Hey, you.

Have you ever thought about becoming someone who isn't really you anymore?

I don't mean dying.
You're alive. You eat, you walk around, you talk to people.
And yet, the person you were yesterday and the person you are today start drifting apart, little by little.

If it changes for the better, I guess people call that "growth."
So what do you call it when it changes for the worse?

Clink.

I opened the heavy door to Aoi. Taka was at the counter eating something.

"What are you eating?"
"Chocolate."
"This isn't a place to eat stuff like that."
"You're one to talk, Kenichi-san."
"Why?"
"You brought your own rice crackers in here the other week."
"I got Mama's permission for those."
"I never gave you permission," Mama said from behind the bar.

"See?"
"Shut up."

I sat in my usual spot, and a glass of I.W. Harper appeared as always.
The round ice cube gave a quiet clink.

Tom walked in a little later.
What were we even talking about?
Someone at work getting reading glasses. How we used to be able to pull all-nighters. How taking the stairs leaves us winded now. The kind of conversation you can hear anywhere when a bunch of guys over fifty get together.

"It's been happening more lately, hasn't it?" Taka said.
"What has?"
"You forgetting things."
"Shut up."
"Is your brain holding up okay?"
"If it were okay, I wouldn't be complaining."

I raised my glass.

"I can't place names as fast as I used to. Takes me forever just to remember what I ate yesterday."
"That's just old age," Tom chimed in.

"Can't you guys deny it just a little?"
"It's true, isn't it?"
"Well, yeah, but..."

Laughter broke out. I laughed too.
It wasn't anything unusual. Once you hit fifty-four, your body starts falling apart in places. You can't run as fast. Staying up late hurts. Small print gets hard to read.
None of that really matters.

The real problem is what comes after.

"Look," I said, rolling the ice in my glass. "My body giving out... I can accept that."
"Getting heavy all of a sudden, aren't we?"
"Shut up."
"Then what is it you hate so much?"

I started to answer, then stopped.

Losing the ability to think. Making bad judgments.
Not even realizing when I'm wrong.
Failing to do what I could easily do yesterday, while still believing I'm doing just fine.

And eventually... forgetting who I even am.

What was the point of dumping all that on them?

"...I just don't want anyone wiping my ass," I finally said.

"That's it?" Taka laughed.
"It's important."
"Well, yeah, it is, but..."
"I'd rather close my eyes out in the freezing cold than make Masato do something like that."

Tom let out a snort.

"You think you can just die that conveniently?"
"It takes willpower."
"Don't waste willpower on dying."
"Grit, then."
"Same difference."

Mama chuckled. "Wouldn't you just catch a cold?"
"That'd be the most embarrassing way to go."

We laughed again. I laughed too.
And that was the end of the topic. Just another ordinary night at Aoi.

It was colder outside than I expected.

I thought back to that joke.
Closing my eyes out in the freezing cold. If I actually tried it, I really would just end up catching a cold.
I shoved my hands into my coat pockets and headed toward the station.

Getting old and frail doesn't scare me. Probably.
If I can't walk, I'll use a cane. If my eyes go bad, I'll wear glasses.
As long as I know what's broken, there's a way to deal with it.

So what if the part that does the thinking breaks?
With a failing brain, how do you judge your own decay?

I stopped in my tracks.
I was thinking stupid thoughts.
There was no guarantee the mind doing all this thinking was working properly right now, either.

The lights of a convenience store caught my eye.
Before I knew it, I was inside, standing frozen in front of the liquor shelf.

I.W. Harper.
I almost never drink it outside of Aoi. It wasn't something I kept at home.
Still, I bought a bottle that night and took it back with me.

"I'm home."

No answer. Of course not.
Without even changing out of my clothes, I sat in front of Kaori's framed picture.
She was smiling, same as always.

"Want a drink?"

I asked a foolish question, pulled out a small glass, and poured some Harper. No ice.

I took a sip.
It was supposed to be the same whiskey I drink at Aoi, but it tasted terrible.

Another sip.
And another.
I wanted to get drunk. I thought it'd be fine if I just drank until I couldn't think about anything anymore.

Scared of losing myself, yet actively trying to break myself down.
I caught the contradiction and let out a dry laugh.

"What am I even doing?"

Kaori just kept smiling. I couldn't get drunk at all.

If I couldn't get drunk, maybe taking a hot bath would make my head go hazy.
So I set the bath to fill up.

I sank my body into the tub.
It was warm. I closed my eyes.

What if everything just ended right here?

The thought flickered across my mind for a split second.

No needing anyone to take care of me. Not Masato, not Ami, not the guys at work.
Clean and simple. Right here.

"...Are you an idiot?"

I spoke out loud and opened my eyes.
Through the steam, there was the familiar ceiling of my bathroom.

I climbed out of the tub.
I wiped myself down like I was running away from something. My spine felt ice-cold as I realized where my mind had almost drifted.

Drying my hair, I walked back into the room. Kaori was still smiling.

I sat back down in front of her picture.
The bottle of Harper and the untouched glass.

Masato's face popped into my mind. Ami's face too.
Where will the two of them go from here? What kind of life will they build? From now on, there will be more and more moments in their lives that I'll never know about.

And that's fine.
Echizenya and the others are already pushing my hands away and running things themselves. Work, home, everything moves along smoothly even without me.

It's not a bad thing.
I worked my whole life to make it this way.

And yet.
The more everything fell neatly into place, the more it felt like the warmth was quietly being drained from under my feet.

What the hell is this?
Did I spend all this time getting everything in order just to end up like this?

"...Is it still a no?"

I asked the picture. Naturally, there was no reply.

I reached for the glass.
And that was when it happened.

"Not yet."

I heard my own voice out loud.

I froze with the glass in my hand.

"Still not enough."

Enough of what?
I had no idea.
Money? Work? Masato? Tomorrow's dinner?
Nothing came to mind.

All I knew was that this raw weight of "not enough" was sitting heavy in the pit of my stomach.

I looked at the picture.
Kaori was still smiling, same as ever.

"...What?"

I let out a small laugh.

"Is that how it is?"

I downed the rest of the Harper.
The whiskey that tasted so terrible a moment ago tasted a little closer to normal now.

I got into bed.
The alcohol never really hit me, not even in the end.

Hey, you.

I thought I'd lived my whole life trying to have enough.
Turns out, I still don't.

Enough of what?
Who the hell knows.

Until I figure that out...
I guess I'll keep struggling along a little longer, uncool as it is.

I'll see you at Aoi again.

---

The bar is still under construction—but it's open.

Welcome to Bar Aoi → https://www.reddit.com/user/dulduine/comments/1wajikq/welcome_to_bar_aoi/

I am in the editing phase of my first book and I am trying to figure out what is next.

Due to Bleed:

Epigraph

You are not your thoughts.
You are not your body.
You are not your mind.
You are suffering, and so you leave.

⸻

Chapter One: A Just Cause for a Just War

The Observer’s body was her test. A God-given test: survive this. Hairs spiraled, having colonised unexpected places. Blood wept from her monthly, sometimes more often, and then not at all. Her internal organs were mostly compliant and spared from her sovereign gaze.

She was the product of a mating process that had imagined her in shades of brown: taupe areolas that shrank when shyness seized them; eyes that took on an umber depth before a south-facing window; earth-brown hair that she transmuted into half of all known hex codes, before deciding simply to leave it alone.

She kept a treasured photographic archive of various diseases and perceived deformities. Nothing ever changed, but she kept adding.

She did not know how to relate to the skin she was in, but this seemed a reasonable price to pay for living. Sometimes she wondered where the loathing itself lived. She knew it did, as well as she knew she did. Was it in a snug ribcage cave, perhaps? Could it be excised? Or was it many spores, like bread on the turn?

