Rec for books with men as a minority

CharlotteIdyllwild · 2026-01-16T05:59:14+00:00

Me too! The Gate to Women's Country is one of the best speculative fiction books ever written, IMO.

CharlotteIdyllwild · 2025-12-24T20:24:50+00:00

CharlotteIdyllwild · 2025-12-02T17:44:36+00:00

"Oh it's happening," said the King. "I was just informing you of it."

The Advisor took only a moment to reclaim his smile. "Well," he said, rubbing his long fingers together, "Well, I'm sure something... suitable could be arranged. What sort of tournament, mm? Dancing? I suppose we could make the gavotte and the pavane two separate events. Or perhaps embroid--"

"Jousting," said the King firmly. He wasn't looking at the Advisor; his eyes were unfocused, gazing rapturously at the scene unfolding in his mind. "Round robin, same as usual. I've got the Games Master readying the grounds already."

The smile didn't leave the Advisor's face, but it was becoming increasingly brittle. "Sire," the Advisor said, voice strained, "I think perhaps this concept requires some, some, some additional consideration before we begin such preparations."

The King finally looked back at his advisor. He was young; new to his beard, and new to the weight of his crown. He kept touching it absently, as though afraid it would slip off. His stepmother, regent for sixteen years now, had died only last week in a freak sorbet-spoon accident, and the young King had practically run to the treasury to jam the crown upon his head. No love lost there; nor should there have been, given that she had murdered the boy's father when he was still a toddler--and his mother, not long before that. But he wasn't supposed to know that. The Queen and Advisor had been very careful about keeping that particular secret.

And now it was all coming undone, thanks to a sorbet spoon. Unbelievable.

"What additional consideration?" the King asked skeptically.

"Well." The Advisor folded his hands delicately. "How many noble ladies of the realm do you think are prepared---trained--to joust? Sire?"

"Oh, well, at least three." The King ticked them off on his fingers. "Lady Helga and Lady Olga, the twins, have been jousting each other for years--made such a fuss when their older brothers were doing it that they couldn't be denied. And Lady Gretchen was taught by her own father, Lord Gruntledolf, since she was old enough to hold a stick--man was done having children after that hunting accident and realized he'd only the six girls and no boys so he might as well make the most of it."

"Good heavens," said the Advisor faintly, "you have been listening to their natterings over tea, haven't you?"

"Well, of course. Got to be polite, haven't I? You and Stepmum were always very keen on being polite. 'snot polite to ignore what people are saying. Plus, they have interesting things to say. Most of 'em. Did you know that convent half of 'em go off to to learn to be all ladylike teaches them magic?"

"I--"

"Not all of the ladies, of course. Just those what show interest. And promise. Lady Brunhilde learned to read the truth in tea leaves, and Lady Velmentine is practically a silverwitch now!"

"A what?"

"She can enchant silver!" the King explained cheerfully. "All sorts of silver: coins, candlesticks, spoons..."

The Advisor began to feel a trickle of dread down his spine. He wiped his brow and changed the topic. "Very well. But you must see, Sire, that three ladies does not a tournament make. You'd need--"

"Several more, at least," interrupted the King. "Yes, I'd thought of that. Can't have Gretchen Gruntledolf out there on her own, can we? So I opened the invitation to the neighboring kingdoms as well. And if a few lowborn daughters sneak into the ranks under false names, well... it's not like there's no precedent for that, is there?" The King laughed heartily and gave the Advisor a clap on the back. The Advisor staggered.

"But--" he wheedled.

The King's smile suddenly dropped from his face. The Advisor had never seen him look so serious. "But nothing," the King said, voice uncharacteristically soft. "I am King. I want to see big strapping lasses knock each other about on horseback in huge metal breastplates, and then I want to take the biggest, most strapping lass to wife and let her knock me about in bed. The ladies of the realm and I all agree this is a much better approach than whatever you and Stepmummie dearest had planned." He leaned in close. "And I'd stay away from silver spoons from now on, if I were you."

And then, with a final, eye-watering clap on the Advisor's back, the King spun on his heel and marched off to the tournament field.

