#PennedPossibilities 971 — Where does your SC feel the safest? Is there a particular person or object that helps them feel safe?

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I am going to turn this question around slightly as really it brings to mind one supporting character, Molt. He's a day angel who came to Home City to attend HUHC (Home University at Home City) for a degree in Men's Studies. (Nope, not explaining other to say it would be NSFW.) His first apartment living away from home turns out to be down the hall from Bolt, the main character, who is a courier for the mob. The minimalist aerie setup means they share many facilities, almost like a boarding house. They see each other every day. As events unfold and Bolt is allowed to have a camera, one of her coworkers decides to spy on her. He threatens Molt to do so. Very scary. Lots happen and Molt and Bolt have fun, until the thug, being the punk he is, roughs up Molt incidentally breaking a bone.

Where does Molt feel safe?

He returns home, leaving Home City and a full scholarship behind.

Bolt is livid. She wants to murder her coworker after that.

[Author retains copyright (c)2026 R.S.]

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#PennedPossibilities 970 — MC POV: Have you ever experienced something that couldn’t be logically explained?

[Bolt:] Look. I was never good at school, except in athletics. It never made sense to me, all them girls and guys studying boring things and liking it. Now adays, I can't get my head around the logic of working in an office, doing all them repetitive things over and over and over again. Not being able to move around all day long? Ugh! Don't see the logic in that. I can't figure out how I'd ever let myself do that, no matter the coin it generated. Were I not a courier for the mob, I suppose being a courier might have been what I settled on. Or a furniture mover, if I could get that. Construction, maybe? Gotta be in motion!

[Author retains copyright (c)2026 R.S.]

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This passage is near the end of the chapter I am currently writing. Bolt narrates. She's a flighty day angel. You tell me, is she excited?

Gloss: Tarantino teaches us that nothing equalizes people or is as relatable as sharing a meal… Teri is the name the devil-girl is using at this point in the story. It is short for Night Terror. She can perform what to us looks like magic. The passage is a barely revised first draft.

My worries fluttered away like a moth to a street lamp when the server delivered a golden custard dessert, a mound on a plate sealed under a burnt-brown crazed caramel-glass shell, in a moat of purple-brown, fragrant with cooked sugar and orange-berry liqueur.

"What's this?" I asked.

Her spoon floated over and tapped. Shards of glass sugar popped into a rubble skirt revealing the yellow hill, flecked with red, green, and brown herbs, which when I sniffed caressed my nose with hints of anise, mint, cinnamon, and… that tingle? Cayenne?

Teri replied, "We danced, so now you've had dinner and here's dessert."

"Sweet," I said, before thrusting my spoon in. Reflexively.

Dancing, dinner, and dessert? Men propositioned by a woman who was too lazy to have a plan suggested that.

Teri is not a guy, I reminded myself, then, a spoonful of—

Oh. My. Stars! Creamy, spicy, sugary bliss. I hugged myself, wings and arms, brushing the napkin off my lap and nearly dropping the spoon. Sweet was something I rarely had, but need it, want it, must have it instantly commandeered my brain, annihilating all resistance, maybe more so than my excuses to allow myself to be ridden by Teri had. I scooped glistening perfection. I sighed enjoying each spoonful. I won't admit to an occasional moan. I barely paused to wipe my chin.

"You happy now?" Teri asked as I crunched on the faintly carob flavored sugar shards.

"Ecstatic!"

Not exactly When Harry Meet Sally…

[Author retains copyright (c)2026 R.S.]

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[Blue volunteered to answer this one. He is a male praetorian friend and lover of Bolt's, who's both the MC and a woman. They're both day angels... —RS]

Because I live at an association, I am around a lot of women. What is in vogue, what scents the air, are aromatic herbal scents. In our hot and sweaty world, everyone smells to the point that you don't notice it—until you receive a swift kick in the nose with an herbal "Hello, handsome!" I don't appreciate this squeal in the background noise. Truthfully, though I've recently learned that Bolt has a preference for her men wearing thyme oil, she's neither fashionable nor trendy herself. She prefers to be her natural self, whatever her state, with little fix-up, which means she'll pop in looking however she looks, even with a cowlick or two, or feathers akimbo. To me, this comes off a genuine, compared to the other women. I know she has her secrets she is loathe to share, yet it still feels genuine—genuinely, distinctively, my friend Bolt. I admire her athleticism; she taught me plenty of tricks I needed for work. Her constant sweaty motion leaves with her emitting a unique aroma. Kind of like toast. Though I wouldn't say to her directly, because she might take it wrong, I find her scent reassuring and very attractive. It's my favorite.

[Author retains copyright (c)2026 R.S.]

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#WordWeavers 2026.03.26
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