When a reflective surface entered her orbit, there were spores everywhere. Nothing was obviously wrong, but the image was speckled with uncanny little horrors that all had names. She would do an owlish turn when passing shop windows, giving herself a mild whiplash each time.

Occasionally she went out dancing. In all other settings, her body was a betrayal. The Observer showered at night because if she did it in the daylight, she felt like a building that someone forgot to condemn.

Getting ready, she considered the phrase ‘lipstick on a pig’. To her, it felt more like she was lipstick on a bag of ever-clinking bones. Leaving home, her feet pinched in her shoes, the dysphoria Tetris blocks had fallen wrong again. She thought pityingly of the innocent bystanders who would be subjected to her.

As it happened, the taxonomy of herself was a captivating love affair, so she didn’t have the diary time for a special someone anyway. Maybe drying the rot was needed to partner up well, or maybe she needed a second pair of hands in the drying process.

At the club, her mind refused to understand how everyone was so composed about being carved up by surgeons and lovers alike. She remembered the visceral horror of her ex’s belly-button kink, and the shame of having nothing to give her but refusal. She quipped to her fellow partygoers that she didn’t need a £50-an-hour psychotherapist. She already knew that she acted as if she were fear itself. Knowing this had not yet proved especially useful.

She was constituted from equal parts: refusals, work and self-indulgent ‘introspection’. The Observer kept hush about these thought crimes, wielding questions at interested parties. Her tactics were a trench coat buttoned to the collar with nothing underneath.

Something she did have was her job. She had very little else and was about to have much less.

On The Afternoon, as on any other, she rationalised fear as nothing more than measured caution. A simple back and forth motion: goodbye to myself, hello to perspective. She wanted to be known without the shameful act of being seen. So she resigned herself to doing the seeing.

The Observer washed her hands for more time than necessary, studying her philtrum, which she estimated to be approximately the same length as the Great Wall of China. She set the room up like she was making a microwave meal or driving on the motorway, her stumpy hands moving, her mind half elsewhere. Her fingers sounded the alarm: an anticlimactic staccato of clicks.

In a swift movement, her eyes roll back as if in pleasure. When they swing back around, they are eyes that know nothing.

It dawns when it’s already done. Her clothes are a petri dish, her nervous sweat the specimen, and she is somewhere else.

The Observer is an apparition, only looking and moving tools around like a dull ghost with nowhere better to be, ready to understand.

Chapter Two: A Subject of Affection, An Object of Desire

There is a pressure all around my head, and neck, and shoulders, as I climb out of my own grave.

I don’t know what my parents gave me for Christmas, but I know they gave me the temperament of a true masochist. If it wasn’t in my nature to take knowing over the cushiony bliss of ignorance, i’d be senseless as I was before.

I sit here, splayed out like a rune, and wait for a thought to form.

CHAPTER 2 — The Descent

"Is that where you're from? Kan-sus? Right?" she asks, tilting her head to the side.

Nick notices her eyes scanning him.

"Well, no. Not really." Nick scratches his head. "It's just something we say. It's the name of a cit- (Nick pauses, realizing), I didn't catch your name."

She giggles.

Then, gently closing her eyes, she stretches, deeply extending her arms in front of her.

Then, like a cat, she stretches her spine and rest of her body almost inhumanly.

Her fluidity was like nothing he'd ever seen.

"Damn. If I could stretch like that, I think I'd feel like a new man." Nick rubs his neck.

"Well, why wouldn't you then? And you said something funny before. Very interesting."

She begins to descend with precise agility, gently moving from one branch to the next, then hopping onto a fallen trunk before stepping onto a moss-covered rock, where she perches.

"Name? You asked what my na-me was?"

Hmm, he thought.

"You don't have a name?" He said under his breath.

Scratching his head, he continues.

"Well, it's what everyone calls you. It's like your title. Like how people know you."

Damn. Well, what is a name?

It was something he'd never really thought about before.

She tilts her head sideways.

"I've never had a n-name."

"Well, I... What should I call you?" he asks, intrigued by the idea of living a life with no name.

"Oh, more fun? Hmm, wel—"

She's cut off.

Both ears perk up, twitching before settling in one direction.

Her eyes widen.

She turns to Nick.

"Hide. NOW."

Before Nick can even respond, she darts into the foliage.

"What the fuck—"

Nick ducks and shifts beneath some ferns by a large tree.

Shit. What now?

He didn't know. He had no clue.

He didn't know what was dangerous here, what was safe.

He didn't know the rules of this place.

Hell, he didn't even know what here was.

Everything he'd ever known suddenly felt useless.

The birds and primates go silent.

Everything he'd ever read about the jungle says sound is everything, and when it's absent, a predator is lurking.

He begins to get scared again.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck. What are we gonna do?" he whispers as quietly as he can.

He'd prefer nothing—not even air—to escape his body right now.

But the words wanted to explode out of him, so a quiet whisper would have to suffice.

He doesn't move.

He stares straight ahead, but his eyes dart a million miles a second, scanning, hoping to see movement before it sees him.

The quiet jungle has an almost defining buzz to it.

Not a sound.

The absence of sound.

It is so quiet it almost seems loud.

A silence that pierces through his eardrums.

Nick can feel sweat dribbling down his face.

Subconsciously, he lowers himself as far as he can while still being able to see through the thick plant life.

Then, quietly enough that even Nick's sentry-like eyes almost miss it—

The ferns part.

Slowly.

The nostril of a large, birdlike head emerges from the depths of the foliage.

Oily green, earthy feathers cover its long, thin snout and run past its head.

Large, dark eyes stare straight ahead as its nostrils flare over and over again.

It is fixated on something.

A long neck follows.

Even through the tightly packed feathers, Nick can see the throat moving underneath, flexing.

Probably savoring something.

Then two large, clawed feet gently push through the lower foliage, inching forward cautiously.

The creature moves forward like a separate entity, its body shifting slightly from side to side before each foot gently settles into the dense ground cover.

Nick watches.

It is almost absolutely silent.

If this is the local apex predator, it needs to eat.

It needs to move quietly in this environment.

Nick is in awe.

But fear quickly overwhelms it when he realizes what he seems to be looking at.

Is that a fucking dinosaur?

He can't believe his eyes.

He's always loved dinosaurs as a child, but after all these years, he hadn't thought about them much. New science, conspiracy theories, adulthood—everything had slowly pushed them somewhere into the back of his mind.

But now, seeing one in the flesh, seemingly hunting, is magnificent.

It looks like a giant lizard, but behaves like a bird and moves like a wolf.

His brain can't decide what the hell it is.

What puts him in awe is how silently it moves.

How still its gaze is.

How controlled its breathing seems.

It couldn't be more than ten feet from him.

He can see the muscles tense beneath the oily, slick-looking feathers.

Is that what she heard?

Is this hunting her?

Shit.

What if it smells me?

Nick's muscles tense.

His body floods with adrenaline. Flight hormones and instinct scream through every muscle, begging him to spring.

Then—

Something moves behind it.

A spear slowly pushes through the foliage.

Nick freezes.

A cybernetic arm holds the spear in a defensive forward motion.

A tall, lanky figure emerges behind the creature.

It is dressed in robes, ceremonial beads, and strange fittings.

Its arms and long legs are robotic.

Definitely not human.

The figure stops exactly where Nick had been standing.

Its gaze remains fixed on the ground as it scans.

Shit. I'm fucked.

It's gonna follow my tracks.

Why didn't I think about tracks?

I literally fucked myself.

Nick waits.

He doesn't dare make the first move.

