Writing

“The inferno of the living is not something that will be; if there is one, it is what is already here, the inferno where we live every day, that we form by being together. There are two ways to escape suffering it. The first is easy for many: accept the inferno and become such a part of it that you can no longer see it. The second is risky and demands constant vigilance and apprehension: seek and learn to recognize who and what, in the midst of inferno, are not inferno, then make them endure, give them space.” –Calvino

It's fictional, of course. I hope you can give me a critique about my writing. The style, what's wrong with it, plot holes, sentences that doesn't make sense, the lot.

The Grasp of Midnight's Thorn

written by Universal Monk

PART ONE

Blood trickled from the deep gash on his hand, dark crimson drops seeping into the soil beneath his prized rose bushes. The rich earth drank it up greedily, staining the roots of the thorny plants. Derek Ahmaogak winced, disgusted by the sharp sting that pulsed through his fingers. His small spade slipped from his grasp, falling uselessly to the ground. He wiped the sweat and dirt from his face with a grimy sleeve, the scent of iron clinging to his skin.

Being a native from the Inupiat tribe, he often felt the weight of his ancestral roots pressing him to master the land, to connect with it in the way his forebears had, but gardening had proven a fickle and unforgiving task.

The sky above had turned a bruised purple, the sun sinking low on the horizon, casting an eerie glow that made the world seem as though it were on the verge of nightfall. Shadows stretched long and jagged across his garden as Derek sighed, feeling the ache in his muscles from the day’s labor.

“Over it,” he muttered, shaking his head. His gaze turned to the house, where his laptop waited, promising an escape from the frustration and pain.

He had heard whispers about a new, mysterious corner of the internet. For years, he’d lurked in forums filled with conspiracy theories, forgotten lore, and the ramblings of half-crazed prophets. But lately, his interest had spiraled into something more mysterious,

It began with a hidden Lemmy community, buried deep beneath layers of cryptic links, accessible only through a private browser extension. At first glance, it seemed like a strange offshoot of Latter-day Saint theology—a sect of Dark Mormons calling themselves The Covenant of the Obsidian Testament.

They claimed to practice ancient rites long hidden from mainstream followers, rituals that Joseph Smith himself had allegedly sealed away to protect the world from their power.

The posts were a tangle of cryptic phrases, dripping with strange, ancient-sounding words that tugged at the edges of Derek's curiosity. Symbols danced between the lines, and scattered clues teased at the corners of his mind.

There were references to old, long-forgotten writings. One thread blazed out like a beacon in the dark: "The Veil of the Forgotten Seer: Rituals of Eternal Ascendance.” The title seemed to pulse with forbidden promise, pulling him in, whispering of something far more dangerous than he could ever imagine.

He couldn’t resist.

Late one night, with nothing but the dim glow of his monitor lighting his cluttered house, Derek clicked on the link. His heart pounded as he read the post, detailing a ritual tied to an ancient, forgotten text buried deep within the one of the original manuscripts of the Book of Mormon.

It spoke of a plant—no ordinary plant, but a seed said to have been passed down from ancient times, tied to something far older than any religion. The Dark Mormons called it “Xymethra’s Bloom.” A plant that could grant unimaginable insight, but only to those willing to nourish it with their own blood.

Derek scoffed at first, but as he read on, his curiosity turned to obsession. The more he read, the more he convinced himself that this could be his chance. He could finally be someone. Finally do something that no one else had dared. This wasn’t just some online community; this was power—real power, hidden from the world.

He posted a response, half expecting to be ignored. But the next morning, his inbox had a single message. The sender was anonymous, but the message was clear: "You are chosen. The seeds will arrive soon. Prepare the soil. Prepare yourself."

It felt like a dream. Four days later, a small, unmarked package arrived at his door. Inside, wrapped in old parchment, were three small seeds—black as night, shimmering with an almost unnatural sheen. A note was tucked alongside them, written in small neat handwriting: “The soil must be fed with blood. Only then will Xymethra’s Bloom rise.”

Derek’s hands shook as he held the seeds. For years, he had searched for something like this—something to prove that the world wasn’t just a monotonous grind of existence. Now, it was in his hands. The next day, he went to his backyard, an unkempt patch of dirt barely touched in months. He dug a small hole and dropped the seeds into the soil.

