I have decided on my latest project, taking the advice of Becca Weston and Alessandra Hinlo, and it is Beneath, the story of an ex-private investigator turned diplomat on the capital planet of a foreign, powerful alien Empire, struggling to juggle politics, curiosity, and forbidden knowledge. For the rest of March #writemotivation, I will try to write three chapters in Beneath (just the working title, of course). For your reading (dis)pleasure, a small sample of what I’ve done so far is below:
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“Bloody hell.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Bloody, bloody hell.”
The stately being seated beside me raised an eyebrow and turned fully to face me. “You equate our planet with a thoroughly unpleasant place, filled with bodily fluids?”
“What? No, I didn’t say that.”
“You most definitely did. ‘Bloody hell’ were your exact words.”
“And here was me thinking you Juxtani didn’t use the word ‘hell.’ I mean, I knew that your language – Kordic, isn’t it? – is almost exactly the same as English, with a few minor variations. I guess ‘hell’ isn’t one of them.”
“‘Hell’ is merely a word we use for an unpleasant place or situation that causes great pain.”
I chuckled softly to myself. “Huh. Well, in our language, the word means the same thing in common usage, but it derives from one of our religions. In that religion, ‘Hell’ was a place where sinners were sent upon their death. To be punished for eternity.”
“Sinners. I take that to mean someone who violated accepted codes of conduct?”
I shrugged. “I guess. The accepted codes of conduct I was referring to were that of said religion, of course.”
“Religion. An odd concept. Belief in a higher power, with no evidence as to its existence. How… quaint.”
I rolled my eyes and leaned back in my seat. It was a very comfortable seat, with soft, plush, grey cushions all around me. “Yes. Quite. Quaint. And your Juxtani religion is different because you have proof that your gods exist.”
“Gods do not exist in the sense that you refer to them, Sana Hicks. They are merely beings like us, just with immense… power, and knowledge. Your species’ continued belief in these nonexistent gods is interesting.”
“You know what,” I said, nettled at my companion’s condescending manner, turning my head to look at him square in the face. He was very light-skinned, and looked exactly like a Human. His hair was a dark brown, almost bordering on black, and hung down slightly past his shoulders. Two shorter lengths of braided hair framed his face, with jewels and other glittery objects littering them. Like a magpie. He wore his thin, oiled mustache well, and his hand-length beard was waxed so heavily that it didn’t move at all.
“Not all Humans believe in gods,” I continued, curbing the annoyance in my voice, reminding myself that I was representing my entire species here. No pressure. “We’re not all the exact same person. We don’t share a common personality. We are all different. I am sure the same is true of you Elfviyat.”
“To an extent. Your Human race contains much more individual variation that ours does. We… discourage deviation.”
Z. M. Wilmot 