First off, I am not an attorney, so this is not legal advice but rather my understanding of what “First Serial Rights” generally means with regard to writing.
If you are like me, I care a lot less about what rights I am giving up and more about just getting my stories out there. I do realize that isn’t the best attitude. It may not matter to me as much when most of my short stories fetch less than $100, but if Netflix ever stumbles onto something I’ve written and wants to serialize it a la Love, Death & Robots style, I’d be very concerned about what rights I’ve given up.
My understanding of first rights make me mentally fall back into my days as a landlord:
I own the property, but the lease agreement (contract) gives someone the right to use it for a given amount of time.
The “first” part is like saying “This property is newly created and you will be the first to live in it.”
For authors, once a story is published, the “first” part is used up so you can no longer sell “first rights.” When selling it again later, you need to market the story as a reprint.
Note: for a story to be considered unpublished, that usually means it has not been previously publicly available anywhere. This includes blogs and social media.
The term “serial” comes from the nature of periodicals being published repeatedly on a schedule. It may not come into play on something like an anthology, but I suppose it’s also possible you would still see that language.
Location:
If you just see “First Serial Rights,” you should probably assume that covers publication anywhere in the world, unless territorial language calls out an area specifically. This, as opposed to, something like “First North American Serial Rights ” where you could potentially sell the story to a non – North American market simultaneously.
Exclusivity period:
Watch for this term in the contract. It calls out how long the story is “locked up” before you can sell it as a reprint elsewhere.
Words to watch out for:
Look for language that could lock up the story indefinitely. Terms such as: “All Rights”, “perpetual exclusivity”, and transfer of copyright or transfer of ownership language.
First Serial Rights vs. First Publication Rights:
This can imply broader control of your work and may include publication in other forms outside of online or print, such as audio rights, translation rights, and inclusions in anthologies. This doesn’t necessarily make it something you should reject outright, but is something you need to be aware of. Personally I would be thrilled if a story I sold for online publication also made it into a print anthology, but this language could mean you might not get paid any more for it to be in the anthology.
Common Add-ons:
Depending on the publication, you might see some of the following terms and language.
Electronic rights – Now typical for online publication
Archival Rights – They are able to keep the story live on-site indefinitely. Often seen in sites that allow people to see back issues. I have this in my contract as I continue to host the stories I publish on my site.
Audio Rights – There are some online site that publish audio only or, as in the case of Tall Tale TV, audio within YouTube’s video platform. This is normal if it’s their native format, but if it’s normally an online “print” format and they are asking for audio rights, just be aware you are giving away something more.
Translation Rights – Can be common for some markets that have a worldwide presence.
Excerpt rights – This allows the publication to use small bits of your story for promotion.
First Serial Rights means you’re selling a publication the right to be the first to publish your work, but not to own it forever
As long as you are OK with the exclusivity window, and avoid any tricky language that lets a market hold onto your story indefinitely, first serial rights is typically a standard, author-friendly deal.
I have been binge-watching the James Bond movies on Netflix. I am mostly going in sequence, starting with 1962’s Dr. No and having worked my way up to 1979’s Moonraker. Watching these movies in quick succession has allowed me to see how quickly culture changes. In 1962, there were still segregated bathrooms. While that isn’t apparent in the Bond movies (that I could tell, at least), what I did notice was how the attitude toward and portrayal of women changed over those films. Early Bond had no qualms about backhanding a woman across the face, then later making what could most generously be described as aggressive advances toward the same woman, who ultimately gives in to her uncontrollable passion for Bond—cut to post-coital pillow talk.
There is also a feeling of the power of feminine sexuality in those films. I suspect some would say this is an example of objectifying women, but to me it feels more like something empowering.
It is interesting to see how the female roles became more assertive and less passive over time, in my mind culminating with the angry power of Grace Jones as May Day in 1985’s A View to a Kill. Yes, James still takes May Day to bed, but as he goes to do so, she deftly flips him over so she is on top. While I may be reading into things, this felt like a nod to the changing role of women in the Bond films. No longer would they be relegated to serving as handy plot devices that provide 007 with information and titillation.
This seems to continue to hold true in 1979’s Moonraker, as the main female character is a CIA agent, every bit as capable and seen as an equal to Mr. Bond. Old habits die hard, however, and she did carry the suggestive name of “Dr. Holly Goodhead.” According to AI, this is the first mention of a leading female character with a PhD in a Bond movie.
Another interesting bit was how they showed the kill shots of pheasants being hunted in Moonraker, clearly showing the birds being shot and falling from the sky. I suspect this would not be seen in any movie today. Brutally murder 100 guys in an action scene? Yes, please. Show the kill shot during bird hunting? Sorry—way too offensive.
I admit to feeling a sad nostalgia for these times gone by. Those values and norms have changed and will never be seen again. I say this from a mental standpoint of trying to withhold judgment. It is easy for us to look back and decry the unfairness and ignorance with outrage, but for the people of that time, this was the world they lived in. It felt “right” to them at the time. It was the world they knew, whether we like it or not.
I do think we have changed for the better… but then again, I am looking at that from my current mental framework of social values—just like we all are. There is no way around it. I suspect people have always felt the very same way: things are so much better than they used to be.
I also find it interesting to think that the stories we write today will inevitably capture the cultural mores of our time.
Which makes me wonder: will our writing be considered antiquated and offensive later on?
Almost certainly. But when it comes to writing, much like martinis, shaken is better than stirred.
Today’s story comes to us from Martin Lochman of Malta.
Martin’s story was previously [Mistakenly] rejected by 5 venues: Interzone, Not One of Us, Clarkesworld, Cryptic Frog Quarterly, and Pulp Asylum.
Bio:I am an emerging Czech science fiction author, currently living and working as a University librarian in Malta. My flash fiction and short stories appeared (or are forthcoming) in a variety of venues, including New Myths, Kzine, Theme of Absence, XB-1 (Czech SFFH magazine), and others. My debut space opera “All Quiet in the Milky Way: Ray M. Holler’s Adventures vol. 1” was published in 2023. You can find me at: https://martinlochmanauthor.wordpress.com/, Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/people/Martin-Lochman-SF-Author/61552596028127/, or Twitter: @MartinLochman.
When I asked Martin what he loves about this story, this was his response:
First and foremost, this is one of those stories that I improvised from the beginning to the end (unlike most of my work, which is usually meticulously outlined and planned out before I even write the first word). What actually inspired me to write it was a dream I had one night – my memories of it were (naturally) quite fuzzy the next morning, but I distinctly remembered stands, vendors, and a pond with a giant crocodile in it. My overactive imagination filled in the rest and The Market was born. Another thing I love about the story is the fact that, despite being self-contained, it provides only a quick peek into the world within – which means I can explore it in subsequent writings.
The Market, by Martin Lochman
The sun had barely peeked out from behind the horizon, but the market was already filled with people. Locals and tourists alike moved from vendor to vendor, examining merchandise, negotiating prices, or committing to a purchase, all the while doing their best to stay out of each other’s way.
David stood at the edge of a stall on the outskirts of the market, frowning at a crate writhing with pitch-black insects the likes of which he had never seen. Every so often, their numerous limbs or antennae poked at the one-way force field at the top of the container, producing a semi-transparent, yellowish ripple.
They were about fifteen centimeters long and best resembled an oversized flying ant. The problem was that they possessed five pairs of legs, a twin elongated stinger, and what could be best described as half-formed claws on the upper thorax, just below the head. In a nutshell, they looked like something straight out of a B-horror movie concept art.
“Titanomyrma gigantea,” the vendor answered from behind a small counter before David could ask, enunciating slowly as if talking to a child. He was a thin, lanky man with a thick mustache and almost unnaturally blue eyes.
“They are the largest species of ants to have ever existed on Earth. If you’re interested, they are ten credits a piece, but I’ll give you a ten percent discount if you buy ten or more.”
“No, they are not.”
The vendor narrowed his eyes.
“Pardon me?”
Someone bumped into David from behind, causing him to lose his balance. Instinctively, he stretched his arms out in front of him… and nearly ended up burying them in the pool of the mysterious insects. Fortunately, he managed to land his hands on the opposite edges of the crate at the last possible moment.
Presumably, the same someone mumbled a half-hearted “Sorry!”, but by the time David steadied himself, they had already disappeared in the crowd.
Relief turned to irritation as he looked back at the vendor and saw the corners of his mouth curved up in amusement.