With a deep breath, Derek peeled away the bandages from his hand, exposing the still-healing wound. He gave it a squeeze, forcing a few drops of blood to fall onto the soil below. As soon as the crimson droplets touched the earth, the air seemed to shift—subtle but unmistakable, like the world itself was holding its breath. He quickly covered the seeds and stepped back, heart racing.

The wind picked up, carrying with it a low hum, almost like a whisper.

Derek smiled. Finally, something was happening.

PART TWO

Days passed, and Derek found himself returning to the garden again and again, watching the patch of soil where he’d buried the seeds. At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and doubt gnawed at him—had he really believed that some ancient ritual would work? Knowing how Lemmy was, it was probably some sort of hemp seed or something.

But on the fifth day, something changed.

A single sprout had broken through the soil.

It was unlike any plant Derek had ever seen. The stem was thin, but it shimmered darkly in the sunlight, almost as if it absorbed the light rather than reflected it. The leaves, black and veined with red, seemed to pulse with a strange energy. Derek knelt down. He reached out to touch one of the leaves, but the moment his fingers brushed the surface, a sharp jolt shot up his arm.

His breath hitched. The plant was warm, alive in a way that felt almost sentient.

The next few days were a blur. The plant grew at an alarming rate, its black vines twisting and curling as they clawed their way through the soil. Every morning, Derek would find it had spread farther, its roots thickening and burrowing deeper into the earth.

He couldn’t stop watching it—obsession consumed him. He barely ate, barely slept. The Dark Mormons on Lemmy had been quiet since sending the seeds, but their final message echoed in his mind: “Prepare yourself.”

One night, as the wind howled outside his window, Derek sat at his kitchen table, staring at the plant through the back door. It had taken over half the garden now, its dark tendrils creeping toward the edges of his yard. The moon cast an eerie glow on its leaves, making them shimmer like black glass.

His phone buzzed, snapping Derek out of his daze. A new PM blinked on his screen—a message from the Dark Mormons.

”Another package coming your way. And instructions.”

The words were simple, but they sent a wave of excitement and unease coursing through him.

Days later, a plain, unmarked box arrived at his doorstep. Inside was a set of cryptic instructions for a ritual called ”The Rite of Xymethra’s Grasp.” To unlock the full power of the sinister plant, he would need more than just a few drops of blood. It required insight—an intimate bond with the dark forces that had given life to the black bloom.

The ritual’s ingredients were strange, almost ludicrous. A small vial of rare wine, included in the package, was to be mixed with a few drops of his blood.

But it was the other bottle that made his skin crawl.

Sealed inside was a spider, desperately clinging to the top of its web, avoiding the thick, sloshing goo that sat ominously at the bottom. The liquid seemed alive, bubbling and shifting, its surface gleaming with an unnatural sheen.

Derek's hands shook as the truth of the instructions sank in. The spider and the thick, sloshing goo weren’t just part of the ritual's theatrics—they had to be consumed together, in one swift swallow, whole and unbroken.

Derek’s hand shook as he read the instructions. He hesitated for a moment, but the desire to see the ritual through overpowered his fear. He needed to know what the Dark Mormons had promised—he needed to be someone, to have the world know him, to unlock the secrets of the forgotten prophet.

Derek arranged everything meticulously on the kitchen table. The chalice sat before him, filled with the dark, swirling wine, while the bottle with the thick goo sloshed unsettlingly at the bottom, the spider skittering desperately on its tiny web near the top, trying to avoid the viscous liquid below. His knife gleamed under the dim, flickering light, poised above his palm.

With a steadying breath, he pressed the blade into his skin, watching as his blood dripped into the chalice. The wine deepened in color, swirling with unnatural patterns that made his head swim. He hesitated for a moment before lifting the chalice to his lips, tipping it back.

The wine was thick and bitter, burning as it crawled down his throat, leaving a searing trail in its wake. He had hoped it would stir some bravery for what came next.

It didn’t.

"Fuck it," he muttered through gritted teeth, eyes shut tight. "Let's do this."

He tilted his head back, uncorked the bottle, and opened his mouth wide to catch the spider. With one swift motion, he tipped the vial back, forcing the goo and spider into his throat.

The spider wriggled frantically against his tongue, its legs scratching the roof of his mouth as he fought to swallow, choking back the urge to gag. The thick goo oozed down his throat, and as the final drop disappeared, a wave of nausea slammed into him, bringing him to his knees.

