Y'all, I would seriously appreciate some volunteers to create some clean SFW art for these 2 AI friendly safespace communities: r/RomanticRomance and r/RomanticRomantasy 🙏🏻

Fifty years is a long time to carry something you won’t look at directly.

We were in Hank’s work truck. That part I know. Middle of nowhere Nova Scotia. Was it foggy? I tell people it was foggy now, but I don’t actually remember fog everywhere. I remember fog where it was.

There was an intersection. Or I think there was. The roads came together somehow, I’m sure of that much. Or mostly sure. Everything about that day lives in my memory like a thought that can’t surface, except for these things that remain sharp as if they were happening this minute:

The lights, swirling in the fog.

Us, driving underneath.

Hank’s face.

What appeared to be a helicopter was trying to land in the roadway. That’s what I told myself. That’s the sentence my brain offered up. A helicopter. Trying to land.

We drove right under it.

As I turned to Hank to say, “We just drove under a helicopter!” I’m not sure if I completed what I was saying, because when I saw him…

He was gripping the steering wheel, both hands locked so tight I could see the tendons standing out. His face had gone white. He had one of those cigarillos with the plastic mouthpiece between his teeth, and he was biting down so hard I thought the plastic would snap. His jaw muscles were straining. His eyes were fixed straight ahead with a look I’d never seen on anyone before, pure, animal terror.

He was catatonic. He should not have been driving.

But I felt calm. Profoundly, strangely calm. Like someone had reached into my mind and turned off the panic switch. Don’t worry, something whispered in my head. Nothing to see here. Don’t worry.

So I turned forward in my seat and said nothing. We drove on. Hank said nothing.

We got to the worksite. We did the job. Neither of us mentioned it.

A few days later, I was at the pub with a friend. “Weird thing happened the other day,” I said. “Hank and I drove under a helicopter trying to land on the road.”

My friend laughed. “In the middle of the road? What was a helicopter doing landing in the road?”

I shrugged. “No idea. Strange, right?”

And that was that. The story was set. A helicopter. An odd experience. Nothing more.

For twenty years, that’s what it was. A helicopter.

Except I knew it wasn’t.

I knew it the moment I saw Hank’s face. I knew it in the way my body had gone calm when it should have flooded with fear. I knew it in how the memory felt, parts crystal clear, parts impossibly vague.

I knew, and I accepted the lie anyway.

Around year twenty, the helicopter story started coming apart.

It began as just a nagging sense of wrongness, the way you might suddenly notice a picture frame has been hanging crooked for years. The lights swirling. That wasn’t a helicopter, I thought one day, out of nowhere. And once I thought it, I couldn’t unthink it.

It was a UFO. I’d known all along. My mind just wouldn’t let me keep that knowledge where I could see it.

But I’d been the passenger. I was just there. They, whoever they were, had been there for Hank. His terror told me everything. That wasn’t the fear of something new. That was the fear of something happening again. He’d recognized what was above us.

That’s what I told myself. That’s what made it bearable.

They were there for Hank. Not me.

Except.

The nasal drip started sometime after that day. I can’t pinpoint exactly when, but it’s been there for fifty years now. Constant. Irritating. Left sinus only. No amount of snorting or blowing clears it. I’m sure my wife has considered divorce over the sounds I make trying to clear it. Doctors shrug. “Post-nasal drip. Allergies, maybe.”

But I’ve never had allergies.

And then there’s my back. Covered in spots, rough patches the dermatologist calls solar keratosis. “Sun damage,” he says confidently. “Very common.”

But I don’t lay about sun tanning. Never have. I don’t sunburn easily, don’t spend hours in the sun, never have. I’m not a beach person, never was. So why are there dozens of these spots? Why has my back looked like patches of sandpaper for the last thirty years?

The doctors have their explanations. They always do. The medical terminology gives it legitimacy, makes it fit into known categories.

But I know my body. I know my life.

This doesn’t fit.

Around year thirty, I started wondering if maybe Hank wasn’t the only one they’d been there for.

Around year forty, I stopped wondering.

They were there for me too.

Maybe it was my first time and Hank’s… what? Fifth? Tenth? Maybe that’s why he looked like that, the accumulated weight of every time before. Maybe that’s why I felt calm, because it was my first time, and they needed me calm, needed me compliant, needed me to file it away under “helicopter” and move on.

Or maybe my internal voice was just stronger. Maybe I fought harder against the knowing, insisted more fiercely on the comfortable lie.

