Writing info, story excerpts:
Lincoln's Life Manuscript
Lincoln's Life novel:
Current word count: 16k
Estimated manuscript word count: 75k-85K
Book 1 of 2
Speculative Fiction Novel
A black scientist in a parallel very white America falls into the orbit of a mysterious man, black like herself, unusually, who provides her one desire: a potential cure for a terrible disease killing children. When his secrets are revealed, the price owed is a fight for her life against preternatural forces.
TIFU short story open:
Mostly they call me Sethastian, some boring ones, Seth, or fun testers call me Sethy, too. I'm a mutant-people clearly. I walk wrong, kinda side-to-sidey, but my tester-people always smile when I do, so I suppose may be OK. Probably my foot-foots—ick. But how can I know? I never see tester-person foot, so I may be all good. But this tooth. I'm so f-word up—apparently, mutant-people no, never say that real word, so Sethy not too—I use my big, funky tooth to get me around a lot, like when I really want to see things eye to eye with testers. Thoughts also tell me I'm a little-people. But I read this normal life. Maybe. Little people grow to big people over time.
Time. Time is tests. At least I’m a smart mutant-people; all testers say so. "Sethy! Unbelievable! You're the smartest!" Yada-yada. But the tests: letters, numbers, I spell, math, words, I read, objects, colors, concepts, tools, tester-people, faces, more, more, more. So much tests that my tester-people teach Sethy to use my f-word mutant tooth to test-test alone. Sometimes I'm like, enough already! But the fruit. Bring on the fruit, I think I say. Most always laugh with me. Not the not fun ones. But fruit equals right, so we or I test. Pretty good life, I think: fruit equals smarter, smarter equals fruit.
Mostly no time for even chit-chat. Chats not equal fruit. Until a new tester comes.
Whoa.
Kevan/K'van novelette open:
...I have facilitated the discovery of the first non-human intelligence… Braxton Leeds bounces that humongous golden nugget from JB Shumway’s press release around his mind, for the thousandth time; likely more. Definitely much more, he thinks as he exits MIA proper for baggage claim. Braxton pulls out his phone to hone in on his bag, then his long legs make a beeline for the Tumi roller-backpack, already sitting aside, while his journalistic instincts swirl around the use of facilitated in the statement. I have facilitated to be precise—a very passive construction and verb, he thinks, again, for the umpteenth time. He feels something deep, knows, that, literally, every other ego-bigorexic, corp-baron on Earth would dictate and demand “I discovered”; thus, that particular grammar usage sticks out. But what did the clue mean? If anything? The full release gave no clue; followed by infuriating radio silence. Braxton knows this for sure: JB Shumway does indeed have an ego the size of Everest; isn’t a passive man at all; touches whatever tech industry of interest to gold; and, therefore, achieved Untouchable Rich before thirty-eight—and last but not least, the mogul just might be giving him the scoop of the century, for reasons incomprehensible to Braxton himself. He has settled on some white savior, progressive proving, affirmative action complex, because why not? It happens—a white hand plucking a black person from obscurity to feel good. Whatever. He doesn’t need to get it. And has no real read on the mystery smarty, but like everyone else has landed on AI, considering the source; he does leave room for something like an alien signal detection via the tycoon’s Hermesia Corp satellite network, though. But with the Richy Riches, who knows? Exciting!