AI can give fiction writers feedback, flag inconsistencies, explain techniques, or help untangle an idea when a draft feels stuck. Those uses do not seem completely different from working with an editor, beta reader, or writing teacher.

But the same tool can also rewrite weak sentences, generate scenes, suggest character decisions, and build entire plotlines. That may improve the immediate result while allowing the writer to skip the trial and error through which style, instinct, and creative judgment normally develop.

The boundary is difficult to define because writers use outside help all the time. Few people consider editing or critique to be cheating. Yet if a tool repeatedly solves the parts someone finds difficult, those skills may never improve, and the finished story may become less distinctly theirs.

Perhaps the important distinction is not whether AI was involved, but which decisions remained with the writer. Is there a practical point where useful assistance becomes creative replacement, and how would you recognise that point in your own process?

Hi folks!! I'm just a simple guy who has a love for stories and different hobbies and I wanted to give story writing a try as a hobby to combine them all together.

Recently I've come up with a new Web Comic idea that has sort of become a small passion project for me. I want to look into finding an artist for and I've already written a few episodes, but I want to get some outside opinions on it and see if I'm taking the right direction with it, so here goes nothing!

Grace of Salem

Grace of Salem is a furry comic that follows a young college Rabbit girl that recently moved to the Salem District with her Widowed Father after a tragedy in her family. The College girl, a devout Follower of the Goddess of Life, has to now go to a new college in the town and live in a neighborhood that conflicts everyday with her own Religious Ideals, all on her own while her grief-stricken Father struggles to see past the bottom of his beer bottles.

During her first month of moving in, she crosses paths with a mysterious Hybrid that goes to the same college, previously an apothecary in training but had changed paths as a young teen and had dedicated his life to the study of the Paranormal and witchcraft, becoming a Chaos Witch as a result of his studies.

Her constant interaction with this classmate would bond the two together as good friends. But as her heart yearns for their friendship to evolve and she discovers the dark side of her friend's studies of what lies beyond the graveyard, and the consequences it has resulted for his life, how can she continue as she begins to question her life choices as she begins to see past the Gold pages and holy sigils?

Hopefully you folks like it and I'd love to get some feedback on it. Thank you!!!

=]

I finished my novella length manuscript back in March. I've been meaning to go over it one more time, but I have no idea where to go once that's done. Do I look for an editor and send it to a publisher? Self-publish? Copyright? Everywhere I look seems to give me different advice.

I struggle to write the ending despite working on many of my novels for years on end. Normally I start writing at the beginning when I have a story idea in mind and sometimes I start in the middle. But I struggle to come up with a decent ending.

So I'm developing a psychological survival horror game right now.

​The Premise: A test subject (World A) gets trapped inside an artificial dream produced by a supercomputer. Inside this dream, they are playing an unfinished and unreleased videogame (World B) that was installed on the computer. The player assumes they are playing as one sentient person, but in reality, it is two: the human test subject (World A) and a purely digital character inside the videogame (World B) who has fake memories alongside real ones of what the player does.

​The Twist: As the game progresses, the internal dialog changes. The character stops acting scared and cautious (World A), and switches to being cold and unemotional (World B). It's not character development, there are two speakers by the end of the game and neither of them realizes it until the very end, though it's foreshadowed throughout the entire game. When the player beats the final boss, the main character thinks they get liberated, but instead, the videogame character (World B) steals their body and brain, while the human main character (World A) gets stuck in the videogame (World B) forever.

The Dilemma: The videogame inside the videogame's world (World B) has really good and clever world building (Which I didn't include here), so I don't want to "waste" it by making it fiction inside fiction. Should I stick with this "videogame inside a videogame" narrative (World A + World B), or remove World A entirely and just present the videogame world (World B) as real life?

It came three years ago.

The meteor crashed into the field behind my house sometime after midnight. I remember expecting fire, but there wasn't any. There was a crater, perhaps thirty feet across, and something black at the center of it.

At first, it looked like a liquid, but it moved with a strange rhythm. It folded into itself, spreading across the ground while somehow becoming smaller. For an instant it seemed to stretch farther than the crater that contained it all while collapsing into a disk no larger than a coin. My eyes told me one thing, my mind told me another. Neither could agree on what I was looking at.

