'Tongue-tied' - A WIP Extract

A flavour of Book #2 for you to savour.

Whilst my first manuscript (‘debut novel with series potential’) is battling it out in the agent-fortified query trenches, I’ve done what any creatively-driven masochist should do and jumped straight into writing a second novel. This work-in-progress is now 30kWords long. Below is a draft scene extracted from this WIP, which I’ve plotted to occur about 20% of the way through the story.

N.b. This may change. The scene could move or disappear into the ether.

Also, please be aware I’ve used this initital draft to veer into experimental territory with regard to dialogue. I’ve made a reasonable assumption that if a segregated group hides away for a bit, then a creole or pidgin of sorts will emerge/diverge from their originally inherited mainstream language. So I’ve tried to aim linguistically for a literary spot halfway between ‘Clockwork Orange’ and ‘1984’ in the invented language stakes.

Aim for the stars, why not! Or suck your breath through your teeth if you’re one of my critique partners…

Apparently planet-bound Venusians and Martians need agony aunts – or uncles – and an army of counsellors to understand each other, but I’m hoping comprehension of this extract will come far easier to you, dear reader.

I do hope I haven’t strayed too far. Please tell me what you think - in language I can understand.

Until next time,

JR

Johnathan Reid

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ReidItWrite

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‘Tongue-Tied’

WIP-extract:#2/Ch11.1/07-JUN-2023

Today’s language class is different. Different room, different teacher. Granny has replaced Suleiman. I pause in the doorway when I see a third person already sat opposite the single desk. Not a pupil, not a teacher. Definitely different. A real-live off-planet Rebirther. Their paleness and shock of platinum hair contrasts sharply with a lifetime of darker Panoptiki pigmentation and neoDesert drabness. I can’t imagine how they’ve journeyed to our isoCommune from their orbital refuge. Or why.

Granny beckons me to sit at the desk, saying: “This is your new language tutor,” without further explanation or introduction. She’s grown fond of springing unexpected tests on me to gauge my reaction. This is her biggest surprise yet, a challenge for even her favourite pupil – ‘the best Sustainer student on the Lake’.

The stranger remains silent until I’ve sat down. Then they speak in fluent and angry tones, perhaps masking their fear. I recognise some words from my classes with Suleiman. Granny steps closer to the desk, her hand raised, and they attempt to raise theirs in reflex, instantly silent. Only then do I notice their wrist ties, a metal hawser looping under the desk. That’s also different – but not unexpected, given what they are and the decades-long tribal enmity which exists between us.

It’s difficult to guess their age. I know from my lessons that the preternatural youth all Rebirthers crave means the usual physical signs are a deceitful determinant. They’re perhaps several years older than me, despite the smooth flesh and lithe low-grav limbs. They also appear to be a woman from what I can see. Again, it’s hard to tell. Modding is part of the Rebirthers’ warped credo. A healed cut on their left cheek remains livid, the eye socket above it darker than its mirrored orbit. Perhaps from still trying to wield upstairs privilege. Their eyes, of course, are green. A distinctive brilliant-cut emerald green.

What you might see, if you feel pity. (Generated by AI+Me)

They could never be one of us, even if shaved, sun-browned and clothed. But I’ve spent months preparing to be one of them, now mid-way through a multi-week course of sharp needles and obscure tests. I was always the exception. Special. Burdened with my birth-defined destiny. Now I’m striving to be different. To be indistinguishable in looks, voice and behaviour from this, the Sustainers’ sworn enemy.

Granny nods at me to start the lesson and I greet the stranger with the phrase I’ve been taught, now painfully aware my studied accent bears no semblance to reality.

“Was is point o’ this snarky deal, sis?” they reply, arms pulling on the wire, their arrogance intact despite the restraint. Their skin is dirty, despite their factional obsession with eradicating germs and filth. They peer into my eyes, noticing how they aren’t green enough. “You moddin’ for ‘Birther action? The market shutup downstairs? I gonna need my threads back to be groomin’ that room. Fash me?”

My answer is hesitant in the face of their vulgarity and they know it, flashing bright white teeth with their mocking laughter. I try again to match their coarseness, attempting to undo my own cultural restraints: “You splicing that body oneways, or be forkin’ both sides?” I ask, probing for any kind of conversational connection.