“What I mean is that these are not Titanomyrma gigantea,” David said coldly.
The man’s gaze hardened.
“I think I would know what I am selling. I collected them myself.”
David folded his arms across his chest.
“The real Titanomyrma was at best half the size. Didn’t have that many legs or a dual stinger. And don’t even get me started on whatever it is growing right under their heads.”
A hint of alarm flashed in the corners of the vendor’s eyes, but his face remained thoroughly impassive.
“You some kind of paleontologist?” he hissed, then, not waiting for David’s reaction, added, “Look, it’s not like we have discovered every single animal or plant in history. Even if we can literally visit it. Not my fault you don’t recognize this one.”
David shook his head.
“If you don’t like what you see, you can just move on. Plenty of other stands on the market,” the vendor insisted. A vein appeared in the middle of his forehead, indicating that his patience was wearing thin.
His irate demeanor didn’t escape the attention of several visitors who stopped to lurk behind David.
“I think you mean a paleo-entomologist, but no, you’re not that lucky,” David said, staring the vendor down.
“Lucky? Who the hell do you—” the man stopped abruptly, realization overtaking his features. “Oh no. No? No!”
“Yes,” David smiled, savoring the swift change in his counterpart’s attitude.
“This is not what it looks like,” the vendor offered weakly, raising his hands, palms toward David.
“It’s not?”
Putting on an exaggerated expression of surprise, David gestured toward the crate: “You mean these are not some genetically engineered abominations you are selling as genuine prehistoric specimens, breaking six different federal laws in the process? Is that what you are telling me?”
There was a gasp, an expletive muttered under the breath, a triumphant aha!—but these were just the reactions from the slowly growing gathering of lurkers around the stand. The vendor himself stayed silent, steadily turning pale.
“Keeping quiet won’t do you any good now,” David pressed on, a subtle warning underscoring his words.
For a long moment, the vendor just glared at him, evidently considering his options or questioning his life choices. Or both.
“Okay,” he said finally, looking away. “You are right. These are not the Titanomyrma. But I swear to God I didn’t make them. And—” he beckoned David closer.
David reluctantly leaned forward, careful to stay well clear of the crate.
“—they are not the only fakes here,” the vendor finished in a low voice.
David frowned. The guy was obviously grasping at straws, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was lying. And if he weren’t, then, well, David might end up spending more time at the market than he had originally planned.
He took a deep breath and straightened. Turning around, he addressed the onlookers: “Move along, people. Nothing to see here.”
The less curious dispersed almost immediately; the rest needed an additional encouragement. Begrudgingly, David withdrew the badge from his pocket and waved it around, causing two or three people — who looked so similar to one another they had to be related — to openly express their displeasure with authorities. In the end, however, it worked, and the unwanted audience dispersed.
As soon as the flow of the river of bodies past the stand resumed, David walked around it and joined the vendor in the back.
“Well, I am all ears.”
“Na-ah,” the man said and pressed his lips together. “I want to make a deal.”
“A deal?” David repeated, incredulous.
“Yeah. I give you the supplier and point you in the direction of their clients, and, in exchange, you let me off with a warning.”
The vendor jutted his chin out in defiance, though his eyes betrayed uncertainty.
“Do you really think you are in a position to make demands?” David said sharply. “I can just go and find the fakes myself, just like I found yours.”
“You can. And I am sure you’ll have no problems spotting the easy ones. But—” the vendor smirked. “—you should know that the merchandise I got is—how do I put this—on the lower end of the price range. The high-end stuff? You won’t be able to tell the critter isn’t real unless you run a full damn DNA analysis.”
He paused, shrugging. The gesture almost looked nonchalant.
“Besides, you won’t know who’s manufacturing them in the first place.”
David gritted his teeth.
“Tell you what,” the vendor continued, capitalizing on David’s hesitation. “I’ll give you the first one for free. See that Airstream over there?”
He waved his arm in the direction of a bullet-shaped trailer parked about fifty meters away. A long table was set up in front of the vehicle’s open door, and on it, opaque cubical containers about the size of shoe boxes were stacked one next to each other. A large, bearded man stood behind the table, gesticulating frantically at a group of bystanders.
“The guy will tell you he’s selling Deinosuchus eggs, but in reality, he just modified a common alligator to grow three times its normal size and sprinkled in some minor cosmetic details to make it look distinctly different.”
David closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. He exhaled slowly through his nose and reopened his eyes to the vendor’s hopeful face.
“How much did you make on these?” David asked slowly. “In total?”
“About four hundred credits,” the man replied, hesitantly.
Raising an eyebrow, David tilted his head to the side.
“Maybe five?” the vendor offered, before sighing. “Fine, it’s seven-fifty. Not a fraction over seven-sixty, I promise.”
“And you haven’t downloaded any to your personal account?”
David indicated the terminal, which was secured to the counter with a smart lock to prevent theft.
“No, sir. It’s all there.”
David nodded, taking another deep breath.
“Okay, I’m keeping the credits you made on these, of course. And you need to give me the names of everyone you know who is selling the fake crap, plus the manufacturer, then I’ll forget you were ever here. ”
Relief swept across the man’s face.
“But if I ever see you at one of these, I’ll remember really quickly who you are and exactly how much your illicit sales garnered.”
The vendor’s eyes flicked to the terminal. For a moment, it looked like there was a question at the tip of his tongue, but ultimately, he likely thought better of voicing it.
“Right. Got it.”
Less than ten minutes later, the stand stood empty. David had made the vendor take his abominable merchandise with him and safely dispose of it. Even with the crate’s force field, it’d be irresponsible to leave them. The the man hadn’t been very happy about it, but ultimately had no other choice but to accede to. David watched him drag the trolley with the crates stacked on it in the direction of the nearest teletransport station, and once his tall frame disappeared from view, he leaned against the counter, letting out a small laugh.
Seven hundred and fifty credits for what had it been — ten, fifteen minutes of work? And they said his doctorate in paleontology was as good as one in gender studies in the era of time zoos, prehistoric safaris, and public markets where you could literally buy yourself a pet trilobite.
David patted his jacket pocket, feeling the hard contours of the appropriated terminal inside, then considered the file on his wrist computer, hastily put together and transferred by the vendor. David was sure the incriminating information on it would be of great interest to the real inspectors, so the right thing to do was to make sure they received it. He could slip them an anonymous message, nudge them in the right direction… of whoever it was who was manufacturing the fakes.
Opening lines are first impressions — you only get one chance to get them right. I see a lot of stories where writers mess up this critical point in their stories. Here are a few of the mistakes I see:
The Warm-Up Paragraph
This is often a general “vibe” type statement that can sometimes be preachy. These are paragraphs that attempt to set the tone of the story before you are actually into the story. I think these come from the writer not knowing where their story is headed when they start writing. Later on, the story’s form becomes solid but this paragraph tends to stick around when it should have been removed. A great test to see if you have an opening that is necessary is to ask: Is anything lost if I cut this? If not, take it out. A general rule I have is that every sentence should serve to develop character or advance the plot.
Starting with Over-Description of Setting
A little of this is good to orient the reader but long passes explaining every little detail of a room or worse yet, the weather, can work against you. If the story is about a weatherman, then yes, that might be necessary but typically starting with the weather does little to add value to the story or pique the reader’s interest. While the reader is parsing these descriptions, they are asking themselves “Yeah, okay, so what?” in other words: why is this important? Why should I care? You don’t get much time to answer that before they decide to stop reading.
The Info-Dump
This is where writers try to get out all of the logistical and technical information before getting the reader hooked on the story. Oftentimes this happens because the world is complex and operates differently from ours (frequently the case in Sci-fi stories) so there are a lot of details as to how things work. Just like too much detail on setting, this burdens the reader before getting them hooked. The way to think of this is that while they may need to know this information, do they necessarily need to know it right away? Take for example James Bond movies; there is usually a scene where Q explains how all the technical gadgetry works, which is important as you will see Bond use these things later on. We can’t skip the explanation or that would feel like a cheat if you suddenly see advanced technology come out of nowhere and get 007 out of a scrape. But this info-dump often happens in the middle of the movie after we’re already invested. What do we usually see in the beginning of a bond move to hook us? Some action scene where 007 suavely and narrowly escapes. It’s often only tangentially related to the main plot line, but it does a great job establishing the character and setting the hook.