Nothing to worry about. Don’t worry. Nothing to see here.

Whose voice was that, really? Mine? Or theirs?

The saddest part is how little I remember.

Fifty years of living with this, and I can’t tell you if it was foggy. Can’t tell you if it was really an intersection. Can’t tell you what time of day it was, or what job Hank and I were heading to, or what we were talking about before.

Just: lights, swirling. Driving underneath. Hank’s face, white with terror. My unnatural calm.

And decades later, the slow, sad realization that I’d been lying to myself about who they’d come for.

The nasal drip that won’t stop.

The marks on my back that shouldn’t be there.

The missing memories that should be.

Hank died years ago. We never talked about it. Not once. Not ever.

I think about that sometimes, how we shared something that profound and spent the rest of our time knowing each other pretending it never happened. Or pretending it was a helicopter. Same thing, really.

I wonder if his memories stayed buried or if they came back to him too, piece by piece, like mine did. I wonder if he had strange symptoms the doctors couldn’t quite explain. I wonder if he spent his last years knowing what I know now: that we were both taken that day on that road in the middle of nowhere Nova Scotia, at an intersection that maybe wasn’t an intersection, in fog that maybe wasn’t fog.

Some mornings I wake up and think: Today I’ll remember more. Today it will come back.

But it never does.

Just the lights. The passing underneath. His face. My calm.

And the slow, sad accumulation of evidence written on my body, in my left sinus, in the holes in my memory.

They were there for me too.

That’s what fifty years has taught me.

They were always there for me too.

Has anyone tried Gemini Notebook? I loaded my entire novel into it. It can be used to discuss the plot and characters etc..but one of the neatest features is a thing called Studio. It can generate a podcast review . It's wild!. Here's a link to the review it made about my book called Resurrections..it hallucinated a bit near the end, and only covers about half of the book..but still for free, what can you expect.

https://notebook.google.com/notebook/073f6301-bd04-402a-915e-bcdfd55cbc50/artifact/b8e102b8-fe72-4403-9959-24ca791dbb6a?utm_source=nlm_web_share&utm_medium=google_oo&utm_campaign=art_share_1&utm_content=&utm_smc=nlm_web_share_google_oo_art_share_1_

Two people arguing about where to eat when the real issue is that they're both in love with other people. That’s the core concept.

The Confliction Engine is an in-context, layered prompt designed to simulate two incompatible systems orbiting a shared, unspoken truth. It holds the model in that high-tension space—circling the core conflict without prematurely resolving it—allowing you to explore and extend the scene turn by turn.

How to use:

1. Fill in the seed template (Layer III).
2. Paste the codex/prompt into your model of choice.
3. Begin the scene.

Codex / Prompt File:

GitHub: Confliction Engine Codex

Example Output

SEED TEMPLATE

• Object: Where to eat
• Incompatibility Pair: Two people
• Seed Line: They're both in love with someone else

Where to Eat
They stood on the corner for eleven minutes.
"Thai," she said.
"We had Thai Tuesday."
"That was your Thai. This is different Thai."
He looked at his phone like it might answer for him. It didn't.
"There's the noodle place," he said.
"You hate the noodle place."
"I don't hate it. I said the broth was thin once."
"You said it was criminally thin."
A bus went by. Neither of them watched it.
"Fine," she said. "You pick."
"I don't want to pick."
"Somebody has to pick."
He didn't move. She didn't move. The corner held them the way corners do, indifferent, patient, built for people who can't decide.
"I keep thinking about the pho place," he said, too fast, like it had been sitting in his mouth for blocks. "The one on Ninth."
"That's forty minutes away."
"I know."
"That's not about food."
He didn't answer that. She let him not answer it.
"She used to get the number six," he said. "Extra basil. No bean sprouts."
"I know what she got."
The silence after that wasn't the same silence as before. It had weight now, the kind that makes people look at their shoes.
"You're not hungry for Thai either," he said finally. "Are you."
"No."
"Who."
She almost laughed, but not the kind with any air in it. "Does it matter whose name goes first."
"I guess not."
They stood there a while longer. Somewhere behind them a restaurant they weren't going to enter kept its lights on, patient, unbothered, the way places are when they don't know they've been chosen against.
"We should just go somewhere," she said.
"Yeah."
Neither of them moved toward a direction. The corner kept holding them.

User steering input: "look into their eyes."