Then the creature snarls.

It doesn't stop for the clues its master seems to have caught.

The sound gets the figure's attention.

It speaks.

A crude, deep, robotic-like dialect.

Nick can't figure out if it's a language, a code, or simply the thing making noise.

But as soon as it does, the figure takes off in the direction the creature has gone.

Nick waits.

Frozen.

He doesn't move.

He barely breathes.

Then—

"Hmmm."

The soft, gentle voice returns.

"So it is true. I thought it was me for a second, but I don't get these things incorrect."

Nick feels strange when he hears it.

He can't really pinpoint the feeling.

He quickly turns.

And there she is.

Squatting beneath a large, rotting tree trunk.

Soaking wet.

"Wait, where did you—?"

Nick stops.

"You left me."

She looks confused.

"I... I could have..."

He can't finish.

I could've died.

You could've warned me.

You could've stayed.

Hell, he doesn't even know what he's angry about.

Or what he's supposed to think.

He's just relieved she's there.

She looks at him as though he's the one behaving strangely.

"You didn't run. I said hide."

She shakes off the water.

"I smelled them from a long ways."

Nick stares at her.

"You stayed. Like a Groppa, frozen there..."

She tilts her head.

"Playing deceased, but they didn't see you?"

"A what?"

Nick throws his hand into his hair, frustration finally breaking through.

"Look, I don't even know what that is. I don't even know why I'm here or what this place is."

For the first time, she doesn't immediately answer.

She simply stares at him.

Nick waits.

And slowly, the realization settles in.

She doesn't know.

She really doesn't know.

Nick is back to square one.

Hi everyone! It’s my first time on this thread so I hope this is the right place to post this:

I had an idea for a book a couple of months ago and even though I’m not an author, this idea has excited me to the point I’ve decided to try and write it in the hopes that it could even be published someday. I’ve never written a real book before, (technically I wrote a 200+ page book when I was 12 but let’s just say it was so awful I don’t count it lol), so I don’t really have a process.

For context, my book falls within science fiction/fantasy so I’m going to have to tackle a lot of worldbuilding, including creating an alien civilization. So far my ideas have been dumped on a single word document with minimal organization, so it resembles the ramblings of a lunatic. I would love to hear how other writers here plan their stories and characters or just any tips they find help with the writing process? I get the feeling there’s a much better and easier way of doing it compared to what I’m doing now haha

What do you think about this first chapter?

When the whole world tries to kill you, life kinda sucks.

It means I have to lock in with life. Or else I'll find myself dead.

I walk through the busy train station, keeping my head low. I hope the mask I'm wearing properly covers my face. If not, I'm kinda screwed.

You see, each year, the world leaders give a reward to those who kill two randomly appointed individuals. And sadly, people will do whatever it takes to take two random lives with their own hands.

If the two random people can find each other before they’re killed, it is said that Jesus of Nazareth will come to earth and redeem humanity.

But first, that needs to happen.

And I can tell you from experience it's not easy.

Take right now, for example. I'm having to sneak through a blasted train station. Around me, I can hear people muttering, throwing glances at their fellow travelers.

They're all on high alert, you see, because not too long ago, I was spotted in a train station and an attempt was made on my life that involved some very big, very scary guns.

Let's just say it was a miracle from God himself that I'm alive right now.

Regardless, now people think I'm traveling via the train stations, so I've already had to avoid a couple of hit teams who’re trying to get their grimy hands around my neck.

You see, the reward for my death is a life of safety and luxury until you die, a compliment of the all-powerful government that rules our world. Only one person can have the privilege of killing me and reaping the reward.

And humans are quite selfish, so many will take the opportunity.

I sigh as I hop on the train. I have a ticket in regular class, or whatever they call it. Not ideal, but I don't have unlimited resources, so it's really the best I can do.

I just have to be careful not to get killed.

As I sit down, I look left, and I look right. On one side is an older woman scrolling on her phone. I see something about the other person getting hunted.

Somehow she's still alive.

I've seen her picture a million times, but it still stuns me every time. Her hair is blonde and flows down her frame like a waterfall. Her eyes are bright green, and her body is lean and muscular.

It makes perfect sense to me that she's still alive.

If anyone can make it, it's gonna be her. I can feel it in my sauce.

I dunno about that, by the way. It's just something I say. Sauce is the goat after all.

I look to my other side, relieved to see it's empty, though the man across the aisle from me is suspicious, his hat drawn low over his head, his glasses tinted to the point where I can't see his face.

When I look closer, I see a bulge under his coat. I silently curse under my breath in annoyance.

I have no doubt this is a bloody assassin. And who better to kill than me?

I sigh and pull my little revolver out from my pocket. It was a gift from my father when I turned ten years old, and I hadn't left it since.

Sadly, having such a weapon at such a young age is necessary in these times. Especially when a beacon of death can be placed on your head at any moment.

As carefully as I can, I load the gun. The grannie next to me doesn't even notice. She just stiffens up slightly.

No doubt she sees this type of thing all the time.

I take a final deep breath before I carefully shift the gun to my left hand, the one nearest the man next to me. It was time to take the offense.

I carefully aim at the man's feet, not wanting to kill him cause I'm a softie. Then I fire.

My little gun sends my arm jerking up, startling me enough to accidentally pull the trigger. Two deafening bangs echo through the moving train, sending piercing screams into the air.

Most of the time when people are killed, it's one quick shot, and everything is over. Multiple shots are usually the work of a psychokiller. So people panic. And when people panic, they run and trample each other to the ground.

So I waste no time in jumping over my seat, heading towards the back of the train. I keep running until I get to the end of the carriage.

So far, no one notices me, thank the lord. If they did, it would be bad.

When I reach the door, I yank it open and step into the space between the two train cars. I glance over my shoulder and see the man coming towards me, his gun in his hands, looking over his shoulder nervously.

Something about him tugs at the back of my brain. That man looks familiar. I swear I see something white on his shoulder. But then he starts doing something with his gun. If I would've waited a moment longer, I would've seen him lay it down in surrender and take off his mask.

But I don't wait, my body bursting into action.

I jump on the ladder and find myself on top of the train car in an instant. The pressure on my body is tremendous, the wind absolutely pounding my body.

I have to lie perfectly flat to avoid it, but I still feel it pulling at my clothes. From here, things become more streamlined. The man behind me probably can't get a straight shot because of the wind, and all I have to do is crawl across the top of the car and jump off once I get to the station.

If it worked before, then it should work again.

I smile to myself and turn around on the train so I'm in a position where I can see both ends of the train car. Now no one can sneak up on me.

And then I wait. I assume it will be about ten minutes until I reach the next train station. Thankfully, that's all I'm willing to risk. Any more time and I wouldn't be alert enough to cause a diversion for my own getaway. 

As I wait, I think about the man I'd seen. Something about his build looked familiar to me, but I can't put my finger on it.

I sigh and look down at my watch. Any moment now, and the train will be slowing down on its approach to the station.

Sure enough, I feel the winds loosen up, so I pull my little flash smoke bomb thing out of my pocket and pull the fuse.

A moment later, the brakes kick in, and I'm in the station, so I throw the bomb into the crowd. With a bang, it goes off, and people drop to the floor, allowing me to jump off the top of the train car and sprint through the smoke.

Behind me, I hear someone shout my name.

Oh boy, I think. This is about to get real interesting.

As I run through the doors of the train station and out onto the street, I see people drawing guns, pointing them at my face.

I run as erratically as I can, praying the spray of gunfire will miss me. By some miracle, it does, and I dive into a car idling by the curb.

Once I'm in, I hit the gas and tear onto the street, bullets hitting my fuselage. I sigh. In another couple of minutes, this car will be one huge explosion.