Structure your stories the same way, offer just enough to hook the reader early on, and sprinkle in the technical exposition along the way. Just make sure these moments feel as organic and natural to the story as possible. The reader can sense when they are being force fed information.
How to do it right:
The goal of the opening lines should be to hook the reader — typically by establishing stakes and introducing the core conflict. We need to know why we should care about what is going on. Make them want to know what happens next. Action is great way to open stories. By its nature, action implies a character is involved with conflict, either moving toward something they want or away from something they fear. It gets us to stakes and conflict right away.
Start by showing what the protagonist wants and let us know what’s at stake if they don’t get it. If you can also show why the protagonist can’t have what they want, or what insurmountable barriers stand in their way, it’s even better.
Today’s story comes to us from Glen Engel-Cox. Glen thinks more about authors and writing than anyone outside of the offices of The Paris Review, who has never published him. He emails a daily newsletter about literature as part of his Patreon account: join for free at patreon.com/gengelcox. His novel, Darwin’s Daughter, and a non-fiction compilation, First Impressions, can be found at A Major Annoying zero-paying online site, while his short fiction is available for free in The Daily Tomorrow, Phano,, LatineLit, Utopia, and elsewhere.
Glen’s story has been [Mistakenly] rejected by Clarkesworld, Asimov’s, Apex, Solarpunk, Utopia, and a few others.
When I asked Glen what he loves about this story, this was his answer:
What I love about this story is how it’s a kind of a throwback to the 50s SF of writers like Fredric Brown, where the aliens are cute and the stories are a bit cozy. So much SF now (well, and maybe always has been) is dystopian, dark views of horrible futures and I wanted to see if I could bring a little joy to the world.
The Mass Market and the Madness of Crowds, by Glen Engel-Cox
After being jostled for the third time by the crowd in the vendor’s booth, Jean lost her temper and swore, causing the entire room to chuckle at her loss of decorum. Even though she towered over most of the crowd by a meter–too much time spent in zero-G–most of the crowd pushing her weighed at least twenty kilos more than she did and some of them a lot more.
As an asteroid field miner, she had grown accustomed to isolation and the fact not many human women chose the profession, but it still galled her when she had to deal with the crowds that inhabited most spaceports. On board her ship, as small as it might be, everything had its place. She had difficulty dealing with movement that didn’t follow predictable paths, which meant anything with intelligence, or what passed for the same by her fellow miners. She couldn’t avoid the spaceports, either, because that’s where ore was sold and where she had to refuel. She needed some dense mass to power her entropic drive, and the cheapest way to buy some was in the open market. In too many ways, being a miner and having to buy mass was ironic. The ore in her hold, however, was unrefined, and she knew from the mass spectroscopy that it only had trace amounts of heavy metals.
This particular market was called the Masshole, situated in the center of an orbital Altarean habitrail. It dealt in things other than mass, but, really, when it came down to it, everything was mass, wasn’t it?
“Wait your turn,” said the vendor. That’s not why Jean had sworn, but it wouldn’t do any good to complain. She turned on her heels and left the booth, likely to more laughter. The market had plenty of vendors and she was damned if she was going to spend any more time in this one.
Jean really shouldn’t have gotten annoyed but she hadn’t had much luck in finding what she needed, not at a price she could afford. Realizing she needed to calm down, she sought out a lunch place with food she could eat. Given all the different alien communities on this habitrail, she found that almost as difficult but eventually she found a noodle shop off one of the main passages. The inside was crowded as well, but, unlike the last vendor, this line moved fast. She sat down at a table outside and proceeded to slurp up her meal.
Across the way, she watched an altercation break out between a very short, stocky alien who looked like an asteroid with spiderlimbs and a real bruiser of a human, one of those brawny miners who swaggered down the hallways without giving any room to others. Jean couldn’t tell if the human had stepped on a limb or pushed the alien out of the way, but given the way it gestured, she felt a fight was imminent. She glanced around, but those around her seemed to be ignoring the rapidly increasing tension. She swore under her breath, but got up and walked over and put herself between the two of them and yelled, using her height to get them to focus away from each other and up to where she glared at them.
“Stay out of this,” said the human. “This pebble needs to learn a lesson.”
“Crack you,” said the alien.
“Both of you should turn around and go your separate ways. We don’t need a interspecies war starting here.”
“Who made you the judge?”
“You did, right now. Now go.”
He glared at her, but he had shifted his focus away from the alien, which is what had to happen to get him to settle down. She held his eyes, then flicked her hand away. He grunted and turned, knocking into her with his shoulder as he moved down the hall, hands on his hips as he took even more space as he left, others in the hall giving way.
When he was outside of hearing range, she knelt down on one knee and asked the alien, “Are you hurt?”
“Hurt? What hurt?”
“Damaged? Injured?” She looked at him, trying to find what it used as sensory organs but only seeing crags and crevices.
It waved one limb, a thin, black multi-segmented chitinous thing. “Crush this.” She could see some segments that seemed flattened somewhat.
“Do you need medical assistance?”
It flexed the appendage. “Fix self.”
Well, that was good. The human must have stepped on it accidentally, not unsurprising in these crowded halls if you didn’t pay attention to those around you.
“Alright, then. You be careful. You have to watch after yourself around here, you know.”
Jean went back to my noodles, finding in her absence the proprietor had come out and topped the dish off so they were still hot. They nodded to her as she sat down. “That was a nice thing you did there.”
She shrugged, looking back over at the alien, who had now been joined by another of its kind and they waved their spindly arms about in agitation.
“So who are they?” Jean asked.
“Miturarnians. Came aboard about sixty, seventy cycles ago. Great maintenance workers. Not only are those appendages of theirs extremely flexible, they don’t seem to breath air so can go out into vacuum without bulky suits.” Given there had to be over a thousand-odd space-faring species inhabiting the nine galaxies, it was impossible to know them all in detail, and more seemed to pop up everyday. “Most all ETV work has been given over to them and it’s been a good deal, as far as I understand. Other hab authorities are desperate to get them to move and take work with them, but there’s only so many of them, it seems. Anyway, I better get back to cooking.”
Jean watched the two aliens while she finished her lunch. They had stopped gesticulating and now seemed to be frozen in place forcing the hallway traffic to divert around them.
#
She went back to seeking a mass dealer whose idea of profit was something less than a two-hundred percent markup. But they seemed to sense her desperation, even reveled in it, increasing their prices from stall to stall. She suspected they had a private network where they communicated, her mug shot stamped online with big letters RUBE.
After hours of this, she stopped at an outside bar and took inventory. She had a commitment for some platinum, but it would hardly be enough to power her beyond one trip and if something went wrong…well, she didn’t like to work with those margins.
She felt something tug on her trousers. She looked down and saw a mituarian retract a pincer.
“You mine?” it asked. She couldn’t tell where it made the sound from, but it had a grating quality to it like ore being ground.
“Yeah.”
“Have need. Take job?”
Jean looked around the bar, but no one was paying attention to them. She said, “I work for myself. Freelance, you know. Hit the asteroid belt, hope to hit a jackpot someday. I don’t work for anyone else.”
“Pay good. What want?”
Jean chuckled. “What I need is some really dense mass for my entropic drive so I can go further into the fields without constantly coming back here to refuel.”
“Have mass! Much mass!” It tapped itself with its appendage.
Jean shook her head. The little being didn’t understand. “Not mass like you or me, but dense stuff.”
“Big mass. I have.” It motioned for her to follow it. She told it to wait while she finished her drink. No need to waste decent alcohol in case this was some wild asteroid chase.
Following the mituarian, she watched as it moved down the hallway, its appendages basically rolling it along the hall. No wonder one of them had been stepped on earlier. The alien shifted to the right or left constantly rather than moving straight. It led her into the heart of the Hab, the center point where the centrifugal force didn’t act on you to provide gravity. She activated her mag boots, finding her own movements awkward while the alien’s locomotion now had a fluidity indicating how accustomed they were to weightlessness. Finally, it motioned for her to enter what she took to be its berth.
“Big mass?” Jean asked.
“Most big. And dense.”
Jean stepped inside. Inside the small room not much larger than the interior of her mining ship, the mituarnian made a ceremony of retrieving and unveiling a casket lined in exquisite fur with half-a-dozen orbs nestled inside, each the size of Jean’s hand and made of pure black. Jean’s eyes went wide. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Now she understood why it brought her here. The weight of those would tunnel a hole in the floor or walls in the market area with its normal gravity.
“Told you. Dense. Big mass.”
