Writer In Motion Forum

My CPs are amazing.  I loved reading each of their stories, and they provided lots of helpful feedback that hopefully have helped me turn a conversation between characters into an actual story.  They rightly pointed out that this was more a scene than a story (which may still be the case, but making the bet between the characters more explicit elucidates "my human" and allows us to see the change in the MC when it agrees to help its adversary), and suggested -- two of them by their uncertainty whether the MC was a demon and the third explicitly -- that the narrator needed to be either less snarky, or snarkier.  (I chose snarkier.  Of course I chose snarkier.)

I've found this process exhilarating.  The radical vulnerability of sharing a messy early draft with people who are not family or old buddies is rewarding for me.  It opens the creative process into a collaborative one, and helps me get outside my own head.  My partner is participating too (hi Pat) and it's also been terrific bouncing intermediate drafts off each other and negotiating the CPs' input together.

Here's the new draft!


"We have to talk," Chelion said in its most take-me-seriously voice.

I glanced up from my pinball game and did a double take.  I managed not to tilt the machine, but I lost my ball.  "Not while you look like that."  I shuddered.

"Like what?"

"Like fifty farts in a trenchcoat."  I pulled back the plunger and released the ball.  Maybe if I annoyed it enough, I could keep playing.

There was a pained pause.  Its singed-caramel reek assailed my nostrils.  Well, not on the corporeal level, but still.  "It's not a trenchcoat," it pouted.

"Oh, for --Then like a hundred farts in a hoodie."

"Why a hundred now?"

"Hoodie fabric's breathable.  Takes more farts to look like that."

Chelion sighed and put its icy hand on me.  "Kurathel..."

I lost my other ball when I flinched.  Embarrassed, I slapped the machine.  It flashed TILT at me.  I glared at Chelion.  It looked ridiculous in human clothes.  "Nice hoodie," I sneered.  "Well, what?"

"You cheated."  It looked mad.  Billowing clouds of s'mores-flavored smoke spilled from its amusingly mundane hood.
 
"'Course I cheated.  Cheating's what I do.  For reals, though: knock it off, you're scaring the norms.  You look like an asshole."

It facepalmed into the mist, leaving a metaphysical mask behind, but looked barely better: the face it had crafted was inhumanly beautiful, glassily impassive.  "This is serious, Kurathel.  You shouldn't have told me that Cards Against Humanity was a legitimate measure of human merit."

I yelped with relieved laughter.  "That?!  On our bet?  That's what you're pissed about?"

A hipster playing Pac-Man nearby was rubbernecking, so I eyeballed him back and stuck out my forked tongue.  His jeans darkened with urine: fuck, why couldn't people just be oblivious?  Nostalgia for arcade games wasn't the only reason I missed the Goddamned 80s.

I grabbed Chelion by its elbow-equivalent, feeling its vaporous chill through the knit cotton.  "My place, now," I hissed.

It sighed, sending a single plume of incense-smoke Heavenward.  "But it's gross."

I let go and apported.  It followed.  When it arrived, I spat, "You're gross."

Chelion rolled its exquisite fake eyes.  "That's not what you said yester-"

"Eh, eh.  Lies, remember?"  I pointed at myself.  "Get it?"

It shook its head impatiently.  "No.  That doesn't matter.  I smote my human because of her cards, Kurathel."

I laughed so hard I lost my human shape.  When I got my flames damped down again, it was still staring sorrowfully at me, its impassable mask completely unmoved.  That set me off again.  "You what?!"

"I took a human life."

"You take hundreds of human lives," I hiccupped, smoothing away my barbed tail.

"I reaped my human because she said ... never mind what she said.  It was horrible."

"Was it super gay?"

"No, Kurathel, why would I care about that?"  It ran its hand through its mist, stripping off its mask of humanity as it did so, and turned to look at me in all its ethereal anguish.  "No, it was super blasphemous."

I ran my tongue over my fangs, grinning.  "What'd she say?" 

It shook its head. 

"C'mon, what'd your goody-two-shoes meatbag say?"

"Stop, Kurathel."

I grabbed its misty hands.  "You can tell me, Chelion.  Was it about altar boys?"

It sniffed primly.  "No."

"Abortion?"

"No."

"St. Augustine's pear tree?"

"Be serious, Kurathel."

"The card about the nail holes?"

"There's a card for that?" it wailed.  "Heavens, no!"