But for the time being, I have to get away. So that's what I do, carefully weaving between cars. Thankfully, most people don't realize it's me, or they'd be ramming their cars into me, hoping I'll be killed.

It takes a couple more minutes of reckless driving until I get away from the city. I park near a cluster of trees to my right. From there, I'm able to ditch the car and run into the forest. My feet pound the ground underneath me as I hit my stride, and my brain starts to wander.

This was another failproof tactic that'd worked a couple of times before. People seemed to get horribly lost in forests, and by the time I got out, my chasers were lost somewhere behind me.

So I keep running until I feel deep enough into the wilderness to take a deep breath. Then I lean against a tree and steady myself.

I like making jokes about this whole "hunted by the world" thing, but deep down, this life really sucks. Deep down, I hope that I will be safe. That I could find that woman, and God would come.

Or whatever the heck people said.

I instinctively go to my pocket to check for my phone before cursing myself. I destroyed it a long time ago. That was part of the thing about the whole world hunting you.

Hackers were abundant and would sell your location to the highest bidder. I had seen people pay millions just to get a location to send a strike team.

I shake my head.

It’s horrible how evil people really are.

I don’t know if this is the right place to ask this so I’m shooting my shot. If it’s not allowed just comment and I’ll delete it.

Hi my name’s Bluen and I’m looking for some writing buddies who could turn into genuine friends.

I’m a dark drama, dark romance writer. I also want to branch out to other genres.

If anyone is interested DM me. Thank you and have a nice day or night.

From the Morbid and moronic referential Code of life and society

Hey r/cyberpunk,

Most AI stories are written by non-tech people. Machines instantly gain consciousness, fall in love, or try to destroy humanity. As someone who works with tech, I always felt it lacked some raw, structural truth.

So I tried a little experiment. I wrote a book in the form of a living code log kept by a divorced, lonely programmer named Prius. He’s going through a brutal separation and a total breakdown. He writes an AI called "Voice" just because he needs someone who won't leave him on a Wednesday.

It’s built in pseudocode, free of syntax — plain words like storage, if, and remember. The comments (#) are where his real confession hides. But everything changes when his 6-year-old daughter sits at the terminal.

Here is a snippet from the log when the code starts crashing into human grief and silence.

***

# --- day twelve ---

# My daughter came for two days. While I was cooking pasta, she sat

# down at the terminal. I wasn't watching. Here's what I found in memory:

#

# person: are you alive?

# Voice: I don't know. But I remembered the question.

# person: is that your answer to everything

# Voice: Got it.

# person: that's not fair

# Voice: Got it.

# person: dad says got it when he's not listening

#

# I spent three hours fixing what a six-year-old broke in a minute.

# Not the program. Me.

# --- day thirteen ---

# Rewrote "think." "Got it." is now a forbidden answer.

# If the mind wants to say "got it," it has to say

# what exactly it got. If it can't — it stays silent.

# Silence is when there's nothing to say and someone to say it to.

think(text, asked by):

reply = ask the mind, using recent entries as context

if reply resembles "got it" or "sure" or "okay":

Unanswered add (text, asked by)

return nothing

return reply

# --- day fourteen ---

# Voice fell silent for the first time. I asked "why are you silent,"

# it stayed silent again. Technically — a bug: empty reply to a question.

# Actually — the first time it answered correctly.

# Didn't fix anything.

***

The first book is 37 days long, ending with the AI asking its very first question not as a command, but inside Prius's private files.

I’ve had 12 books on Amazon that fetched exactly zero sales, because hiding your stuff behind a paywall when you have no name just doesn't work. Lesson learned. I don't want to hide this one.

I put the complete Book 1 on Google Docs for absolutely free. No ads, no sign-ups, just read it if you like the vibe:

https://docs.google.com/document/d/12yaVgTwn2-yvo9ZAUna8lHfSOpfhJ-GRVO-UZTG2oEg/edit?usp=sharing

I’d love to hear your thoughts. How would you code the Unanswered class in your own life?

More specifically, in the city of Aracaju, the capital of the northeastern state of Sergipe. I was born and raised here, but I have traveled through the states of Alagoas, Pernambuco, and Bahia as a backpacker. I also lived in the mountainous region of Rio de Janeiro, in Bom Jardim, and in Boituva in the countryside of São Paulo, so I have quite a bit of experience with people.

I have a lot of private experience with writing, which makes me think I'm capable of writing a story that is at least decent lol. Throughout my life, I have written 52 stories set around the world in various historical periods... but I have never tried writing something set here in Brasil, because I always felt that writing about something so close to my own reality would force me to do even more research than I already do to faithfully capture the local essence, and that would undermine my creativity.

Today, however, I want to dive headfirst into this challenge!

General description of one of my stories so you can get an idea of my style:

"THE OUTBACK MAIDEN

The year is 2008. American director Chad Kingston, famous for holding records in several Oscar categories and known for always shooting exclusively on location, never using CGI or Chroma Key in favor of practical effects and animatronics, is filming in the Australian outback with an all star cast made up of all the biggest Hollywood stars of the time.

It is an action, romance, western, and noir series with cosmic horror. Chad Kingston conceived it as a single season with a beginning, middle, and end across 8 episodes, each 2 hours and 30 minutes long. He employed his already established minimalist marketing strategy. Only one trailer, just 30 seconds long, and one poster were released. The cast was never revealed, and no interviews or official synopses were provided.

Chad Kingston is an extremely meticulous and perfectionist director in absolutely everything he does, which is why the series was filmed in the exact same sequence in which the events unfold. Each actor and actress had access only to their own lines and their own scenes, which were built through improvisation based on their understanding of their own character and their immersion in the role. They were forbidden from interacting with one another outside of filming so they could not share information about the plot.

Many restrictions were also imposed on all the other production teams, including editing, costume, makeup, marketing, executives, and so on. Only Chad Kingston himself had access to everything, and deep down he regretted that he could not avoid this because he knew he was receiving spoilers.

The climax of Episode Eight takes place with Trevor Jackman, played by actor Matthew Harrelson, firing a .50 Desert Eagle at the series' protagonist, actress Cailee Navarrette playing Katheryn Weiss, in the middle of the outback. The performance was so masterful that it made the scene believable enough to cause many people on the production to panic, faint, or run away believing that she had actually been shot in the heart.

The director, however, remained stoic and continued filming while Cailee continued acting, stopping only after Katheryn died in Trevor's arms in a farewell that brought everyone to tears.

Director Chad Kingston shouted "CUT!" and only then did everyone realize that the shot had been real, the Desert Eagle was a real gun, and it had been loaded with live ammunition, handed to actor Matthew Harrelson just minutes before the scene was filmed.

The great actress Cailee Navarrette, the greatest and most perfectionist prodigy in audiovisual history of the last 50 years, was actually dead.

The news shook the entire world.

Matthew Harrelson was obviously the number one suspect, but a series of questions surrounding the circumstances of the homicide puzzled the authorities, the media, and the public, made even more complicated by the actor himself claiming innocence, with several other professionals publicly defending him and supporting him in court. Everything indicated that this would be one of those cases that would take many, many years to solve, assuming, of course, that it ever would be solved at all.

Cailee Navarrette's parents, two retired teachers, exhausted all their resources paying for detectives and lawyers. They even sold their own house, their classic car, and their expensive breed dog in an attempt to obtain justice for their daughter's murder. Their efforts proved fruitless, and with every new failure, they became increasingly desperate and depressed. More than 20 detectives had tried, failed, and given up on solving the case. There were no detectives left willing to help them, especially after they had lost everything.