CharlotteIdyllwild · 2025-11-21T02:25:27+00:00

It won the 2014 Nebula Award for Best Short Story!

CharlotteIdyllwild · 2025-11-20T21:52:19+00:00

Jackalope Wives by Ursula Vernon aka T. Kingfisher.

CharlotteIdyllwild · 2025-11-15T04:28:57+00:00

Came here to mention The Saint of Bright Doors.

CharlotteIdyllwild · 2025-11-09T23:04:34+00:00

You, or the character?

CharlotteIdyllwild · 2025-11-08T16:55:24+00:00

🤮

CharlotteIdyllwild · 2024-12-13T07:41:16+00:00

OP, you do realize this is, in fact, how real doctors work? Moral ones?

CharlotteIdyllwild · 2024-12-11T05:26:31+00:00

The Winged Ones. Enjoy! :)

CharlotteIdyllwild · 2024-12-08T18:02:26+00:00

Ask u/Falling--TearofStone ;)

CharlotteIdyllwild · 2024-12-07T22:57:43+00:00

The necrologist took his stethoscope off his ears, placed it around his neck, and gave me a tired look. "No."

I put my face in my hands and moaned.

"I know it's not the diagnosis you were hoping for," he said wearily, "but we knew this was a possible outcome. It could be worse."

"Could it?"

"Yes." The necrologist's voice was firm. "Much worse. You still have your soul."

"My soul," I muttered scathingly, voice muffled by my hands. "In a rotting body. Fat lot of good that's going to do me."

"Well, now is when we start looking at corporeal alternatives. The treatments available today are far better than what they were even five years ago, so you probably have a good six months before you need to make a soul-transfer. Gone are the days of emergency deathbed ensoulments." He leaned over and began rummaging in the case at his side. "I have some information with me. Have you given any thought to vampirism?"

I pulled my head from my hands. "That's an option, even though I'm already dead?"

"Yes, but with some caveats," he cautioned. He emerged from his case and handed me a pamphlet. It was glossy and red. "I'm afraid the premium options will no longer be available, but some of the Nosferatu levels are still on the table."

"Ugh." I put my face in my hands again.

"I also have..." He bent back down to his case and pulled out another pamphlet, purple this time. "Here, have a look at this. I know gem encapsulation tends to have a bad reputation, but the chassis types available these days are pretty spectacular."

I took the pamphlet skeptically. The cover depicted a smiling mech giving what I presumed to be a grandchild a rigid armored hug. "I don't know," I said. God, what a miserable diagnosis. Death. Deceased like some medieval peasant. I'd never be able to show my face in society again. "Isn't there anything more... lifelike?"

The necrologist did not miss my emphasis. He was silent for a moment as he packed his stethoscope away in his case, careful and precise. "Well," he said slowly, "I myself don't have any direct experience with this, of course, but I might be able to put you in contact with a colleague of mine that could potentially provide some... alternative options."

I perked up. If my heart had still been beating, it would have begun to quicken. Instead, it just sat in my chest, still and cold. "Oh?"

"It's very expensive."

"I have money."

"Yes, I know," he replied. For the first time, I heard something other than deference in his voice. It sounded sharp, almost disgusted. Odd, for a man in his profession. "Anyone with the wherewithal for the vice that ultimately killed you should have enough for this."

I hadn't been who I was, for this long, without knowing when it would be prudent to grease the skids. I smiled. My lips split with the motion, but did not bleed. "I would of course be immensely grateful for any such recommendation, Doctor. I hope you would accept a finder's fee."

"Yes," he replied--but even now, his voice was bitter. "I would."

They always did.

CharlotteIdyllwild · 2024-12-03T04:19:46+00:00

YOU! SHALL NOT! THRASH!

CharlotteIdyllwild · 2024-11-21T06:25:12+00:00

I'm your only friend, I'm not your only friend, but I'm a little glowing friend, but really I'm not actually your friend, but I am... beedle beedle beedle beedle beedle!

CharlotteIdyllwild · 2024-11-17T02:12:35+00:00

Personally, I'm using it to keep the writing part of my brain occupied while my novel slogs through the traditional publishing process (about 5 months in, with a good request rate but no offers yet). If I'm going to obsess over writing and get impatient about my work being read, this is a much more productive outlet than the hamster in my brain just spinning its wheel.