"Hell yes.  You'd hate it.  Come onnnnn.  Gimme a little hint."  I draped an arm around it.  "You wouldn't've come to me for help if you didn't need me, babe."

It moaned.  "Okay.  She said... she said that her personal Lord and Savior ... was Batman."

I stared at it.  It stared back.  It looked unhappier than I felt the situation warranted.  "Um.  I can safely say that I've heard worse."

It threw its hands up.  "Batman is fictional," it scoffed.

"Wait.  You understand that Batman is fictional but not that somebody's play is fictional?"  I started giggling again.

Chelion elbowed me.  "Kurathel, please.  I disintegrated a person."

"Whatever.  She busted a Commandment.  Y'know, the first one."

It flapped an airy hand.  "She didn't really.  Not in her heart."

"Okay.  I'll help you hide the body if you do a little something for me..." I wagged my eyebrows and pointed meaningfully downward.

"No, I disintegrated the body when I smote her."

"Niiice."

Chelion softened, if a cloud of mist could be said to soften any further.  "It's really decent of you to try to cheer me up, Kurathel..."

Yikes.  I gave up on pressuring it for sex today.  "Say that again and I'll cut you."

It shook its topmost cloud.  "Don't be like that."

"That is literally how I be." 

Chelion bent to pet Virgil, my badly-behaved tomcat, who rubbed against its clothing and wove through its tendrils of mist, spreading Chelion's icing-and-myrrh stank to drown out the cozy catbox-and-brimstone aura of my apartment.  If I ever managed to seduce Chelion, I was never going to get its sweetness out of my sheets.
 
"So, your Bat-pagan's dead and dusted, you lost the bet, and you've repented your own sins.  Pay up.  Seems fine."

"It's not fine," it fretted.  "I killed her."

"Can you finagle a do-over?"

"We don't have those," it said softly, picking up Virgil.  He rumbled like a twelve-dollar vibrator. 

"Then what the Hell do you need me for?  You looking for a medal?"

"No, hot stuff.  I'm looking for help.  The help of my friend."  Its luminous gaze drilled into me.  "Your help." 

Friend.  Suddenly my eyes felt as misty as Chelion.  "Aw, gross.  Fuck.  Fine.  I'll help.  With what?"

It brightened.  "I need you to get the soul back from, well, you know.  Pretty please, with sugar on top?"

"Ew, sugar." 

It hugged me. 

A sinking feeling always cheered me up.  "Okay, fine, Sugar.  You be on top."

Chelion glowed, but then again, that was normal.  "My hero!"

I gagged.  "Don't mention it.  Really.  Really."

Name: Linda M. Scott
Preferred Pronouns: they/them

Bio: I've been quite complacently spinning space opera, SF & F since I was about 14.  My brother was my bestie and my audience forever.  He was very forgiving about unfinished epics, but when I lost him in 2018, the little guys on my shoulders began insisting that I actually finish book-length drafts and find them a new audience.  NaNoWriMo got me moving in that direction.  Now I've got a stack of unedited novel drafts that need some TLC and to be marketed for publication.

What type of stories do you write?
I'm an anthropologist, and I include social-scientific themes in all my fiction.  That can be grappling with cultural relativity in the first-contact encounter, troubling the waters of "normal" human development, asking the tough legal questions about clones, pushing back against gender norms, smashing patriarchies, setting utopias and dystopias against one another, sustaining focus on our biological realities, or pitting horizontal vs. vertical social systems against one another.

What are you working on right now?
Two WIPs have shelved all my others for the moment:

One is a first-contact narrative from an alien's perspective (the same universe as my trilogy draft, but with the encounter inverted).  It's humorous and disastrous in roughly equal quantities. 

The other is a dark fantasy piece about an assassin finding their way through a post-apocalyptic wasteland with a holy toddler in tow.  It's very much not The Mandalorian.

There is also a trilogy begging for editing: I am calling it The Telanera Contagion.  Dr. Ash Telanera, a forensic anthropologist working on failed colonies, stumbles upon a sentient alien species and must navigate the situation.  Whether or not they will cause a disastrous war in the process is anybody's guess.

My Writer In Motion Project:
"Against Humanity"

Connect With Me:

Short Works:
WTAFiction

My (fledgling, in-construction) website:
Linda Scott Books

Personal social media:
Facebook (please send a message)
Instagram