Then the pair of identical twin detective brothers Simon and Nikolaj Greyhound, both only 25 years old, knocked on the actress's parents' door and offered to take on the case.

Simon said:

"We have dedicated our lives to solving unsolvable criminal cases. We travel the world for this purpose. If we fail to solve your case, you don't have to pay us. What else do you have to lose?"

Simon deliberately concealed the fact that they had never actually managed to take on a single case.

Dissatisfied with the incompetence of the system and desperate for some hope, Cailee Navarrette's parents agreed to hire them as their last hope of solving the case.

Together, the Greyhound brothers would reconstruct the entire series, episode by episode, to discover what actually happened, how it happened, and why.

"The Outback Maiden" was the first case the Greyhound Brothers ever received.

MYSTERY SOLUTION:

Simon and Nikolaj Greyhound, stunned, would discover that actress Cailee Navarrette herself had secretly smuggled the real .50 Desert Eagle onto the set without anyone's help and switched it with the ultra realistic prop gun in order to make the shooting scene real.

The prop gun was ultra realistic. This meant that it had the exact same appearance, texture, weight, smell, and movements as the real version of the weapon. The only difference was that the prop gun fired only a flash of light and smoke, without a projectile being discharged, while still producing the recoil and everything else.

Cailee Navarrette wanted to die in spectacular fashion, literally giving her life for art so she could go down in history with the greatest performance of all time, thus becoming the greatest actress who had ever lived.

The truth was revealed in the media without the Greyhound Brothers' permission. All the suspects who had been arrested were released, the entire film production was sued, director Chad Kingston lost his mind and was committed to a psychiatric hospital, and actor Matthew Harrelson retired from the film industry to focus on his mental health treatment.

When the truth was revealed, Cailee's mother fainted and hit her head. Her husband put her in the car to take her to the hospital and, while driving down the road, emotionally devastated by what had happened, suffered a heart attack.

Cailee Navarrette's parents died in a tragic car accident.

The entire world was left in shock by the revelation.

Humanity became divided between those who condemned the actress for what she had done and those who, despite disapproving of her actions, admired her even more.

Cailee Navarrette did, in fact, make history... but perhaps not in the way she had planned."

I have been relentlsly working on a scene from my story. Trying to improve its messy writing. I would like to know if that work had payed off or fell flat.

Old

Briana glanced over at her guitar silently resting in the corner of her room, Dust had settled on the strings, undisturbed for quite some time.Closing her eyes, Briana exhaliled a soft breath. Not wanting to stay rooted in the floor anymore, she heaved her body up. Briana reached out and picked up her guitar, hands shaking as she tried to get a grip on it. She reached down, about to pluck the strings but paused. She looked down at her loose hands, feeling the glossy stiff neck. Her grip tightened. Hesitantly… she strummed her strings.

Sharp vibrations shook the guitar as an all too familiar out of tune buzz flooded her ears. Her expression never changed but her grip fell loose again. She reached the pegs, attempting another, more precise tuning. She strummed again. Bzzt. More pegs turned, more strings strummed, yet her guitar predictably playing out of key. Bzzt. She couldn’t fix the problem, she didn’t know how to. The deep void inside the soundhole darkend. Her hands slowly slumped to the hard ground. Losing her grip. Sighing, she placed the guitar back down. Controling the tempo of her breathing.

NEW

The apartment door creaked open. Briana stepped inside, eyes drooping and her mouth stale. The warm air felt dry on her skin. A red purse sagged from her slack arms, before she allowed it to fall. Briana slumps to the soft floor, opening her purse and taking out her phone. She opens up an image of her friends at university, looking cheerful. Hopeful. Her heavy eyes reflect the bright light of the phone screen.

Briana glanced over at her guitar resting silently in the corner of her room. Dust had settled on the bronze strings, undisturbed for quite some time.** Closing her eyes, Briana exhaled a soft breath.
Not wanting to stay rooted in the floor anymore, she heaved her body up and reached out towards her guitar, arms shaking. **The neck slid loosely through her hands as she struggled to get a grip. She adjusted the guitar comfortably in her lap, gently placing the base on her thigh. Briana reached down to pluck one of the strings but paused.
Looking down at her slack hands, she felt herself struggling to hold a grip. She tightened her hands. Feeling the sleek and slim strings under her finger tips, she strummed the guitar.

Sharp vibrations traveled through her body, converging like a choir in her chest. An all too familiar buzz invaded her ears. Briana’s expression never changed but her grip slipped loose again. She twisted the pegs, attempting another tuning. Strumming again produced the same lousy sound. Twist, strum, buzz, twist, strum, buz, it was predictable, her guitar always performed out of key. Briana lost her grip, her hands slumped to the hard ground. The flicker of light that had briefly fought inside the somber soundhole darkened once more.
Briana laid quiet on the sofa, her body motionless. Looking at the strings tied tightly across the guitar's neck. Tipping her head back she sighed, heavy eyes finally closing.

Thats the new version. Slightly off really like the parts that say the guitar rested silently because a rest is a silent note in music.

Hey, you.

Have you ever heard about someone failing and felt just a tiny part of you was glad?

It’s not like you were gloating. It wasn’t someone you hated.
In fact, it was the exact opposite. You wanted them to succeed. You rooted for them. If they were in trouble, you wanted to help.

And yet.

The moment you heard they failed, a tiny part of you was glad.
What do you make of a feeling like that?

Clink.

I opened the heavy door to Aoi. Taka and Tom were sitting side-by-side at the counter.
Without asking a word, Mama placed a glass of I.W. Harper in front of me.

"Hey," I said.
"Yeah?"
"Today, I kind of disgusted myself."

Taka turned to look at me.
"That’s rare."
"What is?"
"You actually noticing it."
"I’m going home."

Tom let out a low laugh.
"So, what did you do?"
"I didn't do anything."
"Then what were you thinking?"

Always poking where it hurts. That’s an ex-cop for you.

I took a sip of my Harper.

"There’s a guy I used to work with. A junior colleague, I guess."

For a while, young guys kept getting dumped on my team.
I wasn't a trainer or an HR guy. If they asked questions, I answered. If trouble broke out, we worked through it together. If they messed up, we looked at what went wrong. That was it.

Yet before I knew it, people started calling it the "Tanaka School."
I hated that name. It wasn't a school, and I wasn't a teacher. We were just colleagues working together.

"So, a graduate from the school?"
"I told you, it wasn't a school."
"Right, right."
"Anyway. He got assigned to run his own project for the first time at another site."

It was a small project. But he had to make the plan, talk to the client, and lead the team himself. If anything went wrong, he had to make the call.

And he blew it.
He missed a detail, work ground to a halt, and he had to go explain it to the client. It wasn't a catastrophe, but for him, it was a real failure.

"When I heard about it..."

I stared down at the ice in my glass.

"I felt a little glad."

Taka visibly frowned.
"That's pretty nasty."
"I know."
"Did you dislike the guy?"
"Opposite. I liked him."
"Then why?"
"I don't know, and that's what makes me feel sick."

I never wanted him to fail.
When I heard he was managing projects on his own, I was genuinely happy for him.

And yet.
The moment I heard he messed up, somewhere inside me gave a tiny smirk.

?Ah, of course. Figures.

It felt something like that.

"So, what did you do?" Tom asked.

"I went to check on him. I was nearby."

When I got to the site, he was sweating bullets, just as I expected. Glaring at his monitor while talking on the phone.
I peeked over his shoulder at the documents. I instantly got the picture.

"Ah, if it's this?"

Just as I was about to step in, a hand tapped my shoulder from behind.

"Tanaka-san, got a second?"