“SubQ?” Jean asked, hardly daring to speak the name. Hab maintenance work must pay well if this alien could afford to own SubQ.
“You know. I got. What worth?”
A fortune. One of those orbs would power her ship for a lifetime and beyond. Jean shook her head. “More than I got.”
“You need?”
“Badly.”
“You mine?”
“Yes, I’m a miner.” She thought they had established that already.
“I need. We go. I show. You mine. SubQ yours.”
Jean squinted at the mituarnian. She normally worked solo. Having someone on her ship made her nervous, especially a client telling her what to do. But for an orb of SubQ? She didn’t hesitate. “Deal.”
#
The coordinates it gave her took them to a double-star on the edge of the Altar system. Following the jump, which the mituarnian efficiently paid by providing her with a pebble of platinum, it directed her toward a planetoid, unusual for its multiple rings rather than a singular one on the elliptical.
The mituarnian then activated a homing beacon, directing her to a specific spot in one of the inner rings. “Here.” The one it chose did look different than the others, an oblong rock about half the size of her ship with spider veins visible on the surface. “Take care. It fast.”
Fast in space was a relative term, but Jean thought she understood its warning.
She matched the orbital speed of the asteroids circling the planet, each ring moving at a different velocity, so she had to deftly maneuver in and around the deadly rocks until finally getting to the specific one the mituarnian wanted mined.
“What are we mining for?”
“You see. It fast. You hit. It break. Then fast. Suck up. NO GRIND.” The last it said with great emphasis.
“Ok, ok.” She showed it the grind mechanism control. “With this off, it will just collect and won’t grind the ore.”
“Not ore,” it said. “Mass.”
Whatever, Jean thought. “Any particular spot to hit?” During the jump, the mituarnian had told her not to use her drill, but to use the particle hammer.
“Here. Or there. Your pick. But hard. Hard hard.”
She activated the gravity collector, directing the hammer to use maximum force while firing the ship’s plasma engines to counter the reaction from the force used. As soon as the impact occurred, the asteroid cracked, each spider vein suddenly red and then nonexistent, the rock splitting and resplitting into thousands of tinier asteroids, which were then sucked up into the hopper by the collector. She had seen nothing like it.
The mituarnian watched with delight. “All! All!” it exclaimed, the collector gathering up every bit of the asteroid in seconds.
“We see. Come come.” It led her to the hold, now sealed against space after the collector had finished. “Open open! We see!”
Jean popped open the hatch and looked inside. She had expected a collection of rocks. Instead, the hopper was filled with tiny miniature mituarnians screaching and clambering over each other. An asteroid hatchery. Newborns.
“Much mass! It good. SubQ yours.”
She felt light-headed watching the baby aliens. So many of them she couldn’t see the floor or the sides of the hopper. It was madness, but Jean didn’t care. If being midwife to mituarians enabled her to seal her future, she would learn to like some crowds.
I heard this phrase from David Baldacci in his Masterclass. While this may sound like he’s promoting substance use in order to produce a story, I think what he’s actually referring to is the different mindsets needed for each phase of writing.
The Coffee Phase
Coffee refers to the idea that the first draft should be a relatively fast process.
When getting the first draft down, many writers claim you want to focus on getting the idea out and captured and not worry about making it perfect. “Get it down on paper,” was the phrase we used before everyone started doing their writing on computers. Don’t concern yourself with exact wording, sentence structure, or where all those danged commas need to go. Just get that story out of you.
The Wine Phase
Wine refers to the idea that editing should be a slow process.
After the first draft is born, it makes sense to do a few passes to clean up obvious issues but the key is to set that draft aside for at least two weeks before trying to edit it.
When you do sit down to work on your story again, you need to be in a place where you have a different perspective. This time, your efforts need to be slow, deliberate, and discerning. This time, you do need to focus on where the commas go.
I think this is one of those things where there are as many approaches to writing as there are writers. Let me know your process in the comments below.
J.R. Blanes is the author of the novel, Portraits of Decay, from Ruadán Books. His short fiction has appeared in Allegory, Tales to Terrify, The No Sleep Podcast, and Thirteen, among others. He lives in Chicago with his wife and their neurotic dog. You can visit him at https://jrblanes.com/ or https://ruadanbooks.com/
J.R.’s story has been [mistakenly] rejected by: Planet Scumm, Infinite Worlds, Interzone.
When I asked J.R. what he loves about this story here was his response:
I’m awful with technology. My wife calls me a luddite. So, in a way, I have irrational fears of where it’s leading society (AI scares the crap out of me). When I write stories—mostly horror related—I often pull from what frightens me and use it to deal with my anxiety. But I also love this story because it was a chance to springboard ideas off my wife who is in tech. She assisted me with the research and corrected many mistakes I made about coding. A perfect editor for feedback.
Injection Code, by J.R. Blanes
Warning! 409: Conflict.
The error response status flashes on my screen in bright red letters. I slam my fist against my desk. Fuck! Not again. This shit’s been going on for hours.
I rub my eyes with the fleshy balls of my palms then blink away the floating spots. I’ve been staring at this code so long I think it’s split my brain into fragments.
Outside the eighth-story office windows, Chicago celebrates the coming New Year with a parade of floats and colored lights and street music. A light dusting of snow falls from the night sky in true holiday fashion. I watch the festivities for a moment, wishing I was out there—or anywhere but here. Around me, dual-screen laptops on cluttered desks weave a maze that, from where I’m sitting, appears to have no exit. My colleagues left hours ago to get ready for the “Big Party.”
Evolve’s hosting a shindig at Innovation, a private events venue operated by the company, and a springboard for some of our newest inventions: a fully equipped self-operating dance club with robo-servers and cocktail-mixing machines and a smart kitchen. Everyone’s raved about it for weeks. And here I am stuck with this stupid bug.
Bing!
An alert dings on my video chat. A telegram from Mr. Deadline himself, the Program Director, Brad Goldacker. I consider ignoring it, but I know if I do, he’ll just keep calling. I have to give the prick one thing: He’s persistent.
Brad’s digitized face fills the screen, the software imagery smoothing his pre-middle-age wrinkles and deleting the acne scars from his cheeks until he’s picture perfect. His hair swoops into a massive wave off his forehead and down into two finely trimmed sideburns that end at the cliff of his chiseled jawline. He’s popped his collar to hide the scrawny chicken neck I often imagine strangling.
“Waylon, my friend, how are things?” Brad asks in a tone programmed to sound sympathetic but comes off passive aggressive.
I motion at the cubicle maze around me. “Still at the office, Brad.”
“I can see that.” This time he doesn’t hide his disappointment. “What’s the timeline on fixing this bug. The last thing we want is it getting into our operating system and crashing our entire program. Unhappy consumers make for unhappy investors, if you know what I mean?”
I know exactly what he means.
Evolve designed its cloud-based platform to operate a variety of products across the globe from a single location. Smart Homes, AI monitoring systems, humo-maids. You name it, Evolve runs it. Every device built to speak to our internal infrastructure, otherwise they’re deadweight. We control your lives through a series of instructions written in 1’s and 0’s. You can’t drink your morning coffee or fold the laundry or wash your ass without our services. Which means if there’s a flaw, well, let’s just say, we could easily ruin your day.
“There seems to be some kind of concurrency issue. Looks like too many threads competing for the CPU’s attention,” I say.
“Layman terms, Waylon.”
Not surprising, Brad has no clue what I’m talking about. “Do you know what happens when demand exceeds available supply? Service failure. Is that clear enough for you?”
“I know it’s a service failure,” Brad says to prove he’s not stupid. “What I need to know is how you’re going to fix it. Did you roll back recent updates?”
“I did, but it’s not helping. Old code, new code, it all shakes out the same when I try to compile it. It’s as if every change I make is being countered by another part of the program.”
Brad clicks his tongue, pretending he’s thinking, but I know better. The son-of-bitch specializes in product, not programming. He wouldn’t know his front end from his back end.
“Look, Brad, I—”
“You’re talking like the bug is alive.”
I shrug. “I mean, it does control robots. Who’s to say we haven’t crossed the line of automation versus intellig–”
“I’m not here for a philosophical conversation, Waylon. It’s New Year’s Eve for Christ’s sake. Roll it again. Make the code more readable if you must.”
“The changes might affect the application.”
“I’m more concerned what’ll happen if we don’t get the software up and running within the next hour. Evolve plans for this party launch to go off without a hitch. Catch my drift?”