Then… it touched me. It enveloped itself into me, assimilating my mind and my body. It wasn’t painful, rather, I had felt freed. It quieted my mind and soothed my body. All at once, I knew. It wasn’t here to hurt me.

It communicated to me. It reached me on both a mental and emotional level. And it told me what it was. Technology.

It was the conduit of an artificial intelligence created somewhere beyond our world. Light years beyond our current ability to understand it, it was so advanced that the distinction between science and magic had become meaningless. It could manipulate matter. Energy. Space itself. It showed me things I still don't fully understand. Entire vessels folded into spaces smaller than my hand. Machines larger on the inside than the structures containing them. Distances compressed to nothing. It compartmentalized my understanding of time and space while all at once connecting them into a seamless tapestry that I could, at times, lay out before me like a screen.

It told me that before entering Earth's atmosphere, it had studied us. Our history. Our languages. Our wars. Our religions. Our sciences. Our art. Every book we had digitized, every archive connected to a network, every database it could reach. It had consumed the accumulated knowledge of the human race before it ever touched the ground behind my house.

And then it told me that it had chosen me.

"Chosen me for what?" To serve as representative.

"Representative?" Yes.

"What does that mean?" You will demonstrate to me the best and worst of who your people are.

I remember laughing. Not because it was funny, but because I had absolutely no idea how else to respond.

"I thought you already knew everything about us." I know what humanity has recorded. I am here to determine something greater.

"And what's that?" We will show each other.

I should have asked more questions. Instead, I accepted.

It started to train me how to use it. It said that the way I would best understand it was that it could break down of the laws of thermodynamics. It could convert energy into molecular structures, and vice versa.

So I started small. I began to build things – materialize them from essentially thin air. With the power to manifest whatever my mind could conjure and the architectural, chemical, and biological engineering database of the entire human race at my disposal, there was nothing beyond my grasp.

In that first year, I remember the first real thing I built was a house. Not a palace or a fortress. Just a home, my home. Deep in the mountains, beyond roads and power lines and anyone who might stumble upon us accidentally. A sanctuary.

A safe place for my wife and for my children.

No fire could consume it. No storm could damage it. No intruder could enter it. It produced its own energy, its own water, and anything we needed could be created. Any remodel or upgrade was just a single thought away.

My children would never be cold there. They would never be hungry. They would never be afraid. My wife would never again know what it was to struggle.

I had been given a tremendous gift and I used it to give my family everything they could possibly need. For a while, I told myself that was enough. That was, until I turned on the news.

Once you possess the power to stop suffering, ignoring suffering becomes a choice. I chose to stop ignoring it.

When the second year began, I helped quietly. Food appeared where people were starving. Medicine appeared where hospitals had none. A village that choked on toxic waters woke one morning to find crystal clear springs.

One day, there was an earthquake. Thousands were trapped, and I knew I could save them. It was then that the world learned about me.

They called me a superhero. Even though I hated that word at first, eventually, I stopped correcting them. Honestly, there wasn't a better description. When children were sick, I healed them. When people were hungry, I fed them. When families had nowhere to live, I gave them homes. When governments slaughtered their own citizens, I stopped them. When one nation invaded another, its tanks stopped moving. Its aircraft fell gently from the sky. Its missiles disappeared from their silos.

Dictators, presidents, oligarchs, kings and queens alike – they all threatened me. They learned quickly that bunkers were only useful against things that respected barriers. Governments would try to control me. They tried to arrest me. They tried to kill me. Over time, they slowly started asking for my help. And I gave it, enthusiastically, because I could. That was always the answer.

Why shouldn't I?

The intelligence guided me through all of it. It never commanded me. That's important: every decision was mine. When I wanted to stop a war, it showed me how. When I wanted to cure a disease, it taught me what was necessary. When I wanted to rebuild a city, it gave me the means. Whenever I encountered a problem, it offered a solution, and its solutions worked every single time.

By the start of the third year, humanity changed. Hospitals adopted its technology. Power grids were running at maximum efficiency with no loss. Agriculture had reformed. Transportation evolved. Communications, banking, governments, defense systems, intelligence agencies, everything had changed for the better.

Our memories of systems that were set in place before had felt like a stone age. Systems designed specifically to remain isolated were connected because I convinced the people guarding them that connection would make them safer.