He heard a noise outside, a low, unsettling rustle from the garden, like something alive stirring in the night. The plant—it responded to him, as if aware of the ritual he had just completed. Heart pounding, Derek staggered to the back door, fumbling with the lock before wrenching it open.

The wind howled through the opening, carrying the sharp scent of damp earth and decay. The once small plant now loomed, its black tendrils twisting and writhing in the moonlight.

And there, at the center of the garden, a bloom opened—a large, grotesque flower with thick, fleshy petals, dripping with some kind of viscous black liquid.

The air felt thick, oppressive, like something ancient and malevolent was stirring beneath the earth. Derek’s mind raced. Was this what the Dark Mormons had been talking about? Was this the power they had promised?

He stepped closer, drawn in by the bloom’s hypnotic pull. The ground beneath his feet seemed to pulse in time with the plant. Something was growing underneath—something large.

And then, Derek felt it. A sharp, searing pain in his chest.

PART THREE

Derek clutched his chest, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He staggered toward the monstrous bloom, the black liquid dripping from its petals forming a slick, oily pool at its base.

The plant groaned. The vines writhed faster now, twisting and curling, reaching out like the fingers of something hungry, eager. The ground beneath his feet trembled, a low rumble that seemed to echo from the deepest recesses of the earth. Derek’s eyes darted across the garden, and that’s when he noticed it—every other plant in his yard had withered, their once green leaves now shriveled and blackened. The life had been drained from them, leaving behind only death.

His mind raced. This was no ordinary plant. The Dark Mormons had never mentioned what lay beneath the soil, what ancient beast his actions had stirred awake.

The pain in his chest intensified. He fell to his knees, clutching at the earth, gasping for air as the movement under his skin became more violent. His veins bulged, writhing like snakes beneath the surface. He screamed, his voice lost in the howling wind, but the garden seemed to drink in his agony, the plant blooming wider as if feeding on his pain.

And then it happened.

The skin on his chest burst open, and something slid out—a mass of wriggling, black tendrils, dripping with the same viscous liquid that bled from the flower. Derek’s body convulsed, his blood mingling with the soil, seeping into the roots of the plant. His vision blurred, the world around him spinning as the grotesque tendrils spread across his chest, rooting themselves into the earth beneath him.

The ground trembled violently now, and Derek’s body sank deeper into the soil, his legs disappearing into the dirt. He struggled, but the more he fought, the tighter the plant's grip became. The vines wrapped around his arms, pulling him closer to the monstrous bloom.

Derek’s breath came in shallow gasps, his body nearly consumed by the earth. He glanced up at the plant—its once-shimmering black petals had shifted. They were no longer just petals; they were eyes. Hundreds of them, blinking, watching him as he struggled. His heart pounded in his ears, terror overwhelming him.

The thing beneath the garden—the ancient beast he had unknowingly summoned—was waking.

Suddenly, the bloom twisted, and from its center emerged a woman’s face— grotesquely distorted, its lips curling into a malevolent grin.

Derek’s blood ran cold. This was no plant. It was a conduit—a doorway for something older, something far more malevolent than he had ever imagined.

The wind died. The world around him seemed to hold its breath.

And then the she-beast spoke.

Her voice was a rasping, guttural sound, like stone grinding against stone. "You sought power, but power demands a price. You are the offering. Your blood has watered the roots of darkness. Let us mate now, become one with the soil, one with me."

The vines constricted tighter, pulling him down, down into the earth. Derek screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the garden. His body, now entangled in the plant, began to wither, his skin turning black, his bones creaking as they were slowly crushed by the relentless pressure.

As the last breath escaped his lips, Derek’s consciousness flickered. His soul, now bound to the ancient power beneath the soil, lingered in the garden. He felt the pull of the earth, the ancient beast's malevolent presence seeping into his very being.

Now, he was no longer Derek. He was part of the garden, part of the monstrous bloom that consumed him. His mind dissolved into the collective consciousness of the ancient creature, lost in an eternal nightmare.

In the center of the garden, the plant pulsed with new life, its black petals glistening in the moonlight. The tendrils that had once been Derek’s body twisted and writhed, merging with the roots of the dark, ancient beast that lay beneath the soil.