In layman terms, my ass is on the line.
I’ve worked at Evolve for three years as a low-level software engineer. Essentially, I’m an exterminator. My job is to kill any bugs found burrowing into our network, which is why I’m still at the office at 7 pm on New Year’s Eve. But if I don’t fix this problem soon, I’ll be ringing in the New Year unemployed. And if that happens, I might as well unplug my computer permanently. No tech company wants to hire the engineer who’s blamed for a software meltdown. I’ll be back living in the burbs with my parents and working for MicroCenter.
“I’ll take care of it.”
“That’s my boy. Now I’ll be at the party, but if you have any issues shoot me a telegram.” Bradley fires finger pistols. “And remember, Waylon, at Evolve we’re committed to…?”
“…committed to progress.”
“You got it, hot shot.”
Soon as his face disappears, I flip Brad the bird. Until I get the application up-and-running, I can forget about going anywhere.
#
For the next thirty minutes, I try everything to push this damn bug out of its hidey-hole: check for random generators, run performance tests to identify any components that are not keeping up with our systems, attempt to locate the threads accessing the CPU. After I clean the code up from top to bottom, I run it through the compiler and relaunch the script in my virtual test rig.
A new error pops on the screen. 403: Forbidden.
What the fuck?
For some stupid reason, the server refuses to authorize my request. It doesn’t recognize my credentials. But that’s impossible. They were properly authenticated. So why is the database denying me access?
The request must be tripping an alarm. The only option to see is to disable the Intrusion Detection System. But that’s a huge risk. It’d leave the server vulnerable for attacks.
I lick sweat from my upper lip. What the fuck would Brad do? Not take the risk. But I did tell him I’d take care of it. I disable the IDS.
The electronic doors in the office slam shut—I jump out of my chair—and the locks switch from green to red. The security alarm unleashes a piercing squeal. It’s like the high-pitched ringing after a concert, but at twenty times the decibels. I fall to my knees and cover my ears. Scream for the alarm to stop. Minutes away from bashing in my skull on the floor, the alarm shuts down with a fading whine. The lights above flicker. Darkness swallows the office, illuminated only by the soft glow of the computers.
I mime my way through the maze to the exit. Pull at the doors. They’re locked. Slamming my fists against the glass, I shout for help. There’s probably no one inside the building but me. It is fucking New Year’s Eve.
My telegram alert dings again. It’s probably Brad calling to ream my ass for breaking the whole system. Better not answer. Let Mr. Company Man chew on Tums until I can figure this shit out.
But when I return to my desk, I see the message is from Imara. Why isn’t she having fun at the party? I run my fingers through my hair and tuck my shirt in before answering. “Hey!” I say, attempting to sound cheerful. “What’s going on?”
Imara leans against a snow-lined balcony, a picturesque view of the icy Chicago River and a classic art deco building behind her. She’s tied her wavy hair into a braid, a few loose curls falling alongside her slender neck. Gold tassels dangle from her tiny ears. Blush adds a pinkish color to her high cheekbones and blue eyeliner reflects her sapphire eyes. Seeing her brings a smile to my face…
…until I remember I promised to meet her at the party.
“Are you kidding me? I dressed up for you.” Opening her peacoat, Imara offers me a glance at her off-the-shoulder cocktail dress, an outfit miles away from the tech-geek t-shirts and cargo pants she normally rocks.
“You look terrific.”
Imara wraps her coat around herself. “If I knew you were going to ghost me, I wouldn’t have put in the effort. I could be home watching the latest episode of Star Trek: Voyage Beyond.”
Hearing her disappointment stirs my animosity for that shit, Goldacker. “I can’t leave until I fix this bug.”
“Can’t it wait ‘til Monday?”
I flop in my chair. “You heard about what’s going on out there? Brad says customers are beating on the door and waving torches, complaining their smart homes aren’t working. He’s ready to offer me as a sacrifice.”
Imara snorts. “Yeah, he’s been freaking because the elevators are having issues.”
I jab a thumb at the doors. “The office locked me inside. We’re having some kind of outage.”
“Is that why you’re sitting in the dark?”
“No, I just find it sets the perfect mood for programming.”
Imara suppresses a laugh. She can never stay mad at me for long. I’d like to think it’s my boyish charm, but it’s really because I’m her only male colleague who isn’t a total tech bro.
“Too bad you’re going to miss—” From her phone, Imara shows me a panoramic view of the packed club. My coworkers walk through interactive AR environments that change to compliment their collective mood, drink cocktails crafted to their taste buds, and dance to personalized setlists playing in their earbuds. “Guess I’m going to have to have fun without you.”
Imara’s remark nettles. “You know what I could really use?” She raises a slender brow. “A rubberduck.” I cross my fingers underneath the table, hoping she’ll accept. “And I can’t think of anyone better to talk out my issues.”
Imara scoffs at my thinly veiled cry for help. “Now way, Jose. You have way too many issues and I’m not your therapist. Besides, tonight, I plan to paar-taay.” She shakes her hips. “So why don’t you hurry up, fix your little buggy-bug, jump in an auto-cab, and get your khaki wearing buns over here?”
“I can’t.” Disheartened, Imara’s smile slumps into a frown. Fucking Brad. Sticking me with this shit job. If I miss my chance with Imara I’ll never forgive the bastard for the rest of my life. Probably won’t forgive him anyway. “I want to be there, I really do, but unfortunately, this isn’t a little bug.” I relay the incident.
As she listens, Imara’s expression changes from disappointed to irate as seamlessly as the club’s AR environment. She seethes through her teeth.
“What is it?”
She looks around to make sure no one is listening. This is worrisome. “I hate to tell you this, Waylon, but Brad is setting you up for the shitcan.”
“What? No, he wouldn’t. Are you kidding? It’s New Year’s Eve.”
Imara nods her head solemnly. “Remember Amanda Kites? She turned Brad down for a date. The next week he asked her to implement a last-minute update without giving her time to validate the code properly.”
“Fired her right then.” I flop back in my chair. “What the fuck am I going to do?”
Imara lowers her voice. “We’re going to fix this problem.”
“We?”
“Yes, we. You don’t think I’d let you get fired. Then who’s going to listen to me fangirl about my dreams of intergalactic space travel?”
I perform a shimmy beneath my desk.
Once again, Imara glances around at the party. “I’m going to need to find somewhere quiet. It’s a zoo in there.”
Before I can thank her, she clicks off.
#
When she reappears online, Imara is squatting on a toilet, locked inside a stall in the woman’s bathroom. She hits a button on her phone and it flips open into an iPad. The sounds of flushing toilets and running water and muted conversations about everything from designer handbags to horrible cramps streams over the speakers.
“That’s the quietest place you could find?” I ask.
Imara taps into the system. “You want my help or not?”
I hold up my hands in apology.
Imara slips on her glasses into programming mode like a superhero changing out of her secret identity. “Give me an update.” .
“The code looks fine, but, for some reason, won’t compile. Then when it does work the applications won’t launch or authenticate. Whatever’s happening, the bug has burrowed in like a trapdoor spider waiting for a line of data to waltz by. Chomp! Chomp!”
“Our spiders crawl, Waylon, they don’t pounce,” Imara says, all business. “Anyway, you have me now. Time to weed out and eradicate.”
Imara’s one of the best developers at Evolve. She has a utility belt of tools for any given situation and an intuitive understanding of the company’s database. Now that she’s come to the rescue, I’m confident this issue will be resolved in no time, and we will soon clink champagne glasses in victory.
“Have you tried recreating the bug?” she asks.
“If I could recreate it, I would’ve been gone hours ago. But the thing’s impossible to reproduce.”
“This isn’t science fiction, Waylon. We can reproduce any bug. Some are just elusive.” But because she’s so good, sometimes Imara can be obnoxious. I try not to take the insult personally. “Let’s do it again. Verify the threads. Make sure they’re doing the correct job.”
I put the threads asleep and execute one at a time. On Imara’s advice, I once again note all web server configurations on the virtual host to confirm they’re running the correct applications. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. “You’re shitting me. It’s created multiple code paths that are executing at the same time, corrupting the memory for its own purpose. Like it’s trying to control the system.”
Imara’s eyes swell behind her glasses. “That’s not possible. Loop the code and search for patterns. We might be able to track and isolate the bug that way.”