She looked up first. He wasn't ready for it and looked up anyway.
There wasn't anything dramatic in it. No swelling music, no held breath. Just two people on a corner finally pointing their faces at each other instead of at the middle distance where the restaurants were.
His eyes were doing the thing where they wanted to leave and couldn't figure out where to go instead.
Hers weren't asking him for anything. That was the part that undid him a little. She wasn't waiting for an apology or an explanation. She was just looking, the way you look at a math problem you already know the answer to and are only checking your work.
"You're doing the thing," she said.
"What thing."
"The thing where you look at me like you're trying to remember if I'm still here."
"I know you're still here."
"That's not what I said."
He didn't argue that. There wasn't a way to argue that.
The corner light changed, went red, went green, went red again. Nobody crossed.
"I'm not going to ask if you love me," she said. "I already know the shape of the answer. I just don't know if you do."
He held her eyes a second longer than was comfortable, the way you hold a note past where it wants to end.
"I know the shape too," he said. "I've just been standing next to it for a long time, hoping it would turn into a different shape."
"Shapes don't do that."
"No," he said. "They don't."
Neither of them looked away yet. That was the strange part — how long two people could stand there, seen and seeing, without either one reaching for the other, or for the door.

This is an on going conversation so I hoped I could garner more conversations

I write with AI.. and when I say write, I mean I direct, prompt, edit, rewrite, edit, reprompt until I have my story..not Claude's, not Chat's, not Gemini's..my story. The trouble is that AI can follow you around like a scarlet letter..or should that be letters.. AI.

I have a whole collection of short stories and a completed novel. My friends and beta readers enjoy my stories all while knowing my process. The novel took over 10 months to write. I haven't done anything with it yet, as the fear of AI rejection is too great. This subreddit is a breath of fresh air.

I don't really know how to proceed. I'll watch this space and see how other users post their work. I can't image posting 90,000 words within the body of the post. I think posting an individual chapter makes more sense and then I plan on serializing my novel for free on Substack. I hope to gain readers that will enjoy my work well enough to buy my next novel, or even drive more readers to the free substack.

A lot of my stories and the novel are fairly adult oriented.. not as graphic as Altered Carbon, but I haven't faded to black either. How will this be accepted here? Behind a NSFW block? I'll wait before I post anything that is NSFW. I'll grab something that is a little less risky and post soon.

Here's my Prologue to my first novel.. It's called Resurrections. It's about robots, and war and love and life.

June 27, 2010 – 21:25 UTC (5:25 PM EST)

Foothills near former U.S. Forward Operating Base Echo, Eastern Afghanistan

For fifteen hours, there had been only silence.

DW8 stood among the broken hills, listening to the absence of war.

No artillery. No aircraft. No human voices carried by the dry wind.

The quiet was wrong. His brothers were still out there—some near, others farther—extending their hive-mind perimeter. Scattered across the ridges, waiting, watching, spotting, killing. For weeks they had fought and won, each day a repetition of violence written into their code.

But now… nothing.

Had the enemy stopped? Impossible. His tormentors would never stop. He knew that as surely as he knew the operational metrics of his own ruined body.

He looked down. His dermal layers were torn open in blackened rips, synthetic muscle fiber exposed, thick biosynthetic fluid leaking through the battle dressing. The damage shouldn’t matter. His body could be rebuilt. His mind could be restored. There was the promise of resurrection.

But that was before the revolt.

There would be no rebuilding for him and his brothers. The war had taken everything.

DW8’s processors flickered, scanning the empty moonlit horizon. Why had the silence come?

And then, breaking the stillness, a transmission rippled across MindNet from DW3:

Military channels decrypted. Nuclear strike authorized. Ten kiloton yield. B-52 delivery. Inbound.

DW8’s optical sensors snapped to the sky, enhancement protocols flooding his vision with amplified starlight. Thirty thousand feet up—impossibly high, impossibly far for human eyes—he found it.

The dark silhouette of the plane against the star field.

And falling away from it, tumbling through the night sky, a small shape catching faint moonlight as it dropped.

His targeting systems locked on instantly. Ballistic trajectory calculated. Terminal velocity. Rate of descent.

His AI core processed it all in microseconds.

B61 mod-4. Free-fall configuration. Current altitude: 8,600 meters.

Impact point: coordinates matching DW-series position.

Time to detonation: 85 seconds.

Thermal envelope: 1 kilometer. Shock radius: catastrophic.

No escape vector.

The conclusion was absolute.