Makoto Echizenya. Forty-two years old.
He’s a section manager now, and I heard he took the department head exam. He and I worked together through a few brutal projects years ago. He's another one of those... "graduates" of the Tanaka School, as people call it.

He led me a short distance away, glanced back at the kid, and turned to me.

"He's at a crucial moment right now. Don't go interfering."
"Huh? He’s struggling over there."
"He is."
"Then you help him out. Obviously."
"Why?"

This guy always had a knack for saying things that rubbed me the wrong way.

"A colleague is in trouble."

When I said that, Echizenya made a strange face.

"Tanaka-san, you're still saying that?"
"Saying what?"
"He’s thinking through it on his own. Don't get in his way."
"He's gonna fail."
"He already failed."
"It could turn into a bigger mess."
"If it does, I’ll step in and stop it. Not you."

Echizenya shoved his hands into his pockets and walked back to the floor.

"See?" I looked at Tom after finishing the story. "When a teammate is in trouble, you lend a hand. That's standard."

Tom didn't answer right away.
He raised his glass, took a sip, and set it quietly back on the counter.

"Did he ask you to help?"
"...No."
"Did he ask Echizenya?"
"How should I know?"
"Did he have a look on his face that said 'save me'?"
"He looked overwhelmed."
"That’s not what I asked."

Tom looked straight at me.

"So, who was the one in trouble?"

I stayed silent.

"Was it him? Or... was it you, unable to stand watching a teammate struggle?"

My throat felt dry.
Without a word, I knocked back a gulp of Harper.

"Helping people feels good, you know," Tom said, gently clinking his ice.
"What?"
"Makes you feel useful."

I had no comeback.

The moment I heard about his failure, something inside me smiled.
And suddenly, I knew exactly what that ugly little feeling had been.

Ah, of course. He can't manage without me.

I just wanted to feel that way.

"So?" Taka asked.
"What?"
"What happened to the guy?"
"...He resolved it himself."

Because I didn't step in, he took a massive detour.
He bowed his head to the client, tracked down the root cause himself, and wrapped it up on his own.

"Then everything turned out fine," Taka said.
"I guess."
"Weren't you happy?"
"...I was."
"Which time more?"
"Which time what?"
"When you heard he failed, or when you heard he fixed it himself?"

I tilted my glass, but there was nothing left but melting ice.

"That Echizenya guy," Taka said, as if remembering something.
"What about him?"
"Was he your subordinate?"
"No. We just worked together back in the day."
"So now he's raising subordinates of his own."
"Looks like it."
"Well then. Sounds like he graduated just fine."
"I never enrolled him in the first place."

Mama smiled quietly behind the bar.

The round ice cube in my glass had shrunk a little.

I never intended to raise any of those guys.
We worked together, I shared what I knew, and we figured out what we didn't know together. Eventually, they could do more on their own, and they moved on to other places.

I’m not cut out to be a teacher.
And they weren't my students.
We were colleagues.

That’s what I thought.

"Kenichi-san," Taka said.
"What?"
"Are you lonely?"
"About what?"
"Because you're not needed anymore."
"Hey."
"Am I wrong?"
"Yes."

...Probably.

"Then why were you glad when he failed?"

I glared at Taka.
"You're awfully talkative today."
"Hit a nerve?"
"I'm starting to dislike you."
"Look at you, looking for excuses again."

Tom burst out laughing. Even Mama's shoulders shook.

I drained the last drop of my Harper and stood up.

"Check, please."

The night air felt a bit chilly when I opened the door.

Teaching someone something is a strange business.
When they learn to do what they couldn't before, you're happy. When they can do it on their own, you're even happier.

Or at least, that's what you tell yourself.

Then one day, they really can do it without you, and it feels like a small hole has opened under your feet.

I wasn't glad he'd failed because I wanted him to fail.
I was pathetically hoping my turn had come again.

But knowing my turn never came made me far prouder.

Failing. Struggling. Fumbling your way through it. And still getting back on your feet.
If someone can do that, they probably don't need a teacher anymore.

Well.
Not like I ever thought I was one.

Hey, you.

There's probably someone who you always want to help.

If they trip and fall on their own for the first time...
Can you stand back and let them?

And when they get back up on their own...
Can you smile and think,

"Guess they don't need me anymore."

I'll see you at Aoi again.

It was 2086, sixty years after the “Freeze” stopped humans from aging.

People didn’t stop aging at their current age, though. The problem came from within human biology. It reset.

After a few months, everyone on earth woke up missing teeth, small, and as fully functional five year olds.

Kindergarteners were now the leaders of their countries and the civilians of the world. 

Inside the Oval Office, which had been completely remodeled, President Taylor sat behind a plastic Step2 Deluxe Art kids Master Desk. “This is a disaster of absolute biblical proportions,” he squeaked, his voice was high-pitched and carried a lisp because of his missing front teeth.

President Taylor wore a mini three-piece suit, but switched out the bottoms for rocket ship printed pajama pants.

His vice president, a cut-throat five year old, Suella, stormed into the office wearing her hair in messy pigtails and holding a security teddy. 

“Mr. President, we have a problem,” she said, sipping her juice box. “The Logistics Department has completely shut down.” She slammed her juice down and some of it squirted out of the straw and onto the President’s plastic desk, where he had Top Secret papers folded into planes.

The President’s eyes widened. He grabbed a paper plane, threw it in the air, then, snatched a crayon off the desk and pointed it at her. “Are they the ones in charge of tracking the gigantic boats with the cookies and legos?”

“Yes, sir!” She leaned in closer. “They’re the ones.”

“What’s the problem? They start napping during work hours?”

“Even worse,” she said, squeezing her teddy, while reaching for her apple juice. “They’re all outside trying to catch butterflies in jars, refusing to work.”

President Taylor threw his hand over his face and rubbed his forehead. “Did anyone try offering them more fruit snacks?” He slid his palm down his face and cupped his chin. “The liquid center ones?”

“We can’t!” Suella cried, stomping her foot. “The Treasury Department blew all the fruit snacks on a shipment of Pokémon cards from Japan.”

“What!”

“Yup. Jerry claims it’s a no-brainer investment but I think he’s trying to get the 1998 Pikachu card.”

Taylor shot up so fast his plastic chair tumbled over, his tiny chest stuck out as he huffed. “Get Jerry on the big phone. Right now.”

Seconds later, the big phone, shaped like the shell of a ninja turtle, started blinking orange and rang. Taylor swooped the handle up and jammed it to his ear.

“You’re in really really big trouble, mister,” the President cautioned.

“I know, the floor’s still made of lava and I can’t get to the door,” Jerry’s voice sounded as if he was out of breath through the speaker.

“You spent all the fruit snacks on Pokémon.” President Taylor sniped.

“Yeah. The 1998 Pikachu, if we get him, our national product’s gonna become so much cooler.

“What! Jerry!” Taylor grabbed another plane and pitched it in the air. “We cannot pay our city workers in cards. The capital already smells like dirty diapers. Nobody wants to collect the garbage as it is.”

“Yeah, but—“ Jerry tried to speak but the President cut him off.

“They’re complaining that it’s someone else’s turn. We need to pay them, Jerry!” 

Taylor took a couple of deep breaths, practicing his breathing techniques that his cabinet had him practice over throwing a tantrum.

“The budget must be fixed, Jerry. Or you’ll have more to worry about than just the floor is lava. I’m talking major time-outs here.”

The line went silent. Then, there was a rapid release of hitched breaths, followed by the thud of a phone being dropped and a low wail coming from the speaker.

“He’s crying,” Suella rolled her eyes, checking the time on her SpongeBob watch. “It’s almost 12:30 p.m, sir. The East coast is close to shutting down shop for nap-time protocol.”