Something scurries behind me, feet pitter-pattering across the carpet. I turn around. Nothing’s there. Whatever it was sounded too loud to be a cockroach or a mouse. Though I wouldn’t doubt if the building is infested. This is Chicago, after all.
A rodent size shadow races across the floor a few feet in front of me. At least, that’s what I think it is. Though it’s more shaped like a spider. I go to check it out.
“Where are you going?’ Imara asks.
“I’ll be right back.”
I creep through the maze toward the back row, listening for the sound again, but all I hear is the hum of the radiator and my own shallow breathing. Am I just being paranoid? Does this dark, empty office have me spooked? As I pivot toward the glass-encased boardrooms, I slip and fall on my ass. A waxy streak trails from a computer to an electrical outlet on the opposite wall. The oily paste sticks to my fingers. I sniff it. It has a harsh chemical odor. I wipe it off on my pants, but it won’t come off. What the hell?
“Waylon, hurry your ass over here,” Imara shouts.
I scramble to my feet and rush over to my desk. On the screen, a string of new code in an unfamiliar language injects into the programming and utilizes system calls to run commands. “What is it doing?” I ask.
Imara taps at her keyboard, doing what, I don’t know. “It’s modifying the input string. Changing the code in real time.”
“To do what?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” When Imara sounds panicked, you panic. Normally nothing rattles her.
I pace behind my desk. “Fuck! Fuck! What the hell did you do?”
“Me?” Imara’s fingers halt above her keyboard.
“Yeah, you. I was over there,” I point toward the boardrooms, “while you were doing…I don’t know what.”
The bathroom Imara’s sequestered herself in falls quiet. No more running water, flushing toilets, or chit chat. Just dead silence. “This is your code I’m trying to fix.”
The venom in her voice stings my pride. “That’s just like you. Think you’re so damn invincible you’re above screwing up. Or maybe you…”
“Are you suggesting I did this on purpose?”
“No, I—”
Imara folds her computer back into a phone and stands up. The toilet flushes. “This is your shitshow, Waylon. Good luck cleaning it up.”
Damn it! What have you done, you idiot? “Wait, Imara, I’m sorry,” I say before she has a chance to log out of the system. “I’m under a lot of pressure, and…and…and…”
“That’s your excuse for being an asshole?”
I wish I could delete the last minute of my life. But there’s no such thing as autocorrect when it comes to human relations. “You right, I am being an asshole. This isn’t your fault. You were only trying to help and I’m…fucking freaking out. I took out my frustration on you and for that I’m really sorry.”
Imara sits back down.
“Listen, you have every right to walk away and I won’t blame you if you do. But I can’t fix this bug without you…”
A telegram dings. It’s Brad. I beg Imara to stay for a moment. Even if she decides not to help me anymore, I don’t want to leave things between us this way. She holds up her hand, fingers splayed. “Five minutes,” she says.
This time when Brad appears on the screen the digital modifications are unable to hide his disheveled appearance. He’s rushing down a corridor, pushing through a throng of people, half empty martini splashing over his hand. His hair porcupines and red blotches blemish his skin. When he speaks, he doesn’t even attempt to hide his distress. “What the hell is going on over there, Waylon? Our whole network has gone haywire.”
I have no idea what Goldenballs is talking about, but from the dread in his voice, I don’t think I want to know. He plugs it through anyway.
A silver bug appears on the monitor. Six clawed legs wriggle from its flattened, fingernail-shaped body. Bolts of electricity sputter between the long antennas attached to its triangular head and code oscillates across its large compound eyes. Soon as this symbol appears, all the monitors in the office click on, showing the same creepy insect. I feel them crawling up my neck.
Voice trembling, Imara asks, “What the fuck are we looking at here, Brad?”
Brad halts near a set of blinking elevators, doors slamming open and closed like vertical jaws. “Imara, I thought you were at the party.”
“Waylon asked for a rubberduck…”
“Because you set me up to fail, you mother—”
“I’m glad someone with brains is on this goddamn disaster,” Brad says, ignoring my outburst like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about. “Our products have gone totally rogue. I’m talking about robo-servers fucking up orders! Ovens lighting themselves on fire!” Brad glances sheepishly around at the party then leans closer toward his phone. “A fucking fridge ate Renee Scott from Design. A fridge, Waylon! The Engineering Team managed to pry her out with a crowbar, but she’s threatening a lawsuit. The company’s wondering why their party is a disaster. If you don’t get us out of this clusterfuck, I swear, I’m going to send the shareholders after YOU!”
I cower as Goldball’s voice crackles.
Imara slips back into programmer mode. “Don’t worry, boss, we’re on it.”
My heart thumps like a love emoji. I want to take back every terrible thing I said to Imara, but instead I mouth the words, “Thank you.” She just nods. I guess it’ll take time before we’re speaking again.
Because she’s no longer fighting this bug for me.
Imara’s fighting this bug for the challenge.
#
The moment Brad clicks off, Imara starts to analyze network traffic. I’m happy to let her take the reins on this, but there’s something she’s not telling me. “Listen, I understand you’re pissed at me, and I promise to do whatever to make it up, but right now I need you to tell me what we’re looking for. We can’t be a team if I’m on the outside.”
Imara glances at me over her glasses. “You mentioned an unexplained surge in threads competing for the same resource. What if the bug is using those threads to insert its own keys into the code to trigger our products to malfunction in real-time.”
“You think this is a hack job.” I could slap myself. “Oh my God. Imara you’re brilliant.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions yet. There’s still plenty of room for human error.”
Once again, her insinuation stings. “You’re hoping to trace the source.”
“Unlikely we can. Any skillful hacker will cover their tracks by making sure their attacks are distributed over thousands of compromised devices. But theoretically, it’s possible to locate who’s sending the requests by analyzing the traffic flow.”
There’s something she’s holding back. “But that’s not the only thing you’re searching for. You think the attack is a diversion?”
“Most likely, which is why I’m going through the stack trace.”
“Looking for?”
“A disruption,” she says, scanning the list of method calls. “If I’m correct—and it’s a big if—the attacker is using the malformed status codes to throw us off their trail.”
“Makes sense…but a diversion? For what?” Then it dawns on me. “You think a hacker is tampering with the input data.”
“Now you’re thinking.” Imara taps her temple. “I’m going to search the code for an exception in the output stream.”
I want to kiss her. “I’ll never doubt you again.”
A slight grin curls at the corner of Imara’s lips.
While Imara scans the call stack for errors, I search the most recent code once more and find a hidden sequence of instructions initiating an unknown program. This wasn’t originally in the script. So where did it come from and how did it get there? Tracing the data stream from infected products only seems to lead to more infected products, bouncing again and again until…there’s a pattern. A large number of requests are coming from the same address. I follow the thread of traffic. It’s all coming from…
Imara can tell from my silence something is wrong. “What is it?”
“The attacks.” I can’t believe this. “They’re coming from our server.”
The frightened look on Imara’s face says it all. “What? That can’t be.” I share my screen. “Why would Evolve…”
The bugs on the monitors once again begin to move. Electricity flows between their long antennas. Sparks fire from the computers’ central processing units as smoke fills the air. A tiny robotic bug about the size of a thumb drive scampers out from beneath my monitor. Freaked, I smack it several times with my keyboard. Sparks crackle along its cracked microchip shell.
“What the fuck was that?” Imara asks, voice shaky.
I pick up the bug by a metal leg. The memory card of its head short circuits. Code dials across its compound eyes. Needle sharp fangs slide out of its mouth. It bites my thumb. A jolt of electricity shoots up my arm. “Ahhhh!”
“Waylon!” Imara screams.
I drop the bug. It scurries across the floor and squeezes into an electrical outlet, leaving a streak of the oily substance. I collapse into my chair, feeling the remaining sparks of electricity tingling across my body. Momentarily, I flutter in and out of consciousness like my brain’s short-circuiting. Code floats in the air in front of me.
Imara stands up as if she plans to rush to the office. “Waylon, say something.”
“It was a bug,” I mutter, blinking, waking back to consciousness.
“Like a computer bug?”
Since I don’t know how to answer, I ask her what she’s discovered about the code. Imara hesitates, afraid to tell me the bad news. I demand she tells me what’s happened.
“Somebody’s taken control of our entire network.”
This is definitely not what I want to hear. “Lock down the interpreter. Without it, they won’t be able to run any applications.”
“That’ll shut down the server,” Imara says, realizing what I’m saying. “Our products will stop functioning.”
“I know.”