The wind picked up again, carrying the faint whispers of screams and laughter, but there was no one left to hear. Only the garden remained, its monstrous bloom waiting, watching.

And far beneath the earth, the ancient beast stirred.

END

This was published a while ago by a zine that's now shut down, so I just republished it on my blog.

4thewords are increasing their price from $40 a year (equivalent in-app currency) to a straight subscription model for $144 a year. I've never seen a hike quite like this and I'm now priced out.

Is there any other similar gamification tools for writing out there?

What a happy little coincidence: To commemorate the great Bob Ross, who died on this day 29 years ago, have some fanfiction. My short story 'Without paint, there would be no suffering' was published today over at "A Thin Slice of Anxiety"

Miguel and Alisha walked down the dimly lit street, their footsteps echoing in the silence of the night. The air was cool, and they pulled their jackets tighter around them. The day had been long but was filled with laughter and joy with with friends. Now returning home, the eerie quietness of the deserted road was a stark contrast to the warmth of the evening.

As they turned a corner, a van screeched to a halt beside them. Four men jumped out, their faces masked. Miguel tried to shield Alisha, but the men were too strong. They brutally assaulted both teenagers, leaving them bruised and bloodied. Gagged and bound, Miguel and Alisha were thrown into the van's back, the door slamming shut with a chilling finality.

But before they could get back into the van, a shadowy figure emerged from the darkness. His skull face gleamed ominously under the pale streetlights, and the air around him seemed to crackle with a dark energy. Skeletor had arrived.

The men stared, momentarily frozen by the skeletal visage before them. One of them sneered, trying to mask his fear with bravado. "Look, it's just one of those freak cosplayers," he scoffed.

Skeletor's hollow laughter echoed through the night. "Foolish mortals," he hissed, raising a hand that glowed with an unholy light. "You have made a grave mistake."

With a flick of his wrist, dark tendrils of magic lashed out, ensnaring the first man. He screamed as the dark energy twisted and contorted his body, snapping bones and tearing flesh. The other men watched in horror as their companion was reduced to a grotesque, lifeless heap.

Skeletor moved toward the second man, who tried to flee. But there was no escape. A bolt of dark energy struck him, and he disintegrated into ashes, his scream cut short. The third man fell to his knees, begging for mercy, but Skeletor was relentless. His eyes glowed with a malevolent fire as he summoned a dark force that engulfed the man, dissolving him into a pool of blood and gore.

The last man, paralyzed with fear, barely had time to react before Skeletor's magic ripped him apart, scattering his remains across the street. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the sound of dripping blood.

Skeletor turned to the van, opening the door with a wave of his hand. Miguel and Alisha stared at him, their eyes wide with a mix of fear and sudden recognition. Skeletor's face was illuminated in the dim light, his skeletal grin unmistakable.

"It's you," Miguel managed to whisper, his voice muffled by the gag.

Skeletor gestured, and the bindings around their wrists and mouths vanished. He cast a shroud of darkness over the horrific scene outside the van, shielding them from the gruesome sight. Blood pooled just within their view, but they were unfazed, their relief and gratitude overwhelming their fear.

Skeletor's eyes narrowed, a sarcastic edge to his tone. "What would the point of saving you two back then, if I allowed such harm to befall you now?"

Miguel and Alisha exchanged glances before nodding in agreement. They stepped out of the van, the stench of blood and death lingering in the air. Despite the horror, they felt an odd sense of comfort in Skeletor's presence.

"Thank you," Alisha said softly, her voice trembling but sincere.

Skeletor waved his hand, and a portal shimmered into existence before them. "Go home," he commanded, his tone gruff but not unkind. "And perhaps consider learning some self-defense."

The teenagers nodded, stepping through the portal. They turned back one last time, their faces illuminated by the portal's glow. "Thank you again," Miguel said, his voice steadier now.

Skeletor's skeletal grin widened. "Stay safe - unless you want to end up with a face like mine." With that, he dissolved into the shadows, leaving the teenagers to ponder the strange and dark guardian who had saved them once more.

It was an ordinary day at Galactic Glow, a popular skincare store in Coruscant, bustling with customers seeking the latest in beauty and wellness products. The ambient music played softly, and the air was filled with the fragrant blend of exotic lotions and creams. The employees, accustomed to assisting a variety of clients, were ready for another typical day at work.