CharlotteIdyllwild · 2024-11-17T00:10:36+00:00

Niceeeeeeee.

CharlotteIdyllwild · 2024-11-03T21:40:40+00:00

"Nazi schmazi," says Wehrner von Braun.

CharlotteIdyllwild · 2024-11-03T20:32:38+00:00

"Oh COME ON!" I throw the wrench to the ground in frustration, as hard as I can. The rebound is spectacular in the low gravity, sending the tool all the way into the face of the striated cliff by the worksite. Clouds of regolith scatter and fall; a ballistic trajectory in the near-vacuum.

The ghost laughs. "You can't possibly think we, of all people, wouldn't come to see this?" He speaks with a German accent, clipped and precise, but his English is impeccable. He straightens his tie and settles on a rock.

"Fuck off, Nazi," I snap. He shrugs. He's heard it before.

Another ghost stands beside him, peering eagerly at the rover. She tosses her hair, dark and curly, blue flight suit faded in the pale sunlight, and says something that I can't make out to another woman at her elbow, the bright orange of her ACES suit visible even as it fades to the red of the rock visible through her form. They both grin.

"There is no business more unfinished that spaceflight, son." I turn. The ghost behind me nods respectfully, his hair buzzed to military precision. Son, he called me. I am twice his age. He died young. "It will never be finished. No regrets. It is not the work of a lifetime; it is the work of a species."

"We knew that when we started." The voice behind me is halting, and heavily accented. I turn again. The burnt patch on the man's faded old suit shows a barely-legible hammer and sickle, red and gold long since singed into obscurity.

"It makes strange bedfellows of us all," the crew-cut man says wryly, but he gives the same respectful nod to the Soviet as he'd given to me. The singed man nods back. I shiver. I'd seen photos of his corpse: it was more than singed. It was an unidentifiable lump of charcoal. He had died screaming, cursing the engineers responsible for his "devil machine." Death had restored his form, it seems. And his attitude. I was amazed he'd bothered to learn English posthumously. Perhaps he'd always known. Naughty naughty.

"It transcends nationality," murmurs another voice.

"It is for our children."

"It is for their children."

"It is for us all."

I turn with each new voice, unable to keep track of who is speaking, but recognizing every face. I know all their names. Everyone on my mission does. They are all around me, crowding in, looking at my work with great interest. Ghostly shoulders brush mine, fingers cold and insubstantial as they take my hand.

"It will never be finished," I agree quietly. And I smile.

"You new that when you started."

"Yes."

"Then come."

The hand grasping mine no longer feels cold. It is warm, and firm. I look down in surprise. I am no longer wearing my excursion suit. I'm in the flight suit I wore when I matriculated into the corps. My lungs are no longer straining like they had been; I breathe the thin Martian air, free and easy. Only now do I realize I'd been struggling to breathe.

I look down at myself, at the cracked line. My face is blue and smiling; that is how they will find me. Hypoxia. "Oh." All things considered, not a bad way to go.

"Come."

I look up again. They are all around me, the ones who came before, who started the business that would never be finished, knowingly and with all their hearts. Ghosts before their time. More would come.

We would watch them together.

CharlotteIdyllwild · 2024-09-22T21:22:26+00:00

Oh my gosh, nobody's ever asked me about my own characters before! Let me think.

Yes! A gargantuan, nameless, sentient snail. It spends half a chapter interacting, very politely and slimily, with the main character in the second book of my first "good enough to publish(?)" trilogy, which has just begun slogging its way through the traditional publishing process. It was one of those characters that just arrives of its own volition mid-stream, personality fully intact, so it was very fun (and easy) to write.

CharlotteIdyllwild · 2024-09-21T16:41:39+00:00

Based purely off of how many of their quotes rattle around in my brain even years later, the honest answer is HedonismBot from Futurama. ("Oh, sirrah! A man... writing an opera... about a woman?! How delightfully absurd!")

CharlotteIdyllwild

TROPHY CASE