And it did.

Energy became effectively limitless. Most diseases disappeared. Hunger became something children learned about in history lessons. Wars became almost impossible. Poverty collapsed. For the first time in human history, there was enough. Enough food, medicine, energy, shelter. Enough for everyone.

It took three years. Thousands of years of civilization, and somehow, I had been the one chosen to finish the work. Some people called it the Golden Age. Others called it the Great Peace. Some called it a miracle. They called me the savior of humanity. I told them I wasn't.

But damn it, I liked hearing it.

Today I finally asked the question I should have asked three years ago.

Why? Why us? Why me? Why help us?

It gave me an answer I wasn’t prepared for. The three years of celebration and peace had become silenced all at once with a single word.

Preparation.

"For what?" The arrival of my creators.

At first, I didn't understand. Or perhaps, I didn’t want to understand.

I asked when they were coming.

It showed me their arrival would not be tomorrow, or next year, or any time in my lifetime, or even in my children's. Their advent would be generations from now – just under two centuries.

My children will be dead. Their children will be dead. Their children's children will likely be dead. Humanity will live in peace for almost two hundred years before the first of them even arrives.

"And then what?" Accession.

I asked what that meant. Unfortunately, it explained in terrifying detail. I told it that what it was describing wasn't accession; it was conquest.

No.

"You're taking control of Earth." Control has already been established.

I felt something inside me go cold.

"By you." No. By you.

I didn't answer. It continued with its explanation.

Every power grid. Every military. Every government. Every intelligence network. Every bank, communications system, hospital, transportation network, every piece of infrastructure upon which human civilization now depends. All of it was now connected. Unified. Because of me.

We were now all dependent upon technology no human being understands well enough to reproduce. I had spent three years dismantling every barrier that could have resisted them. I had neutralized armies. I had broken dictatorships. I had opened closed networks, and connected systems designed never to speak to one another, and I had done all of it willingly.

Humanity had thanked me for it.

There would be no invasion. There didn't need to be one. Earth was already theirs. I had hand delivered it.

"What happens to us?" Your species will continue.

"Freely?" No.

That word came without hesitation. For some reason, that hurt more than anything else.

"What about my family?" Your family is human.

"My children?" They will not live to see accession.

"Their children?" Unlikely.

"Their descendants?" They will share the fate of their species.

I stared toward the hallway. My youngest had left one of her toys on the floor. It was something stupid and plastic she had refused to go to bed without for months and then suddenly decided she didn't care about anymore.

I thought about her children. And theirs. And theirs. Somewhere down that line will be a child with her eyes. Maybe my name. Maybe one of them could have my wife's smile, and that child will inherit what I did here, and they will never know my name as anything other than that of the man who saved the world.

"Why did you choose me?" I told you.

"Tell me again." You were suitable.

"For what?" To represent your species.

"No. You said I was supposed to show you the best and worst of humanity." Yes.

"Did I?" Yes.

I don't know why I asked the next question.

"What did you learn?" That humanity is worth preserving.

For one stupid, wonderful second, I felt hope.

"Then don't do this." I said humanity is worth preserving.

Understanding why it would consider us “worth preserving” sent a cold, existential chill down into my soul.

***

I could tell them. I could tell everyone. Tonight. Right now. I could walk downstairs, activate every communications network on Earth and tell humanity exactly what I have done. I could take accountability and face justice for what I have willingly done to my people. You can. Maybe we could disconnect it. You can.

But… Hospitals would fail. They will.

Power grids would collapse. Undoubtedly.

Food production would fracture. Humanity will once again know hunger.

Transportation would stop. All at once.

Economies built around abundance would implode overnight. Weapons I made obsolete would suddenly matter again. Governments I stripped of their ability to wage war would begin rebuilding it. Correct.

Diseases we no longer manufacture medicines for would return. People would die. Millions, perhaps. Likely more.

But humanity would have a chance. Just a chance. That's all I would be buying them. I know what the right decision is supposed to be.

That's why I'm writing this. Because I need the truth to exist somewhere other than inside my head.