Suddenly, the doors slid open with a hiss, and a heavy, rhythmic breathing filled the store. The towering figure of Darth Vader, the Dark Lord of the Sith, strode into the shop, his black cape flowing behind him, and his menacing helmet casting a shadow over the well-lit aisles. The atmosphere shifted immediately; the employees and customers froze in their tracks, eyes wide with a mix of fear and astonishment.

Whispers spread quickly. "Is that...?" "It can't be..." "Why is he here?"

Vader's presence was intimidating, to say the least. His reputation for ruthlessness preceded him, and his very appearance commanded both fear and respect. The employees huddled together, their usual customer service smiles replaced by expressions of terror. No one dared to approach the Sith Lord, whose patience seemed as thin as the razor-sharp edge of a lightsaber.

All but one employee stood petrified. This employee, known for their unshakeable composure and professionalism, stepped forward. It was just another day at work for them. With a calm demeanor, they approached Vader, maintaining steady eye contact, or at least as much eye contact as one could manage with a man wearing a mask.

"Good day, Lord Vader. How may I assist you today?" they asked, their voice steady and polite.

Vader's helmet turned slightly, his mechanical breathing the only sound breaking the tense silence. He looked down at the brave employee, considering for a moment.

"I require skincare products suitable for maintaining... optimal condition beneath my armor," he stated, his deep voice resonating through the store.

The employee nodded thoughtfully. "Of course, my Lord. We have a range of products that might meet your needs. May I suggest starting with a moisturizing cleanser to help with any dryness, followed by a soothing serum to keep your skin in top condition?"

Vader gave a slight nod of approval. "Proceed."

With careful precision, the employee led Vader through the aisles, selecting products that catered to his unique requirements. They explained each item's benefits, how to use them, and why they were essential for maintaining healthy skin, even beneath a helmet.

The rest of the store watched in awe as the transaction unfolded. Darth Vader, known for his power and control, was now discussing skincare routines with an unflinching employee. The juxtaposition was surreal, yet the employee remained unfazed, treating the situation with the same professionalism they would offer any other customer.

After selecting a collection of products, Vader made his way to the counter. The transaction was completed smoothly, with the employee efficiently packing the items.

"Thank you for your assistance," Vader said, his tone as formal as ever.

"You're welcome, Lord Vader. If you need any further assistance, please don't hesitate to return," the employee replied, maintaining their composure to the end.

With a final nod, Darth Vader turned and exited the store, leaving behind a roomful of stunned employees and customers. The employee who had helped him returned to their colleagues, who stared in disbelief.

"How did you stay so calm?" one of them asked.

The employee shrugged. "It's all in a day's work. Everyone deserves good skincare, even Sith Lords."

And with that, they returned to their duties, ready to face whatever else the day might bring.

I had a little writer's block in the previous weeks but at the same time I had the urge to do something artistic. So, I cut up some texts and reassembled them into something new, something absurd, something weird. Usually I feel bad when I don't write, so writer's block in my case is often a vicious circle (can't write -> feel bad -> can't write etc.) but doing this cut-up thing really helped filling this non-writing period and overcoming the block. And it's fun.

For those interested what came out of it, you can find one of the things published in this lit mag: https://donotsubmit.net/the-midsummer-merchant-king-romeo-richard-of-venice-and-the-tempest-hamlet-nights-juliet-lear-a-dream-ii-by-felix-anker/

Once upon a time there was a magician with knowledge divine,

that lived through ages, met kings, fought wars and put his life on the line.

He was very well versed in the surrounding lands,

where his lonesome tower always stands.

---

There was a knock on his gate,

a sudden traveller visiting his tower.

Shook The Magician indeed was

at the sight of an unknown flower.

---

The Traveller spoke in a calm voice,

asking The Magician about the flower's origin.

The Magician looked on in disbelief,

and The Traveller showed a shadowy grin.

---

You call yourself a holder of divine knowledge,

yet you seem to be quite on the edge.

Have you not been beyond the borders of your kingdom,

never seeking the outside freedom?

---

The world outside the kingdom is vast,

though you have never left in the past.

You could have left but you did not,

have they, perhaps, tied you to this spot?

---

The Traveller left without another word,

leaving behind the questions stabbing like a sword.

