Shape your characters.

If you do this legwork to begin with for the core facets of your story, you will find very natural places for these concepts to be demonstrated without derailing the plot and with little to no exposition. THAT sort of thing is what's being asked of you.

[yujateaandpi]

Oughh it’s 2:00 AM and I’m having Thoughts and Emotions about Marceline the Vampire Queen. Like— she’s a punk bisexual and cool as heck but she’s also a terribly sad immortal with mom issues and double dad issues BUT BUT ALL of her parental figures gave her unconditional love so strong that it fundamentally saved the human race. Marceline saved the humans who hated her because her demon dad passed on the legacy that helped her grow powerful and her mom sang her lullabies and her adopted father clung to every shred of his breaking mind to protect her childhood. She was so loved! She was so loved! And that love never went away it stayed inside her even when all three of her parents hurt her so badly that the pain stuck for a thousand years. And all of the ways they hurt her were BECAUSE they loved her, so Marceline never learned to differentiate what it meant to love someone and hurt someone. So she hurts the people she wants to protect, she’s rough with the people she wants gentleness from, she abandons the people she wants by her side. And so much of the show is her collapsing and falling apart because she can’t figure out why why her relationships are all so broken. And then little by little she gets closure with each chapter of trauma— with her demon father, with her mother’s memory, with dear Simon— which then allows her to finally be at peace with herself and accept love— pure as it is— and give it back.

[writing-is-a-martial-art]

500 year plan:

Years 1-50: Obtain immortality in whatever way most enjoyable

Years 50-182: chill. Have a little treat.

Years 182-183: discover the end of the world prophecy, panic briefly but with much theatrics. Burn my wizard’s tower in lament.

Years 183-184: restore my wizard's tower. Apologize to all neighbors for the inconvenience.

Years 184-195: contact every entity of knowledge and power in search of remedies for the end of the world.

Years 195-200: in light of the end of the world seeming inevitable sit in my new tower and sulk, indulge in attempting some melancholy songs.

Years 200-220: get really invested in my melancholy songs, master the humble guitar and slowly gain some indie popularity with my band, consisting of yours truly and some other powerful entities I formed a sullen bond with in my search for ways to thwart the inevitable demise, End of the World Disposables.

Years 220-222: due to some interpersonal drama our band falls apart despite its solid claim to fame, but with some introspection and making amends I manage to stay friends with three out of the four other members. The bass player continues to sulk at the bottom of the ocean but I send him the occasional fruit basket.

Years 222-305: chill, have little treats with my newfound friends. Occasionally perform at the local bar of the town that sprouted around my tower.

Years 305-306: the bass player announces that after some consideration she is ready to emerge from the bottom of the ocean. Throw her a welcoming party and accidentally set my tower on fire again but the bass player has mastered the ocean's patience and manages to soothe the flames before they spread. I am so glad she's back.

Years 306-318: the bass player isn't quite up to putting the band back together yet but she is interested in how the world has changed during her ocean stay so we tour it together, sometimes playing music, sometimes just marveling. We spend a few years working odd jobs and eventually settle as part of a marine exploration crew, as the bass player has a lot of personal experience to offer and we can both be underwater quite comfortably with the whole immortality thing. Tell her that I am glad she's back.

Years 318-326: return to my tower to do further research into the end of the world situation, which again proves fruitless but I had to check again. Spend the rest of the time figuring out how to give my tower legs and walk it from the town to the shore so that the bass player could visit me easily. She comes and goes with the tides but I certainly don't mind.

Years 326-341: the bass player says she'd like to give the band another try and after some preparations End of the World Disposables hit the roads again, met with confused reviews as to the meaning of our over a century long absence, such as “wait, my grandma told me about them” and “how aren't these guys dead yet?”. A 120-year old venerated martial arts master comes to our first performance and after the show in tears of joy tells us how he saw me and the bass player beat the shit out of each other on stage a hundred years ago which was the most beautiful thing he ever did see and inspired his determination to master the arts of violence. The experience is largely uncomfortable for everyone involved.

Years 341-420: chill in my now-coastal tower. Share treats with the bass player who has more or less moved in. Remember to text the immortals group chat that it's been 420 years since me obtaining immortality and in the interim both group chats and weed have been discovered, which is quite nice.

Years 420-440: some scientist has analyzed the songs from End of the World Disposables and connected their themes to the motions of some celestial bodies, which resulted in his discovery that the world’s got about fifty years until it's over. Many countries are submerged in chaos and although me and the other entities of knowledge explain that the situation can't be helped, everyone is blamed and life is largely made worse for many people. I and the bass player announce sovereignty of our tower-port and I try to burn the local town hall as a show of strength but miss and burn my tower again. The bass player is too busy dueling the mayor to stop it this time. This is largely considered a bad call by everyone and I swear to never attempt such a garish display of pyromantic dominance again. The bass player runs for mayor and is unanimously elected.

Years 440-441: rebuild the tower.

Years 441-498: chill, have a little treat, support the bass player in her endeavors to establish a restorative justice system and provide basic universal income, which results in her little port being one of the places least affected by the waves of the end of the world panic

Years 499-500: contact my friends and discuss our plans for the end of the world, decide what to do in the meanwhile. Write a song for the first time in a century which ends up being quite cheesy and mostly about the bass player but she does seem to like it, so that's good.

End of year 500: sit at the top of my tower and watch the sunset over the ocean with the bass player. Something overtakes me and I yell “goodbye you beautiful bitches!” to the entire town or perhaps the entire world and the bass player laughs and that's about it. Get reincorporated into the primordial goo from which the universe is constructed.

...

Years 0-8 billion: chill, reinvent gravity.