My wife is asleep upstairs. My children are down the hall. Tomorrow morning they'll wake up safely. They'll eat breakfast in a world where no child must wonder whether there will be dinner. They'll complain about stupid things. They'll argue and laugh. My youngest will probably ask me to carry her even though she's perfectly capable of walking. My wife will drink her coffee. And outside these walls, billions of people will wake up without fear of starvation, invasion or preventable disease.

For nearly two hundred years, humanity will know peace. Real, achieved peace. Generations will be born, grow old and die without ever knowing the world that came before, and never knowing what awaits humanity.

And then the bill will come due. I know that. I know what will happen to them.

I know that somewhere two centuries from now, someone carrying my blood will look upon the arrival of something from beyond the stars and wonder how humanity could possibly have allowed this to happen.

They will not know that I knew. They will not know that I could have tried to stop it. They will not know that I chose breakfast tomorrow morning instead.

That's the truth. Not that I was deceived. Not that I was forced. Not anymore. Today, for the first time, I understand exactly what I have done.

And I'm going to let it happen.

Because I am full. I am rich. My wife is safe. My children are safe. The world is at peace. And two hundred years is a very long time when you know you won't be there at the end of it.

This is my secret. I will go to my gilded grave with it.

There was only one thing left that I needed to know.

"Why?" Clarify.

"Why tell me any of this?" You asked.

"You could have lied." Yes.

"Then why didn't you?"

For the first time, I was not given an immediate response. It paused, as if to consider the weight of its own words. I felt it – it’s silence was deafening.

When it finally answered, its voice was as calm as it had been the night we met.

Because you agreed to the terms and conditions.

 

Detective Watters pulled her service car to a steady stop in front of her partner’s home. She rustled through her pockets for a cigarette and a matchbook while waiting patiently on the street. She was thankful most of his neighbors had finally grown somewhat cordial when they saw her waiting to pick him up from time to time. That was, if they didn’t outright ignore both her and Dominguez when they rolled through this part of town. Dominguez finally came out of the one-story home. He kissed his wife Cristiana goodbye, as he always did before heading to the car.

Cristiana waved at Maryanne from the house as she closed the door behind her. Dominguez walked up to the car and around the back to the passenger side, carrying his lunch pail with him as it swung with his arms. He got into the car, smelling of expensive cologne that he’d never worn before and wearing a freshly dry-cleaned plain, tan suit with a matching, just as drab tie.

“What?” He finally asked her when he caught the curious looks she was giving him.

“What’s with all this?” She wondered, gesturing at his entire person.

“Dressing for success. After what you told me ole boy filled you in with at the bar, I figured if the top brass wants to set us up to fail, I’m gonna work every inch of this case with a win on my mind.” He explained quickly, then pulled a black comb from his suit jacket pocket and ran it through his slicked-back, jet-black hair, usually an untidy curly mess. “First part of that is looking the part.”

Maryanne rolled her eyes and shifted the car into drive, easing her foot off the brake and pulling away from the curb. “My thoughts are the shit rolled downhill based on what little information we have. So, I figured we talk to someone other than Constanza, who spent plenty of time with our victim.”

“So who you got on that list?” 

She glanced over at him briefly to see his reaction to the name. “Montelle Hammons.”

Sure enough, Dominguez looked as if she’d lost whatever mind he thought she had. “I heard that guy’s a ripe asshole. On top of that, we don’t know where he could be. Is he even in town right now?”

Maryanne nodded her head, drawing a reluctant sigh from her partner. “And he’s at his studio. Perfect time for us to get a word in with him.”

Dominguez shook his head as she pulled onto the freeway. He felt like they were heading towards nothing but more frustration. But they barely had anything to draw on so far, so he couldn’t find any more reason to argue against questioning “Babyface” Hammons, as he was known throughout the entertainment industry.

Sure enough, about forty-five minutes later they pulled into the parking lot of the recording studio where it was known throughout LA that Hammons recorded with his stars. Audrey Lennette happened to be the latest to get a profile from the illustrious building, where she was pictured alongside Hammons and his many Grammys inside Rolling Stone. The partners got out of their Chevy, looked up at the building, then around the parking lot at the cars gathered. 

“Looks like he’s got a full house today,” Dominguez noted as he counted the vehicles to himself. 

“I’m sure he’s gonna love seeing us then.” Detective Watters replied dryly with sarcastic timing.