The Magician suddenly longed to see the freedom,

so he ventured to the heart of the kingdom.

---

Unbeknownst to him,

the future was looking grim.

The people were living in poverty,

while wealthy nobles treated them like property.

---

On The Magician's adventure,

he felt his heart rupture.

What he saw,

was his kingdom's fatal flaw.

---

A broken mother's sad weeps,

as her young son eternally sleeps.

A hanged father's wish for his daughter,

who was taken like a lamb for slaughter.

---

The Magician was taken over by grief,

looking at what the kingdom has become in disbelief.

This kingdom he no longer understood,

when in front of a mountain of corpses he stood.

---

In front of the corpses where he stands, he saw blood on his hands.

A chill froze him to the core,

was there nothing he could have done?

---

Perhaps if he didn't stay in his tower,

the daughter would have grown into a beautiful flower.

The son would be a good father,

and with the old parents at the table gather.

---

Burning with blazing rage,

it was time for the final stage.

On this stage The King would appear,

confronted by The Magician full of fear.

---

As he confronted the King,

the birds started to sing.

They sang a song full of sorrow,

because The Magician would never see the tomorrow.

---

Once upon a time there was a magician with knowledge divine,

that lived through ages, met kings, fought wars and put his life on the line.

He was shackled under the kingdom,

for The Magician longed to see freedom.

This is the art I received for my main character.

In a space-age afterlife where your body (and some relevant aspects of your mind) is determined by what your psyche wants, Chris Foster becomes a very young child again so they can deal with trauma. Here they choose the name "Solemn" and embark on their personal journey of self-discovery, mental health tools, and what it means to have real, loving family for the first time.

But when political activists kill off the seraphs (the afterlife's demigod social workers and keepers of the peace) it is up to Solemn— who for non-convoluted reasons has become a seraph themself— and their newfound family and others who will fight to restore the compassion and dignity of this afterlife.

My novel is in its third draft and it's super rich and I love to talk about it any chance I get. Ask questions or offer to look at the public draft, please! 💙

An interview with Sefton Eisenhart, author of the new crime story The Chaos of Heat I asked him about what he enjoys reading, his writing setup, fanzines, and the authors who inspire him.

So, I'm currentlich reading Kobo Abe's "Kangaroo Notebook" and I'm a bit confused about his use of tense shifts.

In this scene in the picture, he starts with "I stepped" then "I noticed" but then he proceeds in present tense "It looks", "He doesn't", "He's", and in the end he switches back to past tense "the boy was having", "he wasn't", etc.

So, I'm wondering what's the function of this. This all happens at the same time, so it's no backflash.

Could it be that the present tense sentences are internal thoughts at the moment, while the past sentences are descriptions?

My daughter is studying Creative Writing and English Literature at Birmingham (UK) University. She's put together some pieces on Substack. Most of them are over my head, but this one hits right in the feels. Apart from a couple of technical inaccuracies, it's spot on. Hope you like it ;-)

I'm looking for a place to share my short stories and flash fiction, get comments and critiques, and give feedback in return. There are a fair few websites but they all seem to either focus on smut or fanfiction. Do you have any recommendations for active writing communities?

Sorry if it's too off-topic 😅

Not the best, but still something I submitted without expecting publication

This morning I decided to compete with ChatGPT on who could write the best short story given my original idea. I assume my story idea is original because I have never heard of a story about this before.

Prompt: write a short story about a janitor reflecting on his existence in the universe

ChatGPT’s Entry

In a small town nestled between towering mountains, there lived a janitor named Henry. Henry was an ordinary man with a mundane job, but his deep thoughts often led him on extraordinary journeys of contemplation. Every morning, as the first rays of the sun touched the earth, Henry would arrive at his workplace—the local elementary school. He would clean the well-worn corridors, mop the gleaming floors, and empty the overflowing trash bins. But amidst his daily routine, Henry couldn't help but question the meaning of his existence in the vast universe.

One evening, weary after a long day's work, Henry sat alone at a park bench, gazing up at the night sky. The twinkling stars seemed to whisper their secrets to him, igniting a fire within his soul. He wondered, "Am I just a speck of dust in this vast cosmic dance?" As the night wore on, Henry's reflections grew deeper. He contemplated the countless galaxies, stretching across space and time, and the infinite possibilities they held. Immersed in his thoughts, he questioned whether his life as a janitor had any significance amidst such cosmic grandeur. Then, as if the universe itself wished to answer his query, a shooting star streaked across the sky. And in that fleeting moment, Henry had an epiphany. He realized that his existence, no matter how seemingly small, was interconnected with the entire cosmos. With newfound purpose, Henry returned to work the next day.