Years 8-9 billion: form planets, atmosphere quest. Attempt at life.

...

Waiting.

Waiting.

Years 13.5-13.6 billion: sentient life. Guys start getting ideas.

Years 13.7 billion: some dude decides to attempt immortality in whatever way most enjoyable, spends over a century fucking around. Meanwhile some fucker is learning how to play the bass.

[danmguido]

“Ive crushed myself under the weight of my own expectation.

There’s a vast and howling ocean with no life underneath. It stretches down hundreds of miles and along the sea floor is nothing but cracked, olden rock and trenches that plunge ever deeper.

The Other Side.

I’m in a boat and I’m rowing, and the waves are lambasting the hull. I’m rocking to the side. I catch my reflection in the water, and I know if I tip, if I so much as touch that ocean, it will steal me. I will lose every part of myself. And they would have lied to me. I’m afraid they lied to me. I am afraid there is no land. There never was. I’m afraid they pushed me out here because I didn’t fit in theirs. I’m too far out to turn back.”

-Excerpt from Sea Of Eden, a novella I’m rewriting at the moment. If you want to see how it grows as I rewrite, consider following.

[vivsinkpot]

Writing Characters with Wings: The Beauty, the Burden, and the Biomechanics

So you’re writing a character with wings. Angelic, draconic, demonic, fae, fallen, or otherwise — gorgeous. But if you want them to feel real, grounded in a world where wings are more than just aesthetics or metaphors, here’s your deep dive into everything you need to consider when writing winged characters.

Wingspan 101: The Numbers That Make It Work

Let’s talk size — because wings aren’t small, and the human body isn’t light.

A human-sized character needs massive wings to fly. The general rule from biology is that the wingspan must be at least 2.5 to 3 times the total body height to achieve lift — often larger if the character is dense with muscle or armor.

A 6-foot tall character would need wings at least 15-18 feet across (that’s 7.5–9 feet per wing!) — and even larger for powered flight or with weapons/gear/clothing.

Bat-like or dragon wings will be longer due to needing more surface area for lift, while bird wings rely more on shape, feathers, and aerodynamics.

And that’s not even getting into takeoff — unless they’re leaping off cliffs, running starts or magical assistance are necessary.

✍️ Tip: If your winged character flies easily from the ground, consider making flight magically assisted rather than biologically plausible. That frees you from gravity’s judgmental eye.

Everyday Difficulties of Wing Ownership

Having wings isn’t all ethereal silhouettes and poetic metaphors. Here are the gritty, unglamorous realities your characters would face:

Sleeping

Wings get crushed if you lie on your back.

Side sleeping is awkward if your wings are large or jointed.

Custom bedding? Absolutely. Maybe even hammocks, curved cushions, or nest-like bedding.

Clothing

Normal shirts and jackets won’t work.

You’ll need wing slits, open backs, or wraps that tie around the body. Think Roman togas or modern backless dresses.

Armour? Custom-forged and probably a pain. Don’t forget feather damage or joint pinching.

✍️ Consider how your character feels about their body being constantly on display. Wings often mean exposed backs and shoulders, which may create vulnerability, vanity, or resentment.

Doors and Crowds

Wide wings = tight doorways, smacking people in corridors, and no stealth in crowds.

Imagine folding your wings every time you sit, walk through a room, or pass a stranger.

✍️ Tip: You can give them a signature motion — like a wing flick when annoyed, or folding them tightly when anxious. Use wings as expressive body language.

Anatomy & Pain: The Biology Behind the Beauty

Let’s be honest: if we’re slapping wings on a human back, we’re violating all kinds of anatomical logic — but that’s okay if you build consistency into your world.

Placement

Real wings (like bird wings) emerge from the shoulder blade area and require massive muscles in the chest and upper back.

This means your winged character would likely have a thickened thorax, and expanded ribcage, and potentially a modified spine to support the muscle and articulation.

Pain and Maintenance

Wings get sore after long flights.

Molting? Yes. Feathers die and fall off.

Injuries like tears, broken bones, or ruffled feathers aren’t just painful — they can be humiliating, especially if wings are a sign of status or identity.

✍️ Treat wings like hands or limbs — they require grooming, get tired, and define personality.

Symbolism & Emotional Weight

Wings often carry metaphorical meaning — and this is where your story can shine.

Liberation or Burden?

Are wings a gift? A sign of divine favor?

Or are they a curse — a mark of something inhuman, a heavy cross to bear?

Intimacy

Touching someone’s wings might be deeply intimate, even erotic or sacred.

Wing injuries could feel like a violation, akin to broken hands or scarred faces.

✍️ Try writing a scene where someone helps preen feathers, cleans wounds, or covers their wings with a blanket. That’s not just care — that’s vulnerability, love, and trust in one.

Emotional Tics

Wings can curl inwards when frightened or sad, flare open when defensive, or shudder when someone’s overwhelmed.

Use them to externalise emotion without needing dialogue.

Societal & Cultural Impacts

If some people have wings and others don’t — that matters. A lot.

Are winged beings seen as divine, or dangerous?

Can they fly freely, or are they kept grounded by laws, jealousy, or architecture?

Are winged people segregated, idolised, or feared?

✍️ A culture that evolved around flight might have multi-level cities, mid-air rituals, different greetings, or class divisions based on wingspan.

Dark Wings, Darker Implications

If your character can’t fly — even with wings — that’s a story.

Maybe their wings are damaged, too small, or shamed.

Maybe they’re haunted by a fall or terrified of heights.

What does that do to a person — to have wings but be bound to the ground?

That contradiction can become a core part of a character arc — not just about wings, but about freedom, failure, and fear.