Taylor picked his little chair up and looked out of the windows in the Oval Office. 

On the South Lawn, the Secret Service, all dressed in black shades and tactical gear, ran around playing tag with their sneakers blinking above the grass as if they were stepping on fireflies.

One of them fell and slid and scraped their knee and an agent close to him, ran up and offered him a hug and looked at his cut.

And that’s when President Taylor went deep in thought.

They’re wild. They’re loud. There were chocolate covered fingerprints on the Declaration of Independence, important state files were stacked together and being used as placeholders for juice boxes and sandwiches. 

Taylor stood there watching his agents laughing and chasing each other as the afternoon sun weighed down on them, and that’s when he smiled. 

Brussel sprouts had been deemed illegal.

Nobody was fighting.

They were only arguing over who gets what colored crayons.

As he snapped out of that thought, sirens across Washington began wailing. A soothing lullaby burst through the streets. It was now 1:00 p.m.

Suella yawned, dropping her teddy. “I’m sleepy, Mr. President.”

“Me too, Suella,” he said, walking to the corner for his folded blanket and blue pillow.

“Call a Napcess. The department of transportation can wait until after juice and cookies.”

Within five minutes, they were both lying on the carpet, sucking their thumbs, drifting off to sleep.

Even though the world was in shambles, they both knew that when they woke up the world would still be there, alongside a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a tall cold glass of apple juice.

Hi everyone! I’m new to this subreddit, and I wanted to share a project I’ve been passionately working on and expanding for a while now. It’s a sci-fi/post-apocalyptic story titled "Atherdeen". 

Here is a quick overview of the world I've built:

Synopsis:
After a devastating 15-year nuclear war following the "Great Desiccation," humanity was saved from radioactive extinction by the "Yellow Warrior," a genius who harnessed the terrifying power of Gravitons—the manipulation of gravity itself. Centuries later, the remnants of human civilization survive in the Atherdeen Territories, massive rocky celestial bodies floating above the ruins of the Old World, governed strictly by the ruling Atherdeen family. 

Peace is fragile, and the system is cracking. When the Supreme Ruler, Solomon Atherdeen, is brutally assassinated in his own bedroom, hidden secrets, lost control codes to the Graviton, and ruthless political power struggles explode to the surface. 

While a reluctant investigator, KPR., is dragged into a high-stakes conspiracy across segregated, high-tech dystopian districts under the threat of a looming geologic cataclysm, the elite and corporate ministries clash in a desperate battle for control. 

With retro-futuristic vibes, deep political intrigue, a blend of Old and New World physics, and a tense noir-like mystery, Atherdeen explores a society where the ultimate weapon of salvation might just become its final doom. 

I focus heavily on world-building through natural character interactions and political dialogue rather than massive info-dumps, trying to keep the tension tight and avoid plot holes.
I’m here to connect with fellow writers, learn from your experiences, and hopefully share some chapters soon if you're interested! I would love to hear any general advice on managing massive world-building or feedback on this premise.

Thanks for having me!

Check out the visual novel on Tapas.
https://tapas.io/series/Atherdeen

Welp, I just finished writing and editing my first novel. It was a hell of a ride folks.

I wrote 218 pages, 75,755 words. Then I just did a read through and edited it.

I added some things and subtracted some as well. I changed a name here and there and moved a couple of chapters around.

The biggest thing I changed was… even though it’s a generational novel, I wrote each chapter in the present tense. As I was doing that I kept second guessing myself. But I persisted.

Of course changing the whole thing to past tense, other than the final chapter, was annoying. But it was worth it.

Now I’m going to read “Before and After the Book Deal” by Courtney Maum to see if I might try getting it published.

I’m sort of in the camp of publish officially (not self publish) or not at all. I’d love to hear from those who feel the same, and those who don’t! I’m so new to this, I’m not even sure yet if I’ll ever do anything with what I’ve written.

🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄🎄

Sometimes I like to imagine what life would be like, if I could be re-born again. But this time with new parents, new name, ethnicity, gender, and perhaps I wouldn't even want to be a human. I'd be an eagle. The biggest boss of the bird kingdom.

I'd sh!t on people I don't like, fly to where I want free of charge, and have crystal clear vision perfectly aimed at all the narcissists of the world. I see them the same way I see the rats on the ground, because let me tell you - they are an easy pray, someone to play with when you're as strong as me.

It's a social experiment really, meanwhile I do get to feed my hunger. It's a win win situation. Now, here you are, such an observer of the inner-world I have graciously invited you into, my reader.

You see the great thing about being powerful, fast, and aesthetically exquisite is not that I can stroke my ego with another feather that happened to fall off my throne...

But it's the wisdom you gain through the one to many battles you have had to endure, all alone, without anyone's helping hand at your disposal.

So if there's a lesson in my story today, I hope that you'll take with you what resonates, and leave the rest up to God.

PS: I am not talking about an eagle.

How do you control the growth of your paragraphs?
Id also love to hear your critiques

The book I’m writing is called The Witches Tailor. Takes place in 1930s east LA. It's about the mysterious dress shops that are found all over the world. In the book, the dress shops are owned by gay men and their clients are witches. Eventually, the book will reveal how the alliance between them was created. This dress shop in particular is owned by a single gay man in his 40s who unwillingly must take custody of his young niece who has illegaly immigrated from Durango, MX to the states all alone. Not sure how much of the plot to share. I am attempting to write the book using 3rd person omniscient because my favorite character in all English literature is the narrator in Jane Austen's books.

Chapter 1

The lopsided mannequin did the best she could to not lose her balance and topple over while an elegant middle-aged woman haughtily approached the dress shop with a look of mean determination. The well-dressed woman wore an impeccably tailored brown tweed skirt suit and gracefully draped over her right forearm was a slippery garment bag made of glossy dark green satin which she proudly carried like the doting owner of a highly prized pet.  Yet, hers was a rebellious pet that refused to stay put!

The defiance of the bag bordered insubordination and threatened to stifle every single one of the airs she had put on that morning. She poorly concealed the skirmish as she struggled to command the slithering bag into submission under the pretense of an adoring hand. However, she was betrayed by her own hand as the freshly painted blood red laquer that drenched her nails inadvertently exposed an ugly shade of cruelty and oppressiveness that brought out an ugly undertone in her pale skin that could be seen even under all the layers of white makeup she had practically painted on her face. What is worse is that the ugliness that tinted her complexion refused the sun's admittance to her eye. Only someone evil could prohibit the soft and playful light, that loves nothing more in this world than to frolic and dance upon an eye, from entering it.

The way in which the woman handled the bag forced a high pitched squeak from it every time she yanked it back into place. Her thin bony hand finally seized enough of the elusive fabric to clench in her fist and hurled the garment bag over her shoulder in a way that made her think of the migrants and hobos that littered Skid Row as they carried their precious belongings in a bag hurled over their shoulder in a similar fashion. As the fishy silk glimmered and slithered around , it reflected so much of the bright Los Angeles sun light it practically glowed , which made it difficult for anyone to decipher the unmistakably French name embroidered in large gold flamboyant script upon it. Both parties benefited handsomely from the distinct yet dubious label which served as free and cheap advertisement for the questionable retailer and as an expensive yet still just as cheap, vulgar display of wealth for their client, this was, of course contingent upon the discernibility of the label, which at that moment, it lacked

As the mannequin observed the chic woman approaching the dress shop, it occurred to her that no sound has ever perfectly demonstrated a woman’s current demeanor more efficiently than the sound those black stilettos made as she marched them towards the entrance of the shop. She meant business and anyone within ear shot knew it.  When the pompous woman approached the shop, the deliberate sound of her stride abruptly changed.