No longer burdened by the weight of insignificance, he embraced his role as a janitor with renewed vigor. Henry understood that even the smallest acts could have profound ripple effects. He began to engage with the students, sharing stories of curiosity and wonder. He inspired them to dream big and to nurture their thirst for knowledge. Henry encouraged creativity and taught them about the beauty of the natural world. Through his interactions, he planted seeds of inspiration, knowing that they had the potential to blossom into greatness. As the years went by, the children Henry had influenced grew up to become innovators, scientists, and visionaries in their own right. Although he remained a humble janitor, Henry found solace and satisfaction in knowing that he had played a part in shaping brilliant minds. Henry's contemplation of his existence in the universe had led him to a profound realization—that purpose lies not in the grandeur of our roles or positions, but in the impact we have on others. In every act of kindness, in every moment of inspiration, our existence intertwines with the tapestry of the universe. And so, Henry continued to navigate the corridors of the elementary school, not as just a janitor, but as a catalyst for dreams, a guardian of possibility, and a reflection of the cosmic wonders that lay within each and every one of us.

My Entry

Henry shooed the spider into the cup; he had been a bit surprised to find something alive in the office. “Sorry little guy, not sure you can afford it here.” He watched as the little creature desperately tried to escape by climbing the smooth interior to no avail until it gave up the attempt, resting in place along the bottom rim. It was kind of silly to evict it as it had been making the best use of the space in many months. Now it would have to start over somewhere else if it didn’t perish in the attempt. Of course it probably couldn’t even conceive of its predicament and wouldn’t be aware that it had lost anything while it set to work establishing itself somewhere else. It existed in a kind of perpetual flow state, even at this moment when its very fate was totally beyond its own control. He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of envy for it.

As he sauntered through the immaculate but desolate hall of the building toward the back door he began to consider whether he or the spider more represented entropy in the building. According to his job description he represented the literal opposite of entropy. It was his responsibility to maintain the office space in its entirety until such a time as tenants rented it out and took on the responsibility themselves. The office had to look its absolute best at all times because the landlord took pains to schedule tours with prospects with the fastest turnaround possible. Every moment the fallow building weighed on the expense side without revenue must have cost her in money and sleep. She always seemed frazzled on the phone as if barely containing her panic. They both knew the whole thing was a sunk cost which should be sold off to one of the big fish consuming everything else local people used to own and now had to rent. In their hands the useless building would attain a new significance somewhere in the labyrinthine exploitation of taxes and finances those companies specialized at. Even at his old job moving numbers around on a spreadsheet to minimize this and obfuscate that, Henry understood that it was ultimately meaningless for everyone but the investors. Because of some kind of calculation somewhere the building and parking lot would remain a kind of mausoleum bereft of even the dead. That was probably some kind of decay. The spider wasn’t really destroying anything. It was just making use of what was there to build something for itself. If everyone simply left the building to be reclaimed by nature, in a few years it would be teeming with new life. He was there, and anyone hired after him would be there, to ensure it remained as it was for as long as was convenient for people who had only briefly laid eyes on it if they even bothered.

He flung the spider into the grass by the door and took a brief moment to glance at the sky. The heat was overwhelming but he couldn’t help but appreciate the planet-encompassing blue and what it represented to so many across time and space. This vast uncaring universe in all of its beauty and horror giving a hint of the devastation it would wreak on the familiar but fragile human systems so many economists and politicians declare to be “natural.” At least he wouldn’t be around to see the worst of it, he supposed. All he had was the brief flicker of existence and no matter what things looked like during that relatively minuscule moment he was determined to make the most of it whatever that meant. At this moment it was to rescue an innocent creature from the throes of systems which no one could actually fully comprehend. That was worth something, at least to himself.

I’m not going to claim to be a great artist or anything, but I think I see a difference in quality here. But what if ChatGPT scrapes my story and reproduces it?