In Summary

Characters with wings are so much more than “a human but cooler.” They’re a walking contradiction — majestic and awkward, powerful and vulnerable, soaring and struggling.

So write their aches. Write the mornings they wake up with crumpled feathers. Write the power trip of rising above the world, and the terror of falling. Write them like people — winged, wounded, wonderful people.

💬 Reblog with your favorite winged characters, your original ones, or the best wing-related scene you’ve ever read or written! I’d love to see what you’re working on.

[whereserpentswalk]

There's a girl in your freind group who just appeared one day. Like literally. There was one day when she appeared and everybody else acted like she had always been there. Only you didn't remember that she had existed, or more accurately only you remembered that she hadn't existed the day before.

She acted normal. So very freindly. But there was something off about her. She seemed too hand crafted, her skin too pale, her hair too blond, her eyes too blue and face too pretty. She looked more like a doll then like a real person. And it was clear after asking the right probing questions that she had no hometown, no family, no ethnic group, that she just was. You were good at asking that type of question, to prove she wasn't human.

You're the only person in that freind group who knows about the supernatural. Like, you don't deal with it on a professional basis or anything, you know a few people who are more involved in it, and you've gotten the chance to see a handful of anomalies and entities and like one eldritch being. You even time traveled once. None of it was a big deal, but you thought they were cool, and it's good to know they exist. The reason it's important is because you know knowing about that stuff effects how you perceive certain things, especially when it comes to recognizing illusions and paradoxes.

You studied her for awhile. Did what you could to check her every little action, wonder if certain small things she did were what a human would do. Question her without letting on how much you know. You've studied the way she eats, the abnormalities in her dialect. The strangeness to how she got her documents. You stole a bit of hair to send to a lab and they confirmed her nonhuman. You're pretty sure from studying the way that her clothing moves on her body that she doesn't have nipples or private parts or a bellybutton, you know it's weird to speculate about that sort of thing with someone but a body like hers is different. Still, you never got full proof, never figured out what she really was, never got to show that she wasn't a real woman and expose the inhuman creature underneath.

As time went on, and you investigated her further and further you stopped being able to see her as a monster. It's clear that even if she's not human, she probably doesn't know what she is either. And more then that she seems like a nice person, all that time you spent with her trying to figure out what type of anomaly she is, you ended up actually getting to know her and she seems like a genuinely nice human being. When she told you she liked a new song and wanted to play it for you that probably was just her liking a song. When she developed a hyperfixation on birds and started being able to name local species at a glance that might have just been a legitimate interest. When she had a crush on a girl in your freind group that was actually just a crush, and not her looking to prey on someone in an alien way. You watched a TV show with her early on to try to figure her out, that might have been the first show she ever watched.

At this point you don't really think about her inhumanity when interacting with her. She's been in the group for awhile, everyone has far more real memories of her then false memories at this point. Trying to expose her for what she really is would just be mean at this point. The paradoxical nature of her existence isn't the main thing you know about her now.

You did have to come clean that you knew something was up. You didn't tell her how much you knew, or why, you just dropped the right hints and she caught on. She became so upset, so guilty, she was worried you would tell everyone else, or that you would hurt her. A few months back you would have, but not anymore. You hugged her, didn't ask any questions about what she was, and did your best to comfort her. Though her existence may have been fake, her hugs were real, those tears were real, and that was enough.

[iguanodont]

My Illustrations for an incredible short story written by a good friend of mine: a tale of two rival clans settling a debt, in a trial by blood and fire….

“The two clans gathered as the singing moon set, leaving its brother framed by the indigo of dying day. There was little discussion, only lines of tension across antennae and heads holding violent eyes. Only the occasional, nervous trill from a child broke the silence.

The clan to the southeast, those of the Tayenna river, parted to allow their matriarch forward. Like her kin, her fur was near the color of the clay riverbank they lived upon, lightly flecked. She was richly adorned with polished shells set into lattices of wood running along her chest and back, treasures many years of leadership had afforded her. She stood in front of her people, canting her head so only one red eye observed the clan opposite.

They of the Keeshor valley bristled at the arrogance. Their leader was already at the front, as bay as Tayenna’s matriarch, though his coat was solid in pattern and youth, and he wore simple paint. He took several solid strides forward to meet the matriarch, both eyes fixed on her….

If you’d like to read the rest of this short story, you can find it here! Small cw for some descriptions of violence

[hezzabeth]

There was someone singing in the greenhouse, someone with a pitch-perfect deep voice. Revati closed her eyes, pressing her ear against the glass door.

In a field where the paper daisies grow,

Underneath the sun's harsh glow,

I wander through, light and free.

Paper daisies, pink and white,

Your petals so bright.

I sing to you as the world beyond burns.

The smoke coils in the sky far above,

But your petals still dance around me.

Don’t be afraid; soon the rains will come.

Everything lost will grow again.

Paper daisies, pink and white,

Your petals so bright.

I sing to you as the world beyond burns.

The stars begin to rise,

My hands scooping your seeds.

Soon you will take flight

Towards the soft moonlight.

There was an old, prop piano in the abandoned Holly Bush Tavern. The only person who could play it properly was Mr. Gupta. During holiday festivals, he would coax melodies out of the sticky keys while Mrs. Gupta sang in a nasal voice. This was different. The singer’s voice filled Revati in a place she didn’t know was empty. The singing stopped abruptly as Revati’s weight caused the door to creak. Of course, the door creaked. The greenhouse was a wobbling claptrap box made out of welded-together old windows. Miss Grassroots, a tourist who had been dead for almost six years, had built it. Inside lay the heart of Baker Street. The heart had begun as a rose garden. Nanni was the one who began picking up the fallen red petals, drying them, and turning them into tea.