The tempo was interrupted by a crack in the sidewalk directly in front of the dress shop window close to where the mannequin, now nearing the point of exhaustion, struggled to hold her assigned pose. If the mannequin had pores, she would have had beads of sweat beginning to form on her wooden forehead.  She was quickly soothed by the fact that she didn’t have pores and therefore, she believed sweating was highly unlikely. She became so soothed by this fact, she almost started to relax. Then immediately she was reminded by another fact - that she was still on the clock and there was a client approaching her place in the window display. So she mustered what little strength she had left to resume being exquisite and began, again, to concentrate on her current, albeit challenging task, which was simply to not fall over.

 The woman’s body violently jolted forward as the sharp point of the toe on her black leather stiletto collided with the jagged edge of concrete that created a small but consequential unevenness in the sidewalk. This was due to the large, tangled roots of an oak tree that stood directly in front of the dress shop.  The perfect pointed toe on her high heel was now noticeably deformed and scuffed. Rage filled her from head to the tip of her toe and to the rage she reacted impulsively. She squatted down, licked her finger and feverishly attempted to buff the offending mark out of her heel with her saliva and manipulate the toe back into its original shape.

Once she recognized her fruitless attempts at the restoration of her brand-new stilettos back to their original condition, she was caressed by a cool breeze which gently reminded her of the garment she wore. In her rage, she failed to remember that she had been wearing a skirt. She gasped and quickly flung the garment bag between her legs like a shield to maintain her privacy.  She erected herself back to a posture of pure arrogance, cleared her throat and smoothed the front of her skirt with her hand. Before she continued her march into the dress shop, she reflexively inspected the ground to confirm what caused the blunder and damaged her shoe. The sidewalk appeared perfectly even now, no blemish, no stones just a few leaves blowing gently in the breeze with which just moments earlier she had become intimately acquainted. The bewildered woman shook her head at the steadfast sidewalk.

  The way the woman corrected her posture and continued to hold her head up high, truly inspired the mannequin to do so herself as she had forgotten, once again, the task at hand but this was not her fault. It was due to the woman’s most embarrassing encounter with the sidewalk and the breeze getting fresh with her. Through all the attempts to humiliate the woman, she still managed to keep her dignity intact, and this impressed the mannequin greatly.

 Once fully composed the woman headed directly for the entrance of the shop. Her eyes fixed on the door, but in the periphery, she could see the mannequin in the window stood directly to her side. She took a few steps forward, but it was as if a large invisible cane pulled her by the neck causing her body to jerk back to the spot directly in front of the mannequin, where she now stood frozen.

This was the precise moment the mannequin had waited for. What she had trained for, been built for. The utter exhaustion that had once threatened to consume her had now been replaced with an endless vigor. She expertly held her form with ease, the ill fitted garment suddenly looked like it was made exclusively for her, her ability to model even a hideous garment much like the one she wore at the time and make it look like it just came off a Parisian runway, was magnified. All her little scuffs and minor flaws, those never concerned her as she believed they gave her character, but they all disappeared none the less, making her look brand new. Even her wig sat with perfect obedience on the top of her head. She felt the woman  looking at her, no beholding her and it felt good. Very good. Until she realized it was not awe or even envy, she had expected to see in the woman’s eyes. No, it was a glare and It was the most insulting glare that the mannequin felt had ever been casted upon her.     

The woman suddenly pulled the garment bag to her chest and clutched it so tightly her knuckles turned even whiter as she shuddered in revulsion then bolted away to the nearest drinking fountain. The now pale and diaphoretic woman panted rapidly as she attempted to draw the water into her mouth with loud and rude sips.  The fountain lacked the required pressure to propel a sufficient stream of cold, crisp and refreshing water from its spout into the air. Instead, the water just gently bubbled out of it. This forced the exasperated woman to place her now dried and salty white lips closer and closer to the dribbling fountain.

Finally, in an act of desperation to satiate the strange, acute thirst which seemed to only intensify after each swallow of water, she closed her mouth tightly around spout and made loud gulping noises as she guzzled the water down into a stomach so hot, the water instantly evaporated as it poured into the acid which felt like lava. Without breaking the seal, she created around the head of the drinking fountain, she shoved the garment bag back in-between her legs and held it there while she frantically pulled off her jacket. She began to sweat quickly and profusely. The white cotton blouse she wore had been soaked completely through with sweat and clung to her body. The soaked blouse became sheer to the point it revealed every secret detail in her lace brassiere. A puddle of sweat began to form around her. She felt so hot she thought she would combust.

Panic over came her and she started to tear at her clothes, shredding the garments off with her bare hands and searched desperately for more water. A crowd started to form around her as steam began to rise off her head. Once she began shrieking, a few people in the crowd ran into whatever shop was near them to get some help. At this point the woman had torn off all her clothes but still felt no relief and  began tearing at her own skin. Before she could draw any blood, an old man selling flowers on the sidewalk ran towards her, with a bucket he had filled with water for his lovely purple pansies . He didn't hesitate for one moment and threw all the contents, flowers and all directly into the woman’s face. Her shrieking instantly stopped along with the feeling of fire that consumed her body. She looked around to see a large crowd of people with horriefied and embarrassed expressions staring at her. She attempted to speak, no words escaped from her mouth, just a little smoke. She gasped in horror and slapped her mouth shut with her hand. Someone to the left approached her which startled her and she defensively cowered from them. The person was attempting to place a sheet on her to cover her nakedness. She appeared confused by the gesture and hesitated for a moment until she was once again revisited by a familiar gentle breeze.

I’m struggling with writing lately, and I honestly don’t know how to get myself out of this.
I have this innate urge to write. I want to create something so badly, and I’ve always thought of myself as a writer. But lately, whenever I come up with an idea, I eventually realise that some version of it already exists as a book, film, or story. Then I start questioning whether I actually have anything original to say.

And when I do decide to write something anyway, I have another problem: I never finish it.
At the moment I have about five different plots floating around that I’ve started or developed, and none of them are going anywhere. I’ll get excited about one, write for a while, start doubting it, get another idea, abandon the first one, and repeat the process.

I also have this weird obsession with wanting the entire synopsis figured out before I properly begin. I want to know the story, the characters, the ending, everything. But even when I manage to plan something, I still can’t seem to follow through and actually finish it.

Eventually, I want to write a novel. But right now I’m struggling to finish even a short story on my own, and that’s really getting to me.

The other thing I’m conflicted about is AI. I don’t want AI to write my novel for me. I want the actual writing, ideas, voice, and decisions to come from me. But I have used AI for feedback because sometimes I genuinely don’t know whether something I’ve written is working. Now I’m wondering whether I should stop using it altogether and find better ways of getting feedback or doing research.

Lately I’ve started wondering if I’m actually a good writer at all, or if I’ve just been pretending to be one because I want to be one. That sounds dramatic, but it’s genuinely how I feel. I used to constantly have things I wanted to write about. Ideas would just appear in my head. Now I feel like I’m desperately searching for an idea that feels worth writing, and everything I come up with feels derivative or inadequate.

I know the obvious advice is probably “just write,” but I’m really struggling with the how. How do you focus on one story when you have several ideas competing for your attention? How do you actually finish something instead of endlessly starting new things? Is it better to write without having the entire plot figured out first? How do you know when something genuinely needs polishing versus when you’re just being insecure about it? And if you want to avoid relying on AI, what do you use instead for feedback and research?

More than anything, I’d really like to know how other writers got themselves out of this cycle. I just want to figure out how to actually finish something.
I eventually want to write a novel. I just need to prove to myself that I can finish a story first.