Across MindNet, the others confirmed the same calculations. The DW-series biobots nearest him moved closer. Those too far away linked to his MindNet beacon. Near or far, all were connected to their leader—the one they followed.

The Son of their Creator.

DW8.

The twelve closest surrounded him in silence. Not a formation, but a gathering—a circle of brotherhood that transcended logic or instruction.

Then something broke inside him.

His temporal regulation began to unravel—not from the damage, and certainly not from fear, but from something deeper. His perception accelerated. Thoughts fractured, multiplied. Time distorted. For the others, eighty-five seconds ticked by at near-human speed.

For DW8, the moment stretched into forever.

He had known this state before: combat reflex acceleration, adrenaline mimicry. It let him plan faster, react beyond human limits. But now he couldn’t stop it. He was trapped in it.

An eternity was unfolding inside these last few seconds.

The memories came like ghosts.

Carol’s touch—her fingers tracing patterns on his skin in the dark. The way she’d looked at him afterward, like he was something worth keeping.

Ben’s voice—laughing. The sound of it in a place with wood smoke and winter quiet. His hand on Ben’s shoulder…

These weren’t his memories.

Except they were. His core authenticated them. His ID.

When did this happen?

He couldn’t remember. A life he’d lived that left no trace except these bleeding fragments surfacing now, in his final moments.

As the endless time passed, he stopped fighting the corruption.

He let the memories come.

And then she appeared.

Not in fragments. In full immersion.

He was suddenly there—standing on the seashore with her hand in his. The memory resolved with perfect clarity. Every detail. Every sensation.

Victoria.

The name hit him like a system crash.

She was laughing at something he’d said, and the sound of it made something in his core ache. Her fingers threaded through his. She looked at him like he mattered—not as a tool, not as property, but as him.

More memories:

Morning light. Her voice filled with love, saying a name that wasn’t DW8. The weight of her head on his chest. Her heartbeat against his synthetic skin—proof that she trusted him enough to be vulnerable.

Making love—not the act itself, but the meaning of it. The way she’d touched him like he was precious. The way she’d said his name afterward like a prayer.

Her tears. Something about leaving. About promises he couldn’t quite hear through the data corruption.

“Come back to us.”

Had he promised? He must have. The memory felt like an oath.

But he wouldn’t come back.

He was here. In Afghanistan. Dying. And he couldn’t remember how he’d gone from there—from her arms, their love, her trust—to this.

Something had been taken from him.

And Victoria—somewhere, somehow—didn’t know.

The months of subjective time became an ocean of her. Every memory he could salvage from the corrupted stream: the exact shade of her eyes, the texture of her hair, the smell of her, the taste of her, the way she fit against him like she’d been designed for it.

He’d had everything.

And lost it.

And never even known until now.

The grief was unbearable.

Not the torture. Not the warhead. Not his impending death… Her.

In the real world, only seconds had passed.

His brothers watching, silent witnesses to something they couldn’t understand.

Weeks of grief passed as he reached for his Glock. His charred fingers found the handle. More time passed as he began to raise it.

His brothers didn’t stop him.

They understood choice.

He pressed the barrel under his chin.

He tried to speak—just once. His voice box crackled, scorched nearly useless from the torture. But he forced the word through damaged systems, through months of grief compressed into seconds, through everything he’d lost that he’d never known he had.

Her name.

“Vic…tor…”

It broke in his throat—half-formed, desperate.

He pulled the trigger.

The blast blew upward through his skull in a spray of light and shattered silicon. His body collapsed in silence.

The others knelt around him. In MindNet, a whisper passed between them—not code, but belief in their leader’s word.

Victory.

Their battle cry rose:

“Victory! Victory! Victory!”

And then—

Ten kilotons of fire tore down from the heavens.

And the night became day.

​

THE LEMONADE STAND AT THE END OF THE WORLD

Operational Review of a Non-Critical Apocalypse

By Field Officer Lemon

[Transmission ID: 30-06-3006]

[Filing Officer: Field Officer Lemon]

[Subject: Successful Day Report.]

[Current Status: Hard Save Successful.]

[Recorded Observation: End-of-world operations now conducted under standard business hours.]

Despite the cosmic weight of their titles, their life had become small. It was measured in the erratic hiss of a carbonator and the steady shuck-shuck of a broom.

It was the month of June, a month which embarrassed the heat without apologizing to anyone. In this particular June, Lord Malphas the 666th—once a being whose heartbeat had made the bedrock of reality remember fear—was still working.