Revati only had vague memories of the first day of the invasion. Mrs. Grasston and Dusk had invaded the kitchens and gift shops. Together they managed to pool together seeds and cuttings in order to grow a small food supply. There was a wall of tomato vines, grown from several seeds found in old slices left in the bin. There were the garden beds where the potatoes and carrots grew. In fact, the potatoes were what kept Baker Street from starving to death. Next to one of the largest windows, the herb and weed boxes grew. Revati’s father was the one who ripped open gourmet tea bags in their home, discovering dried seeds inside. Bridgadeiro Bun was sitting under the lemon tree. “You’re a pretty good singer,” Revati said gruffly. “I was just trying to cheer up Deshia; she’s been feeling a bit depressed lately,” Bridgadeiro said, patting the tree's trunk. “Who’s Deshia?” Revati asked, faintly confused. “The lemon tree, of course! She said nobody's chatted with her for years,” Bridgadeiro said. Suddenly, the tree shook its branches, causing a fresh lemon to fall into Bridgadeiro’s lap. “Thank you for the gift, sweetheart,” Bridgadeiro said, patting the tree again. Revati stared at the lemon tree, not quite sure what to think. Could a tree really be depressed? It would explain why the lemons were so withered and small.

“All Buns speak plant; it's the same gene that causes our pink hair," he said. Revati glanced around, her eyes briefly falling on the giant pumpkin vine near the door.

"Are the plants talking right now?" Revati asked curiously.

"Most of them fell asleep hours ago. When they were awake, they just kept jabbering on about a golden lady," Bridgadeiro remarked.

"So, the lemon tree is depressed? I could get Aurora to come in here and read to her," Revati conceded.

"It's more than that. She misses the lady who planted her; she doesn't understand why she vanished and never came back," Bridgadeiro remarked. Revati found her hands stroking the book of fairy tales nervously.

"If she's talking about Mrs. Grassroots, she died," Revati replied flatly. Six years ago. Six years ago, there were over a hundred tourists living on Baker Street. Nanni, who had spent years living with mother, insisted on moving into an abandoned hat shop near the edge of the park.

The day the tornado hit was the same day Nanni decided to tell Revati all about her family history.

"I always carry the death stone in my handbag, along with everything else I'd ever need in an invasion," Nanni pointed out. Technically that was true; Nanni's giant handbag was filled with almost anything.

Outside, Revati could hear her father trying to roll down metal shutters. There was the sudden horrible roar, and Nanni's wall exploded in a cloud of rubble.

"A lot of people died," Revati finished, her voice trailing off. First came the tornado that caused a gap in the mirror walls. Then the trickle of automatic vegetable cleaners who decided to exploit the crack. Finally, the battle on Mansfield Park between the cleaners and a group of tourists.

"The lady that planted this tree was actually a member of the Lost Princess rebel army; she convinced a bunch of tourists to fight with her," Revati remarked, shaking her head. Then she firmly opened the book of fairy tales.

"It looks like some people survived," Bridgadeiro replied.

"I don't want to talk about it; I just want to read! Here, you can read with me; you might like this story," Revati replied.

Once long ago, in a lost village near the foot of Mount Raya, there lived a special little girl. She was known for her kindness and her deep love for nature. Everyone in the village called her Naisha. Naisha had a special gift; she could talk to plants. The villagers often saw her whispering to the flowers; they adored her magical gift.

One day, Naisha learned about a legendary tree called the Kalpavriksha. The old ladies in the village whispered that it had the ability to grant any wish. Drought, fearsome and terrible, had swept through the land. Flowers withered, no longer able to whisper. Trees forgot their songs. Naisha decided she must seek out the tree and wish for one thing alone: rain.

"Wake up," a voice screeched, and Revati's eyes snapped open, the book of fairy tales tumbling onto the ground. Aurora was standing above her, the bright morning sunlight making her hair glow.

"Morning," Revati yawned and then jumped when she realized Bridgadeiro was asleep next to her.

Bridgadeiro slowly awoke, smacking his lips together.

"Juniper said you were in here; she never mentioned the boy," Aurora remarked coldly as Revati slowly stood up.

"Anna made him sleep in here; I must have passed out while reading," Revati said.

It was then that Revati realized Aurora was holding a tray filled with fresh strawberries.

"Hmph," Aurora said, shooting Bridgadeiro a suspicious look as he also stood up, patting the tree trunk.

"Let me guess, Queen Victoria sent these with an apology?" Revati asked.

"Yes, and a request to fill her vodka order," Aurora said, placing the tray on the ground.

"If she was really sorry, she'd give us a strawberry plant," Revati pointed out.

"Oh, you don't need one of those! You have the fruit," Bridgadeiro remarked.

"You can't just shove a strawberry in the ground and hope for the best; it rots," Revati replied. Bridgadeiro merely leaned down, examining the strawberries. After a few moments of careful examination, he picked up the biggest, brightest berry.

"You can; you just need the right formula," he said. He vaguely walked towards one of the empty garden beds that was going to be turned into an onion patch. Carefully, he dug a small hole and placed the strawberry inside before covering it in earth. Then, he reached into his massive jumpsuit pocket and this time pulled out a small vial of portable perfume.

"One pump should do it," Bridgadeiro remarked before pumping a cloud of perfume onto the soil. The earth began to twitch and vibrate, and Revati gasped as greenery sprouted from the soil. The plants quivered and then twisted as white flowers bloomed. The petals then shriveled and fell off as the center of the flowers grew into green berries. A few seconds later, the berries blossomed into a deep red.