Prompt: Use the following story as inspiration to write your own original story: [My entire story]

ChatGPT’s Infringement of my Story

As Henry shooed the spider into the cup, he couldn't help but ponder the significance of its existence in contrast to his own. The spider, oblivious to its fate, had been making the best of its surroundings, utilizing the space in the office to its advantage. Henry, on the other hand, felt trapped in a cycle of monotonous responsibility as a caretaker of the vacant building.

As he walked through the empty halls towards the back door, contemplating his role in the grand scheme of things, Henry realized the building itself represented entropy. It stood as a symbol of stagnation, its potential unrealized, while he tirelessly upheld its pristine appearance. The landlord, burdened by the costs and stress, sought to sell it to larger corporations that would transform it into another impersonal entity within the financial labyrinth. In contrast, the spider was merely trying to survive, creating its own little world within the office. Henry found solace in the spider's ability to adapt and create without destroying anything. If left alone, the building would eventually succumb to nature's reclamation, thriving with new life.

Flipping the spider into the grass, Henry briefly gazed at the vast blue sky, a reminder of the enormity of the universe. It both fascinated and terrified him, knowing that humanity's fragile systems would ultimately face its wrath. Yet, amidst the chaos, Henry recognized the fleeting nature of his existence and resolved to make the most of it. Rescuing the innocent spider from the clutches of the incomprehensible systems surrounding them became a small act of defiance for Henry. In a world consumed by self-serving pursuits, he found value in preserving even the tiniest life. For him, this act held meaning, reaffirming his determination to find purpose within the realms of the unknown.

It may be my personal bias since I wrote the source material but it seems to me that the most important aspects of my story are missing from the machine’s directly appropriated “re-interpretation” of my story.

I don’t think the machine competently reproduced my story or ideas. I don’t think the machine could possibly competently reproduce my story or ideas or even come up with its own because the machine does not have a mind. The machine does not have experiences, it does not have thoughts, and it does not have emotions. The machine has access to a database and the ability to express what it finds in that database using language programmed to appear similar to how humans use language. The story it “created” and the “interpretations” it made are the sum of algorithmically analyzing the query and re-organizing relevant database entries to deliver a response. What I want to make perfectly clear is that although this is an impressive piece of technology which I’ve found many uses for, it is not capable of creating or interpreting as you or I are able to do. It is only capable of delivering relevant processed data entries in human-sounding language with no ability to understand what it is reading or the words it delivers. I am simply not intimidated by the machine appropriating my ideas because it can’t do anything with them.

Going beyond this, I don’t think “original ideas” are the primary thing that makes a piece of media worth consuming as I hope I demonstrated above. I have seen derivative works which lack care and quality, and I have also seen derivative works which succeed where the original failed. The key is in the execution, and I personally also weigh how much it seems like the artist cared about it while working on it whether the end product works as intended or not. The kind of originality in execution which we are capable of and the thing that matters for thoughtful engagement are not things the machine can replicate.

To be perfectly clear the above argument has absolutely nothing to do with commodified art or art as a trade. In the market, quality is one of many variables influencing purchasing behavior and is probably a minor one compared to other drivers. LLM generated content is worthless artistically but its “worth” in dollars has the potential to displace a lot of actual art of all kinds which people buy. Considering the obvious lack of artistic quality from LLMs hopefully the market will develop towards producing only what humans and not unthinking machines can produce, but I really have no idea. Photography totally transformed the medium of painting in my opinion for the better, and hopefully the layups any competent person can have against the machine will also influence art for the better.

My purpose here is that I am extremely disturbed by hearing of artists of any kind losing motivation to produce their art because of LLMs or not wanting to risk their work being scraped and “reproduced” by LLMs. That to me is the worst possible consequence of this phenomenon. Even without any skill or experience, the simple fact that we have human minds makes us better artists than the machine by default. It can’t actually outdo anyone by artistic standards. If LLMs mean to you that you have to make a change, please let that change be to lean more into your own humanity rather than to stop artistic expression altogether.

Her presence
intoxicating as
the smell of sweet honey

her touch sends shivers
down deep
to the marrow of my bones

her gaze icy
yet it burns me
and everything within

every time
I pray
to hold her
just for a minute longer

yet when the sun comes up
she is no longer there
my silent wish
unanswered

the sheets next to me
devoid of her warmth
yet full
of her fragrance

I sigh and close my eyes
only to meet her again
in my dreams