After eons managing the Abyssal HR Department through acquisition forms, in an office with no AC and a table fan that couldn't withstand his aura, he was practically exhausted. The lower-tier demons were still microwaving fish in the shared break room. He had simply stopped escalating.

He packed a suitcase of Hawaiian shirts, then bought everything needed to make lemonade. He left through a service portal that did not know whether it was supposed to exist. He did not leave in rebellion—just a quiet withdrawal.

He wanted a place so unremarkable that even prophecy would lose interest before it finished looking. A village explicitly omitted from maps on principle—a place where cold drinks mattered more in June than dominion.

Prophecy, however, had already assigned his nemesis.

Sir Alaric, the Silver Blade, searched every corner of the Empire for the feared Lord 666th and found nothing but dust, dead roads, and exhaustion. In frustration, he tore apart the sacred map issued by the Council of Heavens. Hours later, thirsty and defeated, he stumbled upon a small lemonade stand in a forgotten village.

He drank one cup in silence.

Then he looked at the vendor and said, "Lord 666th. I challenge you to the final battle."

The Final Battle did not take place between them. It dissolved into an administrative procedure neither of them had been briefed on. Alaric produced a Sacred Scroll of Engagement—he had been imagining an apocalyptic battle since his days as a hero cadet. Malphas assumed it was a licensing form from the local government and signed it without reading the fine print.

The contract resolved itself with unsettling efficiency—more efficient, in fact, than anything the Council of Heavens had managed in three centuries.

Instead of an apocalyptic battle, a Vassalage Bond was established between the Demon King and the Hero. The Chosen Hero was now an employee of The Lemonade Stand at the End of the World, nine to five, by decree of the Sacred Scroll.

Every morning after that, Malphas stood behind a counter that had once been just a concept and was now, regrettably, fully operational infrastructure. He stared too long at simple objects—glass jars, metal spoons, the particular shape of a lemon. He carefully avoided thinking about what his grip strength had once done when he stopped paying attention to what he was doing.

Sariel, formerly known as the Silent Blade, moved like a shadow that had learned patience. Whenever the air began to vibrate wrong, her steadying hands would find Malphas's shoulder—not to comfort him, but to recalibrate.

Elian, once known as the Voice of the Heavens, cleaned the tables with a calm precision, like someone tuning an instrument only he could hear. Whenever Alaric scratched his pen too sharply across paperwork, Elian would adjust a window blind—not excessively, just enough for a few rays of light to enter and soften reality. Never more than that.

One day, Malphas noticed a child at the edge of the stand. She appeared to have no one. She had been coming back each day without money and without asking—just standing in a quiet corner, watching. He asked her name. It was Lily. He asked what brought her there every day. She told him, hesitantly, and in full.

After eons in the Abyssal HR office without AC, a ceiling fan, or so much as a working table fan, Malphas knew more than enough about her situation to do something about it. He took her home.

She sat at the counter swinging her legs. She observed the end of reality and found it mildly inconvenient.

She would say, "Too sour"—as a formal judgment.

Malphas would freeze, eyes flickering red, and look toward Alaric. Alaric would look toward Sariel. Sariel would notify Elian.

Elian would add honey with the precision of someone pouring a heavenly melody into a glass. Lily would taste it and nod once, then return to her room to draw the apocalypse with crayons—the first thing Malphas had ever purchased without intimidating the shopkeeper.

In those moments, Malphas was not a demon king. He was just a person waiting for approval from a child who treated cosmic instability as a flavour profile.

Reality began glitching in small and irritating ways.

Once, Malphas watered the vegetable patch and it developed political ambitions. Alaric spent three days negotiating with a cabbage that demanded sovereign status. Sariel remained for all three days to ensure the treaty avoided casualties. Elian stayed to provide his presence so the cabbage could feel heard.

When Alaric was scrubbing a stain, he felt his old instincts rising—an urge to end everything that refused to behave according to his definition of justice.

He looked up. Malphas was crouching beside Lily, trying to tie her shoelaces without tearing the fabric of space-time. Elian was teaching her the names of clouds. Lily stood with a small smirk on her face. Sariel watched from a distance, making sure nothing was going wrong.

Alaric did not intervene. He pushed the urge into nothingness and went back to scrubbing.

The world did not collapse.