"They shouldn't be doing that! Strawberries take two weeks to grow," Aurora gasped.

"I suppose they would in the wild, but I just gave them a pump of my Gene Grow fusion serum!" Bridgadeiro said, leaning down to examine the strawberries.

"They should produce fruit every day, but only if you talk to them nicely," Bridgadeiro added as he picked a strawberry and handed it to Revati.

Revati sniffed it suspiciously before taking a tiny bite. It tasted just like a strawberry.

"Does that stuff work on all plants?" Revati asked curiously.

"It tends to go a bit haywire when you spray it on legumes; you end up with giant beans that have no nutrients," Bridgadeiro said.

"I saved your life; think it's only fair you spray all the plants in here," Revati said firmly.

"It would be better if I planted their seeds outside and created new crops; otherwise, the rapidly growing plants could burst outside the walls," Bridgadeiro replied. Revati nodded crisply.

"I'll be sending someone to check on your efforts later today; I'll be far too busy working," Revati replied with as much dignity as she could muster in a sleep shirt before marching out of the greenhouse. The book of fairy tales lay abandoned on the ground.

Revati carefully changed into her work uniform. When she was a child, her wardrobe consisted of souvenir t-shirts from the gift shop fashioned into dresses. Now that she was almost an adult, Revati had to get creative.

Most of the gift shop sweatshirts had been swiped long ago. Instead, Revati put on the top half of the cafe's old uniform. It consisted of a magenta and purple striped waistcoat with a navy blue blouse covered in tiny clocks. The bottom half should have been a matching bustle skirt. Revati switched it with the men's purple trousers. Revati then carefully redid her braid and applied some more soot lipstick. Aurora, still wearing the same clothes from yesterday, was waiting for her in the kitchen.

"You're wearing your second best outfit," Aurora remarked.

"I suppose I am," Revati replied as she grabbed her coat.

"I thought you said you were done with romance after that whole mess with Little Hardi last summer," Aurora said, and Revati stopped walking.

"I am!" she protested, and Aurora pressed her thin lips into a disapproving frown.

"You were sleeping with him."

"God forbid I fall asleep next to another human being," Revati said as she marched through the cafe past Nanni, who was sewing something.

"You kept him! You gave him a job," Aurora added knowingly.

"I didn't keep him! He's not a feral child; he can leave whenever he wants," Revati snapped as they stepped outside, and she put on her sunglasses. Olde Landon was always at its worst in the morning. Like all major tourist attractions and cities, Old Landon had an atmospheric blanket high above the park's surface. It meant that nobody in the park froze to death at night, but it also meant the morning light was far too bright.

"Is that Little Hardi and Queen Victoria standing next to the fountain?" Revati sighed wearily.

"They both arrived at sunrise; I told them you were busy, so your mother made them breakfast," Aurora remarked.

"Sunrise; of course, they sacrificed sleep so they could get here first," Revati remarked, marching towards the two other leaders. Queen Victoria was wearing one of the park's costumes, a stained white lace wedding dress. Little Hardi, on the other hand, was wearing a deep blue doublet with a ruff collar and matching tights.

"Little Hardi, is your brother still unconscious?" Revati greeted him.

"We took a vote last night, and he played Macduff," Little Hardi replied.

Revati, who knew fully well what that meant, had to stop herself from flinching.

"You killed him? That's a little harsh," Revati pointed out.

"It was for the best; we need a strong leader during a time of invasion," Little Hardi remarked practically.

"Time of invasion? Isn't that a little dramatic?" Revati had to ask.

"There must be another crack in the wall; thank Jane, it's probably not too big! You two would be far too young to remember the vegetable cleaner invasion," remarked Queen Victoria.

"I was twelve," Revati said dryly.

"I was fourteen; the tornado destroyed the Hamlet's haunted castle ride, and the appliances killed the actor playing Ophelia," Little Hardi pointed out.

"You're both still tiny children as far as I'm concerned; I can't believe this is who I have to work with," Queen Victoria replied, and Revati brushed past her with annoyance, heading to the dress shop across the street.

The shelves of the dress shop had long ago been stripped bare. All that remained were the three Penny Farthing Bicycles that had been part of the shop's window display. Revati wheeled her Penny Farthing outside only to see Queen Victoria having a heated discussion with Aurora.

"What do you mean she's going to ride to the wall by herself? All representatives from all towns should go!" Queen Victoria was screeching, slapping Aurora's shoulder with her fan.

Revati parked her bicycle and marched towards Queen Victoria, grabbing her hand.

"Slap my assistant again, and I'll break your fingers; you know I can do it," Revati growled.

Little Hardi, who was now sitting by the fountain, laughed.

"I was just speaking the truth! We have a treaty; during times of crisis, we unify," Queen Victoria said, her voice tight and a little frightened.

"I don't see Lady Morganna here," Revati pointed out, referring to the ruler of Medieval faire.

"You know perfectly well Medieval faire cut us all off after the tornado hit! They probably all died off years ago," Queen Victoria snapped back. Queen Victoria was right. Medieval faire was located in the center of a massive fake castle complete with a drawbridge. After the invasion, Lady Morganna had yanked up the bridge and refused to speak to anyone. Anna and Nanni had tried to visit several times with baskets of dried lemons. They were horrified when someone from above threw the contents of their toilets onto the streets.

"My new friend said he saw naked people in the wilderness dancing around a murdered television! Sounds like Lady Morganna to me," Revati merely replied, pointing to Bridgadeiro. Bridgadeiro, who was in the middle of taking several pumpkins out of the greenhouse, waved.