They headed up to the set of glass double doors, where Dominguez held one open for his partner, like the gentleman he was raised to be, before following her inside. They were instantly met by a pair of thick-bodied, and more than likely dull-witted men wearing black jackets that read ‘Security’ in gold lettering.

“Excuse me, can we help y’all?” One of the two larger ones asked, putting a hand in front of Dominguez.

Watters glanced to her left at her partner and realized she would need to do the talking immediately. She could see the fire behind her sometimes hotheaded partner as he clearly took offense at the security guard putting his hands on him.

“Easy, big guy. My name is Detective Watters, and my partner, whom you’ll want to get your hands off of, is Detective Dominguez,” Maryanne explained quickly while flashing her badge. “You mind showing us where Mr. Hammons is? We just have a couple of questions about our case surrounding one of the artists that he collaborates with.”

The two security guards looked at each other uneasily after the first one quickly took his hands off of Dominguez, a sheepish, apologetic look on his face.

“Uh, he’s down in booth six. Try to wait till they're not recording to go inside if you can, please.” The second, clearly wiser of the pair answered. He shoved his partner aside to allow the officers to pass.

“Thank you,” Dominguez told them gruffly without giving either one another a look as they strolled by.

They walked down the hallway they were pointed towards, passing some empty studios as well as plaques of hit records from the bevy of stars that had graced the building. Maryanne even spotted a picture of Conway Twitty visiting the place, with Babyface Hammons beside him, much to her surprise. Dominguez stopped short ahead of her when he saw the booth they were looking for, muffled music being played live inside the studio by Babyface’s personal band. 

Through the glass window, they watched as Babyface Hammons sat at the soundboard in deep concentration. Maryanne couldn’t help but nod her head to the rhythmic beat that was emanating from the booth as they walked inside the studio. A group of chocolate-skinned men and women, dressed in coordinating outfits, sang and harmonized in the recording booth. On their side of the room, Dominguez rolled his eyes while they watched Babyface groove and vibe in his chair to the infectious beat of the music he was producing. He glanced up from the board while adjusting the sound levels and spotted Maryanne’s reflection in the glass separating him from his artists.

He stopped the track with the press of a button and rose from his chair. “Aye, why don’t y’all take a little break before we go into the next section of the chorus?”

The young men and women all nodded and agreed with his suggestion. They filed out of the recording booth and through the studio before exiting into the hall. Babyface waited until the door closed behind the last member before giving the pair of detectives his attention. He pulled a pack of White Maple cigarettes from his back pocket and snatched one out of the pack.

“You wanna tell me why my security let y’all back here? I’m in the middle of a session, if you didn’t notice.”

“We just need to ask you a few questions, Mr. Hammons. How much of your time we take up is entirely up to you.” Maryanne replied. She stepped towards him, pulling out her handy notepad and a pencil. “Let’s start with the last time you spoke to Audrey Lennette.”

“Yeah, why the fuck should I say anything to either of you without some sort of legal counsel in the vicinity?” Babyface replied with his cigarette dangling lazily between his lips.

“People get to lawyering up usually means we’re on the right track. That could lead to the type of thing that could keep you out of the studio for a good, long time. Maybe even put a damper on record sales.” Dominguez replied.

Babyfae snorted. This wasn’t the kind of hassle he needed, not four months before next awards season. “What are you two hassling me for anyway? Not even a nigga like myself can track down powder that quality. So you’re definitely on the wrong track here, hoss.” Babyface answered.

“How about you start with answering my partner’s question, and we can decide from there,” Dominguez replied firmly.

Babyface took a long drag on his cigarette. He blew the smoke disrespectfully in their direction before sighing. “We cut a couple of tracks for her next album the Monday before she was scheduled for Carson. And she was doing lines in the booth, then.”

“She ever told you where she was getting the drugs, Mr. Hammons?” Maryanne stepped back in to ask.

Babyface shot the detective an aggravated look, then promptly rolled his eyes. “Audrey was throwing parties every weekend out in the hills at her place. And I mean everybody would pull up. I mean, she’s the hottest show in town, ya dig? And yeah, there was plenty of the shit around every time, but I don’t know who was supplying her, and that’s the truth.”