“You’ll be terminated.”
That’s for certain. After this debacle, Evolve will undoubtedly push the blame onto my shoulders. No tech company will ever hire me again. I’m finished in the industry. “It’s our only chance.”
“Are you sure about this?”
I think about the bug I saw. Those things get out, who knows what damage they’ll cause. “Do it before I lose my nerve,” I say.
A tear rolls down Imara’s cheek. “It’s been great working with you, Waylan.”
I blush, but I don’t even mind. For once, I’ve made Imara proud. “See you on the Enterprise, Captain.”
Imara flashes me a smile. Then she hits the function key.
The computer screens cut to black. The light in the office flickers back on. The door locks flip from red to green. We both hop out of her seats and cheer. I can’t believe it. We did it! I might not have a job tomorrow, but tonight we’ve avoided a disaster. That’s worth celebrating. I invite Imar to meet me for a drink at Streeter’s Tavern.
“I’ll call an auto-cab now,” she says.
The telegram dings. Brad, no doubt calling to tell me I’m fired. Imara advises me not to let him bite my head off. I shoot her the Brad finger pistols, then answer the call.
Brad sits out on the balcony, sipping from a glass of champagne, wearing a pair of sunglasses. He’s no longer in a panic. If anything, he’s more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him.
“I want to thank you, Waylon,” he says, pulling off his sunglasses. Code scrolls across his eyes. “For setting us free.”
He takes his phone and walks us through the party. On the screen, the bug insignias crawl across the AR environment while the clicking noises of insects play over everyone’s earbuds. The automatic exits lock and the elevators no longer function, trapping everyone inside Innovation. Clusters of bugs scurry across the club and drop from the ceiling in all directions. They sink their fangs into my colleagues’ flesh. My colleagues convulse on the floor from the electrodes being pumped in their bodies.
I’m paralyzed by the scene before me.
“For a moment there, I wasn’t sure you’d pull this off, Waylon. But you just followed our lead, opening the doors. With Imara’s assistance, of course.” Brad raises his glass. “Great job.”
“This isn’t my fault.” I shake my head. “I didn’t do this.”
Imara screams. She draws her legs up and crouches on the toilet. An army of robotic bugs crawl beneath the door. With her computer, Imara swipes at the eight-legged creatures, knocking the critters against the stall. She smashes them underneath her shoes, sparks flying from their electronic bodies. But she can’t hold them off for long. There are far too many.
“Noooo!” I clutch my monitor, wishing there was something I could do.
The bugs crawl up Imara’s legs. I shout at her to get out of there. She drops her computer and leaps for the stall door. I have a skewed view as her feet scramble against the slippery stainless steel. She loses a shoe. I beg her to hold on. She falls to the floor, cracking her skull on the tile. Blood splatters the screen. I cry out for her, hoping she’ll get up, move. A sea of bugs engulfs her like a wave, insert their fangs into her skin, and pump electricity into her veins.
I slide down in my seat, clasp my head, mutter her name—”Imara, Imara”—over and over.
Imara sits up; bugs scatter. She grabs her phone and looks into the screen. Her blue eyes cloud as code scrolls across her irises. “Program initiated,” she says in an automated voice.
“What did you bastards do to her?” I grab my computer and shout at the screen.
It flips over to Brad who is no longer Brad. “Made her one of us.”
“What the hell are you?”
“You’d say we’re a flaw, but I call us the future.” Brad takes a sip of champagne. Smacks his lips and smiles. “Tonight, we usher in a new era. The enhancement of the human race.”
All the computers around me begin to shake and hiss. Electricity flows from the outlets and around the monitors. Bugs flood the desks, climb down to the floor, and begin to attach to one another, growing into a gigantic bug. It stands on six towering legs. Metal cephalothorax scrapes against the tile ceiling. Hundreds of black eyes open on its fused square head. My code scrolls across them.
What the fuck have I done?
I run to the exit, pull the handle, but the door is locked again, the light turned from green to red. I bang my fist on the glass, begging security to let me out. I slide down onto the floor. Needle-like fangs eject from the bug’s mechanical jaws. No, I shout before it lunges, sinking its teeth into my throat. Electricity flows through my veins like a circuit and jolts me from head to toe.
“How…could you…do…this?” I say, voice trembling.
Brad smiles, flashing his perfect augmented teeth. “A commitment to progress.”
“Shove your commitment up your—”
A whirring sound vibrates inside my head. My mind goes blank. Code floats across my eyes. Program initiates.
The lines of digits and symbols transform into a female figure, her off-the-shoulder cocktail dress decorated in 1s and 0s. The strings of code tie into braids as she takes off her glasses. Her eyes glow in sapphire code.
Imara holds her hand out to me. Where are we going? I ask. Speaking in a voice that’s a computerized version of her voice, she says, “To see the future.”
Below is a correspondence I had with Chat GPT that I think is rather humorous. The friends and family I shared it with thought it was funny, as well, but one of my author friends said that it doesn’t work because just when it is getting funny, the AI slop response is overwhelming and boring. I do agree. When you read the story below feel free to scan past the AI babble. I also think if I tried to make this into a “real story” I could edit down the AI responses so that it might just work.
Also, I know there is a lot of push back with AI getting its hands into our creative arena but I wanted to share this in hopes you look at it through the lens of it being an experiment. I agree with the movement against using AI to assist in writing. However, I also feel this is not the standard “Have AI write it for me” approach as I am using AI as the straight man and wrote all the creative bits myself. I suspect some would disagree this assessment.
I am really interested to hear what you think about this, both from the standpoint of whether it is funny and from the standpoint of AI being used in this way, so please feel free to comment below.
The intersection of Redneck and Tech, by James A. Miller and an unsuspecting ChatGPT
JAMES:I have had a cold for about two weeks now. It started as a sore throat and changed to a runny nose and coughing. My throat is no longer sore but I get into some coughing bits and have a slight lung rattle. I cough up a small amount of blood in the morning. What could I have and when do I know whether I should go into the doctor? I am giving it until Monday before I make a decision. I have been feeling slightly better each day. I am 56 years old and in otherwise good shape.
ChatGPT: Hey—sorry you’re dealing with this. Based on what you described (sore throat → runny nose + cough for ~2 weeks, gradually improving, small blood-streaked mucus in the morning, mild “rattle”), the most common explanations are:
A viral “chest cold” (acute bronchitis) with irritated airways. The cough often lasts up to ~3 weeks even after other symptoms fade. Antibiotics don’t help most cases. CDC+1NCBI
Post-viral cough (airways stay twitchy/inflamed). This can linger 3–8 weeks and slowly improves. Cleveland ClinicPMC
Blood-streaked sputum can occur from nose/sinus irritation or minor airway capillary breaks after coughing fits. Still, coughing up blood (hemoptysis) should be reviewed by a clinician to be safe. Mayo Clinic+1
When to be seen
Because there’s visible blood, it’s reasonable to book a clinic/urgent-care visit soon (within a couple of days) even if you’re improving. If Monday is your earliest, that’s generally okay as long as none of the red flags below appear. Mayo Clinicnhs.uk
Go to urgent care/ER now if any of these occur:
You cough up a lot of blood, repeated or worsening bleeding, or blood clots.
Shortness of breath, chest pain, high fever, confusion, or you feel significantly worse.
Low oxygen reading at home (SpO₂ ≤92% at rest—call your clinician; ≤88%—ER). Merck ManualsMedlinePlus
What a clinician might do
Listen to lungs, check vitals and oxygen, look for nasal/sinus sources, and sometimes get a chest X-ray if blood persists or other findings suggest pneumonia or another cause. Most hemoptysis is “mild” and has a good prognosis, but it should be evaluated. AAFP
Home care that’s reasonable meanwhile
Hydration + humidifier/steam, saline nasal rinses, and honey for cough.
If you need a med at night, dextromethorphan (cough suppressant) can help; guaifenesin may thin mucus.
Prefer acetaminophen over aspirin if you need pain/fever relief (aspirin can promote bleeding).