"Could be a coincidence; regardless, you are not going to the wall! We need to have a proper group committee meeting first! Then a vote," Queen Victoria's.

Revati just rolled her eyes and released Queen Victoria's hand, causing her to stumble and fall onto the floor. Revati then reached into her jacket, pulling out her stun gun, shoving it into the queen's stomach. The Queen made a faint whimpering sound as her eyes rolled backward, and she collapsed again. Revati then aimed the gun at Little Hardi, who held his hands up, protesting.

"I'm not going to stop you! I came here to propose marriage," Little Hardi insisted.

"Marriage? To me?" Revati asked dubiously.

"All kings need a consort, and I'm not interested in Big Hardi's husband," Little Hardi said, slowly getting down on one knee.

Revati stared at him and shook her head.

"I'm seventeen," Revati pointed out.

"Well, the wedding wouldn't be for another couple of years," Little Hardi replied.

"I thought we agreed to keep our relationship professional after the handkerchief incident," Revati pointed out, and Little Hardi held a hand to his heart.

"I told you dozens of times I had nothing to do with my brother's plot," Little Hardi insisted.

"He accused me of cheating on you using an old prop handkerchief as evidence, and you believed him despite it being the exact same plot of the play Othello," Revati pointed out. The entire incident occurred over a year ago and ended with Revati kidnapped and tied up on the stage in a white fluffy nightgown.

"I'm a very insecure person," Little Hardi pleaded. Dating while trapped in a fun park during the apocalypse was difficult. Before the feral children came along, Revati was the youngest person on Baker Street. All the teenagers in Whistleton were raised to be incredibly prissy. Most of them refused to do anything more than dance or hold hands. Little Hardi had been a fun, age-appropriate choice. Little Hardi was happy to do far more than hold hands.

"No," Revati said firmly.

"No? Really?" he asked, sounding faintly surprised.

"First of all, your legal system involves killing criminals on stage in the middle of plays, which is horrifying," Revati pointed out, and Little Hardi shrugged.

"Secondly, I'm not an idiot! You just want to marry me so you can take over our greenhouse," Revati pointed out, and Little Hardi gasped as if looking deeply insulted.

"That's not true! If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damasked, red and white, but no such roses see I in her cheeks," Little Hardi pleaded as Revati climbed onto the penny farthing.

[adastra-sf]

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[inbabylontheywept]

Someone had to go first.

In an odd first, I forgot to post this HFY story here until after it was voiced by BirbletonVA. Their channel actually did such an insanely good job that I would actually strongly recommend listening to it over reading it. Nonetheless, the text is provided below.

Please like and subscribe to their channel if you like their work.

The first ship that arrived was pretty matter of fact about its fate. The pilot introduced himself as Eric, and told us he was part of the first sublight resupply attempt in modern history. He then gave me and the ground control team his bad news.

“So,” he said. “Without real time telemetry, we weren’t even sure which half of your orbit you’d be in. That’s half a solar system’s worth of wiggle room. Decelerating enough to survive contact with your low orbit would take me two weeks, which, you know, it looks like we don’t have. That means that in order to get the second ship in before you lose orbital control to the Kresh, I’m gonna have to make a sacrificial flyby. Ten to the negative four torr is good enough for a lot of things, but at point-seven c it’s gonna be like sandblasting a soup cracker. Good news is that all the expensive toys are in the next ship, so this really ain’t costing you more than a ship and a pilot.”

“You knew,” I said. If they put the expensive toys in the second ship, they knew that the first was likely a sacrifice. No one smart enough to handle orbital physics would miss that.

“I did,” he said. “But someone had to go first.”

That was, of course, a lie. No one had to go first. No else had had, at least. When our connection to the FTL network was lost, we’d understood that as the end of our reinforcements. Doing resupplies via sublight was just too risky. It was a testament to Earth that it had accepted the risk and continued anyway.

“Is there anything we can do for you?” I asked. This man had come here to die for us. I wasn’t sure how much I could give, but what I had was his.

“I do have a few requests,” he said. “First up, I need as much high-orbital data as you got. The whole lot.”

I began directing tightbeam resources to him immediately. It was an easy resource to exchange - it wasn’t like there was anyone else out to talk to anymore. When we lost FTL, we found ourselves very, very alone.

“Second,” he said. “Right, I know I’m gonna sound like a princess right now, but I have been stuck in this stupid tin-can for almost two-years now, and I seriously overestimated how much I like synth music. If you have anything that’s analog - I don’t care what kind of string or drum or brass you play, but I’d kill to hear something without a beep in it.”

I jumped my own queue in the tightbeam, and added a short playlist that I ripped from the local web. Human Music, it was labeled. 3 Terabytes. I prayed there was something on it that he’d like.

“And third,” he said. “Third. The uh, next pilot is pretty mad at me. Turns out this will just be one of those things left unfinished. That’s all death really is, I guess - a lot of unfinished things. Let him know that he was right: He is a better pilot than me. But tell him that wouldn’t have made a difference here. Bad luck beats skill, and this luck was shit.”

I promised, and he went silent after that. We could see what data he was analyzing, and the short answer was all of it - everything from atmospheric density to troop positions and his own ship’s blueprints. He knew he had one shot at this, and that if the price wasn’t paid here, it would be paid by whoever came next.

---

Ground control didn’t get a verbal warning that he’d entered atmosphere. Just a ping. A little here-I-am, whispered in the dark.

After that, we could keep track with visuals alone.

He hit the outskirts of the exoatmosphere in his first pass, burning bright enough to be seen with the naked eye. He caught the sparse particles like a kite, trying to shed enough speed to hit actual low orbit. Automatic telemetry updates gave us the grim news for the ship: Thermals were holding up decently, but the ablative was wearing out fast.