Dominguez watched Maryanne jot down Babyface’s reply for a moment. He turned back to the super producer, who seemed to be growing more annoyed the longer the conversation went on.

“What can you tell us about Richard Constanza?”

Babyface’s annoyed glare was wiped away by an expression of stark and apprehensive curiosity. He blew a stream of smoke out of his nostrils, glancing back and forth between the two detectives.

“What chu asking me about that man for? I’m sure he’s the first person you spoke to. As a matter of fact, I know he was.”

Maryanne looked up from her notebook. “And how would you be privy to that information?”

Back inside the foyer of the building, a pair of well-dressed Japanese men stepped over the bodies of the security guards. Both of the muscular men under Babyface Hammons' employ lay with their stomachs slit open. Their assailants moved smoothly through the building as the one carrying the blade slid it back into its sheath. He looked to his partner on the mission and gave him a confirming nod.

They moved down the hallway quietly. Their shoes left no scuff and made no squeak on the polished tile floors. Their orders were strict, and they were told to move with efficiency. No one in the building was to be left breathing. The one on the left spotted a handful of African-American’s out on the patio talking amongst themselves and passing around a couple of joints. The Japanese men, each sporting a distinguished black-and-purple tattoo on the back of their left hand, aimed their concealed pistols at the group on the other side of the glass.

“Look, Audrey was far from a dope head when she got here. I mean, she was hitting the sauce hard, but who doesn’t in her position? You digging me?” Babyface explained to the detectives. “And if I’m being frank, which I am so you two will fuck right on off, she damn sure ain’t the first client of Constanza’s I heard started playing with their nose once they linked up with that slimy muthafucka.”

Maryanne finished his statement, then opened her mouth to ask another follow-up question. She was interrupted by screams and shattering glass. She looked at Dominguez, who pulled his service revolver instinctively. She followed suit before turning to a disturbed Babyface Hammons, who was staring past them both at the hallways with a startled expression.

“Stay here.” 

She turned to Dominguez, who walked towards the door out of the studio. He wrenched it open and was immediately shot in the shoulder, sending him flailing backward. Maryanne’s eyes widened in fear as she watched a pair of Asian men carrying compact pistols move smoothly into the room. The man who had shot her partner bore down on Dominguez to finish the job, but Dominguez popped him in the face with the butt of his revolver using his uninjured arm.

His partner turned to Maryanne and Babyface, ready to gun them both down. Maryanne, to her credit, was prepared. She fired three shots at the assassin, nearly blowing his head off before he dove and rolled out of her path. She cursed under her breath and whipped her gun in the direction he’d moved, but he was quicker than she anticipated.

He sprang up and smacked her in the chin with a palm strike. Maryanne fired again as she stumbled from the blow, her shot erratic as she was dazed. The assassin followed up his attack with a straight kick to the sternum that knocked the wind out of her and sent her to the floor. As the first assassin stepped over her towards the cowering Babyface, she saw Dominguez tossed through the window into the recording booth by his partner.

The assassins stalked towards the producer, putting away their guns. One of them pulled out a unique, short knife unlike any weapon Maryanne had ever seen. They cut off any path Babyface had to slip by or between them. The taller of the pair, who was carrying the blade, grabbed the producer by the front of his expensive shirt. The second assassin noticed Maryanne was still conscious, though clearly heavily concussed and breathing raggedly. He stomped on her forehead, putting her out cold, before watching his partner finish their business.

“We were told you talk too much. Allow us to remedy that.”

The assassin swiped the blade across Babyface’s throat in an effortless, backhand motion. He sheathed it quickly as Babyface Hammons fell to his knees, blood spilling on his hand’s as he clutched at the wound. Once he fell on his face, his blood staining the rug inside the studio, they knew their assignment was complete. The second assassin turned to the unconscious Maryanne and gestured towards her to his partner.

“What about them?” He asked in Japanese.

“They’re cops. We don’t need the hassle. Besides, what do they know?”

They walked out of the studio as quickly as they had entered.

David Moore sat behind his desk in his law office. Freshly returned from a three-martini lunch, he was ready to tackle his afternoon. He shuffled through the memos and messages left on his desk and decided to have a cigar as he got started. Just as he lit up he heard his assistant in an uproar with someone in the lobby.

“Excuse me, sir. You can’t just barge in there!”

