Writing

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