The entire descent brought us more than two hour’s reprieve. The Kresh hadn’t expected to see a resupply, but they knew what one meant: Get it now, get it fast, or deal with a stream of new troops. They could buy themselves ten days' time by shooting this one ship down now. That was an eternity during a siege.

The first loop lowered the speed by about a twentieth of light. The pilot responded by pulling the ship in tighter, burning trying to preserve more ablative plating by trading off with thermal. Seven fighters were close enough to fire off heat seekers. I don’t think the Kresh had ever anticipated shooting down a craft coming in that hot - the missile's decoy avoidance countermeasure actually made it steer around the thing, chasing down loose pieces of shrapnel. Cooled fragments, still hotter than an engine, should be at full blast. The simple mistakes bought it enough time to enter pre-orbit, and the fighters had to stop their pursuit. They weren’t willing to die to stop the ship.

Our man, on the other hand, was already committed to that course.

A third loop followed a fourth. Ablative coating went from 65% integrity, to 30%, to 5%. Telemetry scans were exceptionally detailed - the pilot was making the flyby count. The last message we got from him was simple:

Are you EMP shielded? he asked, not even bothering to encrypt the text stream. He didn’t have time to process more than that.

Yes, we replied. We knew what he was thinking, but it was still a shock to see it. The fusion torch flared hot, burning through the nozzle and feeding directly into the craft’s dueterium supply. The reaction went super critical, and the resulting neutron pulse set off everything in the ship with a z-count higher than iron. Three continuous seconds of EM interference screamed through the comms as the hulk burned through orbit.

The explosion itself wasn’t powerful enough to kill the Kresh ships still in high orbit, but it made enough broadband radiation to blind both sides LADAR. The man must have been a hell of a pilot - half the shrapnel went down and got burned up as it entered the standard atmosphere, traded as the cost of moving the other half past lagrange. Standard evasion would’ve made the pieces easy to dodge, but with LADAR down, all the Kresh could do was sit still and cower as the wrath of a dead man riddled them full of holes. Our best ace had managed to shoot down seven ships before this before getting shot down himself. The wreckage of the freighter took down six.

---

The second ship came in stealth. One second, we were holding attrition in high orbit, the next, something the size of a small station came ripping through the atmosphere.

It did the same trick as the former - swapping between ablative and thermal loads, coming down at a speed that the Kresh fighters didn’t even try to match. Armies could be built in years, but skills like this took decades.

Telemetry connection was established almost as an afterthought. The way the ship casually ate through ablative armoring made my eyes water, but the pilot himself seemed pretty non-plussed.

“You’re down to fifteen percent coverage. You need-

“What I need,” he said, “is to see the previous ship’s telemetry. If there’s one thing you can trust, it’s that this bird is going to come down gentle.”

He cut off my chance to reply by flicking the channel off. We watched, and we wrang our hands, but sure enough he came in six minutes later with 4% of the ablative left.

I met him on the landing pad. Under normal circumstances, we’d have needed twenty-four hours for the craft to cool enough to even approach, but we’d had cryo ready just in case. Three tankers of nitrogen, and the loading area, at least, was cool enough to touch. Safety would have to take a backseat to speed here - we needed the supplies fast.

But those both would take a backseat to a promised conversation with the second pilot. He was out of the craft as soon as the air was cool enough to avoid scalding his lungs, picking through the workers to try and find who had the telemetry data.

I found him first. The drive went into his hands, but I needed to keep my promise with Eric before letting go.

“You’re better than the first pilot,” I said, and I wasn’t lying. If the previous flier had been a saint, this one was a god. “But you wouldn’t have been able to manage the landing either. There just wasn’t time.”

“Let me see,” he said, tugging on the drive. “Just let me see. I have to know I couldn’t do it either. I have to know that someone had to die.”

I let go of the drive and he stalked back into his ship. I didn’t follow. I figured I’d pushed things far enough as it was.

---

The second pilot left the ship six hours later. He looked bleary in a way that put me at ease. I’d been up the last six hours directing supplies from the ship. Everything from ground-to-orbit rails to AGI targeting systems was inside, and to say it was gamechanging would be an understatement. It was good work, but I was tired, and I didn’t want to have to pretend otherwise. Seeing the other man with bags under his eyes meant we could just be frank with each other.

“I couldn’t have managed it,” he said, half-ashamed, half-relieved.

“It just wasn’t possible,” I agreed.

We sat there a moment longer. I didn’t mind the break. This was time well spent.

“Did it hurt?” he asked finally.

“Ablative failed before heating,” I said, which was the technical way of saying no. “He overloaded the reactor before the ship actually broke up and did some kind of slingshot maneuver - hit the main body of the Kresh fleet with half a space station’s worth of shrapnel.”

“Good,” he said.

I knew the signs. The tremor in his cheek, the way his jaw clenched - it wasn’t professional, but I hugged him anyway. Let him have the dignity of choosing to weep instead of having it wrenched out of him.

It was a gift we’d all been given at some point in this war. At least now, there was the hope it could be over soon.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Speculative Fiction

Speculative fiction - a literary “super genre,” which encompasses a number of different genres of fiction, each with speculative elements that are based on conjecture and do not exist in the real world.

Sometimes called “what-if” books, speculative literature changes the laws of what’s real or possible as we know them in our current society, and then speculates on the outcome.

Subgenres of Speculative Fiction

Most speculative fiction novels fall under at least one of the following genres. Some may fall into multiple genres depending on the story structure:

Science fiction: stories with imagined technologies that don’t exist in the real world, like time travel, aliens, and robots.