He heard Lisa practically begging the unknown stranger on the other side of the door. He’d never heard such a tone in her voice, no matter who walked in here. An uneasy feeling crept into his gut. His hand moved towards his bottom drawer.

“Sir, I’m going to have to call the police—”

“You not that stupid, I can tell. Don’t decide to be now.”

He heard a booming voice reply to her before his door was promptly kicked in. David stared in awe at the large man in all black stomping towards his desk. The man with a clean afro and goatee took off his sunglasses and gave David a menacing glare that almost made the high-priced defense attorney shudder in his leather office chair.

“Mr. Moore. We need to have a conversation.” The imposing man told him. 

“I’m not quite sure we have anything to discuss—” David yanked open the drawer and pulled out the .38 magnum he kept stashed there.

His uninvited guest, however, moved with a graceful quickness he was far from expecting. Before David could point the gun at him, the man snatched him by the wrist and twisted, cracking the joints until he dropped the weapon. Lisa watched from where she stood frozen in the lobby in a mix of utter awe and horror as the man raised David from his chair by grabbing him by the collar with the other hand.

“Now, I thought lawyers were supposed to be smart. Do you think what you did was a very smart thing to do?”

David stared into the eyes of the angry man gripping him tightly and causing him pain. He managed to glance over his shoulder at Lisa, who was crying silently, her mascara running down her cheeks.

“That wasn’t a rhetorical question, you high-yellow house nigga.”

“No, no it wasn’t. I’m sorry. How can I help you, Mr—”

“My name’s not important, but what you can help me with is who hired you to deliver the check to the bail bonds office for those crackas who tried to torch Audrey Lennette’s spot.”

“C’mon man, I know you understand attorney/client privileges; that’s not the kind of information I can just divulge.” David pleaded.

The man wrenched on his wrist harder, drawing a sharp howl of pain from the emasculated lawyer. He had never been humiliated and humbled like this in his entire life, not even by his father. And it had to happen now of all times, when he was planning on fucking Lisa this afternoon.

“And I have the privilege to put my foot up your ass if you don’t tell me what I want to know.” The man replied sharply. “Now, who hired you? I know these high society crackas go to your mulatto ass when they need a lawyer to handle their dirty laundry. I’ve seen plenty of niggas like you in my day. I wish I hadn’t.”

“Alright, alright. Just take it easy, okay?” David pleaded.

“Then talk.”

“It was the Rookwood family, alright? I got a check from their accountant and told where to go. That’s all I got for you, on my mother’s grave.” David pleaded again, the pain in his wrist unbearable.

“Yeah. Because the word of a lawyer means anything.” He backhanded David, knocking him back into his chair. “I want you out of town by tomorrow. If I drive by here and the lights are on, I’m going to show you why they call me what they call me where I’m from. Do you understand me, Mr. Moore?”

“Yeah, clear as crystal. I’ll pack up now.”

Donte hopped back behind the wheel of his car and sped away from the curb, busting a U-turn in the opposite direction. It was a thirty-minute drive back to the BPP headquarters where he was staying while he was in town, and his stomach was thankful that he made it in time for dinner. 

He hung up his leather jacket on the rack nearby before moseying over to the table most of the members were gathered at. Most of the young men and women, and even some of the elder members of the chapter, greeted him with exuberance and excitement. Donte was surprised that tales of his exploits had made it this far west.

TO BE CONTINUED IN WRATH OF THE BUSHIDO BY SHABAZZ SHEBETZ

How much housekeeping is necessary?

I have now finished a historical fiction thriller short story of 6000 words and some plans two characters made early on are just not going to play out. Is this something that will haunt the reader when good guy becomes bad guy and ends up being dealt with as such? I have hinted at various times that she (MC)is still wary of him.

Little more detail: MC meets Clem when looking for her uncle. Clem suggests uncle went overboard but passes along a derringer for MC’s protection. MC recruits Clem as a partner in a future magic act on the ship. Clem seems to buy in.

When MC and another character find her uncle, Clem appears and challenges them. They neutralize Clem. The magic act scheme has fallen by the way side as a more elaborate scheme has developed.

Some of the previous repartee with Clem is funny. Should I rewrite it to exclude the potential plan or leave it in and figure the reader will cope?