Print Story WFC XI: the aftermath
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By ana (Tue Nov 01, 2011 at 07:47:27 PM EST) WFC, WFC XI, WFC 11, post-mortem. (all tags)
In which the tale of the wereslut tale is told. 

Also, comma, one night in, nano word count: 1837.


 First, the background. The first time I heard the word "wereslut", was during a prompted writing chat. We propose prompts, everybody writes for 10 minutes, rinse, repeat. On this particular day, everybody brought a prompt and multi-sided dice decided the order. After our tales were mostly complete, the next-to-last prompter, BlueOregon, proposed something along the lines of, "Make your story live up to its title, which is Weresluts of Avenue A."

We did what we could, which wasn't much. But it was a writing prompt which has lived in infamy.

So given the prompt for WFC XI: Metropolitan Therianthropes, in particular the first exercise, "Tell me about a time you transformed into a supernatural being, and woke up lost and naked in another part of the city.", the whole wereslut thing just kind of wrote itself. In some ways, it's comic-like as well, and so maybe addresses the third exercise, if weresluts are part of the infrastructure of the city.

And then, to be sure, I rewrote it. Dialog flows best for me if I write it in one rapid pulse, with very little editing after the fact. So I'm sorry to say that some of the best lines in the first draft (gems such as, "I don't usually sleep with the people I sleep with") got left on the cutting room floor.

But the basic idea, transformation into a god/goddess, naked somewhere in an unsavory part of the city... it's strangely compelling.

And I started thinking about the depictions of love goddesses in art. The classical nude doesn't do much for me. But an emaciated streetwalker without even her micro-mini might be the modern equivalent. I could imagine her (Joe, the furnace repairman) appearing to people who are looking for love but willing to settle for sex, doing something transformative, and going back to his furnace job. And, yes, probably fucking the defenseless mortal in a remarkably memorable way.

Someone else at a similar writing chat pushed forward the notion of temporary immortality, and the idea stuck with me. What's it like, being immortal, if only for a night? The proof is in the pudding, of course, so the pimp murders her. And then she puts her head back on her shoulders and goes back to work, fixing Mrs. Washington Street's heat. Post-mortem, as it were, an ordinary mortal again.

And because it's me, the signature ana was here feature, the gender change.

Anyway, was fun. A++ would do again.

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