Sci-fi fantasy fiction: sci-fi stories inspired by mythology, folklore, and fairy tales that combine imagined technologies with elements of magical realism.

Supernatural fiction: sci-fi stories about secret knowledge or hidden abilities including witchcraft, spiritualism, and psychic abilities.

Space opera fiction: a play on the term “soap opera,” sci-fi stories that take place in outer space and center around conflict, romance, and adventure.

Urban fantasy fiction: fantasy stories that take place in an urban setting in the real world but operate under magical rules.

Utopian fiction: stories about civilizations the authors deem to be perfect, ideal societies.

Dystopian fiction: stories about societies deemed problematic within the world of the novel, often satirizing government rules, poverty, and oppression.

Apocalyptic fiction: stories that take place before and during a huge disaster that wipes out a significant portion of the world’s population. The stories center around characters doing everything they can to stay alive—for example, running from zombies or trying to avoid a deadly plague.

Post-apocalyptic fiction: stories that take place after an apocalyptic event and focus on the survivors figuring out how to navigate their new circumstances—for example, emerging after a global nuclear holocaust or surviving a total breakdown of society.

Alternate history fiction: stories that focus on true historical events but are written as if they unfolded with different outcomes.

Superhero fiction: stories about superheroes and how they use their abilities to fight supervillains.

History of Speculative Fiction

Writers have written about hypothetical events for centuries.

Speculative fiction dates back to ancient Greece when playwrights like Euripides explored alternate versions of the truth.

For example, in Medea, Euripides speculated a world in which a shamaness killed her own children, rather than them being killed by the Corinthians.

Stories like William Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream and J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings are also considered speculative fiction, even though the term did not exist at the time.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream conjures a world in which characters move seamlessly through time and space in the woodland and the Fairyland;

The Lord of the Rings speculates mythical creatures that do not exist in our world.

The term “speculative fiction” was used for the first time by Robert Heinlein in 1947.

The terms was largely associated with only the science fiction genre in the late 20th century, as science fiction is a widely-read genre that contains speculative elements.

The term expanded in the 21st century to encompass more subgenres beyond just science fiction, like fantasy and dystopian literature.

Today, speculative fiction is a blanket term for the stories that take place beyond our known world.

Margaret Atwood defines speculative fiction as literature that deals with possibilities in a society which have not yet been enacted but are latent. 

Margaret got the idea for The Handmaid’s Tale from a conversation she had with a friend in the early 1980s when, in reaction to the advances of feminism during the previous two decades, a strain of cultural conversation worried over how to get women “back into the home.”

Margaret wondered what it would take to do that; what kind of regime might enact such a reversion.

In Gilead, the world of The Handmaid’s Tale, certain women who have the now-rare ability to have children are deemed “handmaids,” and are allocated to an upper class families as reproductive slaves.

Source ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs ⚜ Speculative Biology

[tdp-official]

For those of you who did not know, this world does not have normal and typical animals. When the mass extinction event happened, the group that preserved humanity (known only as the progenitors), also engineered lifeforms to stabilize the ecosystem after the fall of the world. Many of these engineered lifeforms were based on middle to upper epochs of the Cenozoic era. This is due to the fact that following the apocalypse it was predicted to set climate back to a more archaic state. With increased global temperatures, rising sea levels, and about 2 times the carbon emissions in the atmosphere, it was only logical to base creatures off of prehistoric animals that lived in these conditions. (People were modified as well, but that’s not relevant right now.)

The animal you see in front of you, is an engineered animal based on megalostragus, the giant goat from the Pliocene epoch. These animals live transiently from the Dòrok steppes and mountains, and they have been domesticated and are the primary ground mount that people use within Dòrok. You may have noticed that they have 2 sets of nostrils, and this is because many animals have advanced respiratory systems to deal with lingering toxins that may be present in the air. These second sets of nostrils, lead to a separate sinus cavity with tiny hairs that become inflamed when certain toxins interact with them, alerting the animal to potentially dangerous breathing conditions.

This one is a quicker drawing. I usually mess around with concepts and sketches to help put together a cohesive look and feel for cultures. Eventually I would like to do short drawing exercises where I pick an occupation, a region in Dòrok, and a name and then just put together a large assortment of different sketches.

[charliejaneanders]

I'm pretty sure that I wouldn't have even tried to write The Endless Vessel, and take the swings that book's story takes, if Cloud Atlas hadn't opened the doors of possibility for me.

In my latest newsletter, I talk to four amazing authors about their recent books that draw on the massive influence of Cloud Atlas

[yvesdot]

SOMETHING'S NOT RIGHT IS OUT!

“Comedic, witty and chilling by turns.” — A. R. Thompson, author of When Dealing with Wolves

The debut collection returns in a special fifth anniversary edition, repackaged with three new short stories, a new cover, and additional bonus content! A vampire is forced into a compromising situation; a father fears his child's growing plant collection; the undead go to high school; a butcher contemplates whether or not she can be loved. In a captivating debut, yves. opens the door to our world, slightly askew—where the crows work for witches and telephone booths serve as secret channels for prophecy; where a diverse cast of monsters and humans alike are forced to contend with what the world believes is right.

Thank you to everyone who made my weird uncategorizable "Lemony Snicket meets Carmen Maria Machado" speculative fiction an instant bestseller! If you’ve ever felt like a monster, this book is for you.

PRESS: KZSC interview | Santa Cruz Sentinel interview

EXCERPTED SHORT STORIES

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Thank you so much for reading this post about my book. I hope you will share it, and this image of my beautiful black cat, Andy, widely. To queer weird fiction and indie pub! To you, Dear Reader, with love.