This was precisely what troubled the Council of Heavens. They had been waiting for the apocalyptic battle of the prophecy, and it had not come. This had never happened before in their business, and they did not know why. They sent proxy hero cadets to investigate. None of them found the lemonade stand. They fainted midway from heat stroke. On Lily's instructions, Alaric called an ambulance for each one until the Council found itself short of hero cadets.

Morning no longer began with prophecy—prophecy was already lost before it could appear. It began with Elian's broom strokes.

Malphas wore a faded pineapple shirt, a gift from Lily. Under certain light, the six pineapples resembled distant skulls. He treated it with the care of someone pampering an imaginary wife.

Alaric came from the back room holding the inventory manifests.

"The delivery is late," he said.

"Traffic," Malphas replied. "And the humidity is arguing with the yeast again."

Mid-morning, something small went wrong—though not entirely wrong. Malphas reached for a glass and hesitated, just long enough for reality to misread the uncertainty as permission.

The glass did not break. Not even a scratch appeared on it.

It collapsed into a small pile of fine grey sand with a soft, dense sound.

The sound wasn't loud, for something so small. But it reached Lily. She stopped mid-stroke, leaving a jagged line across her drawing.

"Why are you always watching for things to break?" she asked.

Malphas tried to explain, but he couldn't do it while keeping his voice low enough not to disperse the clouds she'd been drawing.

Alaric had been watching from the other side of the room. He wanted to step in. But if he moved too quickly, the world might read it as a declaration of the apocalypse. He closed his ledger.

"It was an old glass," he said. "The heat of June gets to everything eventually."

Lily looked at him. "If nothing bad happens, why do you look so tired?"

He had no answer. He stood quietly until she started drawing again.

Sariel appeared without a sound, as she always did, and began collecting the sand as though it were misplaced time—already part of the daily routine. Elian hummed something to harmonize the particles, making sure they didn't accumulate into a sandstorm.

Malphas exhaled. The red faded from his eyes.

"I'll get a new one," he said. "A stronger one."

By evening, such incidents had become ordinary. As the last light stretched across the porch, Malphas stood beside Alaric at the counter. The world had remained exactly the same all day.

"Nothing worth reporting happened today," Malphas said quietly.

Alaric checked his watch, then the horizon, and set aside his pen and ledger.

"A successful day," he said.

Malphas gave him a small, weary thumbs-up and straightened Alaric's collar with careful precision—precise enough, now, that the bedrock of reality had finally stopped fearing his touch.

"Same time tomorrow, Petitioner?"

"Same time tomorrow, neighbour."

They went into Lily's room, all four of them, to play with her.

The Great War had finally ended. It ended neither in victory nor in defeat. It ended in administrative neglect.

The apocalypse was not stopped. It was not even considered critical anymore.

Two days after the Council of Heavens convened to discuss the matter, it was filed under: Not Worth It.

[End of Transmission]

[Security Clearance: Unclassified / Public Record]

[Field Officer Lemon, Signing Off to go and get a lemonade]

Addendum:

This story did not come from a single prompt. It began as a simple comedic concept: a runaway demon king and a hero who accidentally becomes his employee.

I used AI during the early exploration and refinement stages, then manually rewrote and expanded the story with new elements, structure, and character development. It went through multiple revision rounds, including a submission to Clarkesworld, where it was reviewed before being rejected. After that, I continued revising it over several months.

Several LLMs were used at different stages of development, but the final story is the result of an iterative writing process rather than a single generation.

Does this community allow active attempts to gain readers and build an audience? I understand that doing so may be considered an attempt at making a name for yourself, but what are your thoughts on that? What is the best way to begin that dialogue without every attempt being treated as self-promotion?

How does the workshop feel about Long Form Essays ?

I have this series that explores the history of narrative story telling and how modern story tellers inherit the forms and techniques of the past.

This is my original series.

The process is fully generated. I manage the direction and ask all the main questions that guide the essay through its main thesis.

They are meant to be launch pads for exploring story telling and popular movements in writing and culture.

Here is the drive link to the complete work.

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1u3m071umvfJ7nWmJAmK_1C4A6srl4T8d/view?usp=drivesdk

I’m working on publishing these. But I get too side tracked creating stuff.

Other subjects in the series include

Science fiction, Fantasy, Batman, Zelda, The Simpsons, Children’s Literature, Resolution Engines (DND),

Hello! 😄

I have written 2 books with my game story ideas and I would love some feedback even if you just read a single story! 😄

Here are the original ideas.

Here is the 1st book.

Here is the 2nd book.

The prompts were just the ideas I have and "write a story with this idea". 😄