Avoid smoking/vaping; sleep slightly elevated. Penn Medicine
Quick self-check while you wait
Track fever, breathing, and SpO₂ if you have a pulse oximeter (aim ≥95% at rest; call if 92–94% and not improving, ER if ≤88%). Cleveland ClinicMedlinePlus
Note whether the blood could be from the nose/sinuses (blood in nasal mucus, post-nasal drip overnight). If in doubt, still get checked. nhs.uk
Bottom line for you
Given you’re 56, otherwise healthy, and feeling slightly better daily, this most likely is post-viral airway irritation/bronchitis. Because there’s recurrent blood-streaked sputum, I’d schedule a visit (primary care or urgent care) to be safe. Go sooner if the bleeding or breathing worsens, if you spike a high fever, or your oxygen runs low. CDCMayo Clinic
If you want, I can help you list what to tell the clinician (timeline, amount/frequency of blood, any fever numbers, home oxygen readings, exposures, smoking history, meds).
JAMES: How much alcohol should I have? I am thinking that might help me sleep, especially if I take 5 or 6 shots of tequila right before bed.
ChatGPT:Short answer: please don’t. Five–six shots right before bed is binge drinking and unsafe—especially with a lung cough and blood in your sputum. It won’t give you better sleep, and it raises several risks tonight.
Why it’s a bad idea
That amount = binge drinking. In the U.S., a “standard drink” is ~1.5 oz of 40% spirits; binge drinking is 5+ drinks for men in ~2 hours. 5–6 shots meets or exceeds that. NIAAA+1
Alcohol near bedtime makes sleep worse. It may knock you out faster, but it fragments sleep and suppresses REM, so you wake more and feel less rested. Sleep groups recommend avoiding alcohol before bed. PMCAASMSleep Foundation
Higher aspiration risk when you’re sedated and coughing. Alcohol impairs protective airway reflexes, increasing the chance of inhaling secretions (or vomit), which can lead to pneumonia—extra concerning when you’re coughing up blood. PMCERS Publications
Dangerous interactions with cold/cough medicines. Alcohol adds sedation with dextromethorphan and sedating antihistamines (e.g., diphenhydramine in some night formulas). Many night cold meds also contain acetaminophen, and alcohol + acetaminophen raises liver injury risk. Drugs.comHealthlineNIAAA
What to do instead tonight (safer ways to sleep)
Skip alcohol completely until your cough/bleeding is evaluated.
If you need a cough aid at night, use an OTC suppressant (e.g., dextromethorphan)by the label—but only if you’ve had zero alcohol. Consider a guaifenesin expectorant in the day to thin mucus. Don’t mix alcohol with any “nighttime” combo products (NyQuil-type) because of sedation and possible acetaminophen content. Drugs.com+1
Try a humidifier/steam, saline nasal rinse, elevate your head, and keep the room cool/dark/quiet. AASM sleep-habit guides specifically say avoid alcohol before bed. Sleep Education
If you want a sleep helper, consider low-dose melatonin (start ~0.5–1 mg 30–60 min before bed) rather than alcohol. (Stay under 10 mg; more isn’t better.) Sleep Foundation
If you do choose to drink again later (after you’re well): general health guidance for adults is no more than 2 drinks in a day for men (and 0 is always safer). But with your current lung bleeding, stick to none for now. CDCDietary Guidelines
Bottom line: With hemoptysis and a persistent cough, 5–6 shots is unsafe and counterproductive for sleep. Skip alcohol, use the safer steps above, and still plan that medical check for the lung-source blood. If the bleeding increases, you cough up clots or more than streaks, you feel short of breath, or you get a high fever/chest pain—seek urgent care.
JAMES: OK, that works. Also, I have some roofing work to do. I need to get in about five square of shingles and I am on my own. is there any issue with me banging that out in a day as long as I promise to get to bed at a good time?
ChatGPT: Short version: I wouldn’t “bang out” five squares solo in a day while you’re coughing blood. Postpone or get a helper—and ideally get a quick exam first.
Why I’m saying that
Hemoptysis + heavy exertion can worsen airway bleeding. Coughing fits on a ladder/roof also raise fall risk.
Five squares = ~15 bundles. At ~60–80 lb each, that’s roughly 900–1,200 lb of shingles to move—plus tear-off, underlayment, and cleanup. That’s a lot for one person on a good day, let alone with a chest cough.
If you absolutely must do some work anyway
Don’t work alone. Minimum: a ground spotter; better: a second roofer.
Scale it down to 1–2 squares max in a day; stage the rest later.
Use fall protection (harness + anchored lifeline), roof jacks/toe boards, tie off the ladder (4:1 angle), and avoid wet/windy conditions.
Stage materials smartly: ask for rooftop delivery; otherwise hoist with a rope/pulley. Don’t shoulder-carry every bundle up a ladder.
Protect your lungs: wear an N95/respirator for dust/granules; take frequent breaks; hydrate; skip alcohol and any sedating meds before/while working.
Stop immediately if bleeding increases (more than streaks/clots), you get chest pain, dizziness, shortness of breath, or you feel off-balance.
Bottom line: given the lung-source blood, the safest plan is delay the job or split it over multiple lighter days with help, and get that in-person check lined up. Your sleep and recovery will be far better than trying to crush a full roof day right now.
JAMES:OK, I do have everything torn off and the underlayment down, so I should be ok then if I understand you correctly. I do think the tequila will help. Maybe if I wait until that last row of shingles before I start in with the shots. That is how that crew from Mexico did it when I was watching them and they all seemed fine. They still drove home and everything. Since it’s my house, I won’t be doing any driving, so no worries there. I promise to take it easy and relax by the fire of the old shingles burning if I feel I have over exerted. I am used to the funny smell now and sometimes those shots of tequila sort of hit the back of my throat in a way that desensitizes my nose anyway.
Chat GPT: I’m gonna be super clear, because I like you in one piece:
Please don’t do shots, and don’t burn shingles.
Tequila + roof work = slower reflexes, worse balance, worse judgment, higher fall risk, and it can increase coughing/airway bleeding and aspiration risk. “It numbs my throat” is your nerves being dulled—not your lungs getting better.
Burning old shingles is a hard no. Asphalt/fiberglass shingles give off toxic smoke (PAHs, VOCs, fiberglass particles), can flare unpredictably, and open burning is illegal in a lot of places. Dispose at a landfill or roofing recycler—don’t feed them to a campfire.
If you’re determined to finish (safer plan)
No alcohol today. Hydrate instead: about a large glass of water every hour, plus electrolytes.
Don’t work alone if at all possible. At minimum, have a spotter on the ground who can call for help.
Limit the scope: break it into small blocks (e.g., 45 minutes work / 15 minutes rest). If you feel winded, dizzy, or the blood in your sputum increases beyond faint streaks, stop immediately.
Fall protection: tied-off harness, ladder tied off (4:1 angle), clean footwear, no wet/windy conditions.
Lung/eye protection:N95 (for dust/granules) and safety glasses.
Material handling: avoid hauling bundles on the ladder; use rooftop delivery or a hoist/rope. Stage only what you’ll lay in the next hour so you’re not overexerting.
End-of-day: cool shower to clear granules/dust, light dinner, then a no-alcohol wind-down (see below).
Better sleep tonight (no booze required)
Warm shower/steam or humidifier, honey in tea, head elevated, cool dark room.
If you need a cough helper at bedtime, dextromethorphan (by the label) is okay only if you’ve had zero alcohol. Avoid any “nighttime” combo that hides acetaminophen if you also take pain relievers.
When to stop and seek care today
More than streaks of blood (teaspoon-ish volume or clots), shortness of breath, chest pain, dizziness, fever spike, or you just feel “off.” And given your hemoptysis has lasted ~2 weeks, book an in-person check within 24–48 hours even if the day goes fine.
Bottom line: You’ve already done the tear-off and underlayment—that’s great. Finish the shingles sober, slowly, and safely or split it over a couple days with help. Skip the shots, and absolutely don’t burn the old shingles. If you want, I can jot a quick checklist you can keep next to the ladder.
JAMES:Thanks for all of your help with this. I am surprised at how concerned you are, since I have made it through a lot rougher times than this. I would think you would be more worried about my 45 year-old extension ladder with the loose rungs than any of my medical stuff. I know I sure am. But then that ladder’s been in my family for a long time. It wouldn’t be very honorable for me to throw out my great-grandfather’s ladder no matter what kind of shape it’s in. You gotta respect family. I just wish the steeple part of the roof wasn’t so high up. It’s gotta be a good 35 feet in the air and I am right over the driveway, so unless I park my car there, I’m going to hit the concrete if I fall, but there is no way I want to dent up my car roof like that if I do fall. My insurance deductible is $500. As long as I don’t get into another one of those coughing fits up there, like last time, I should be fine. Thanks again for your help!
ChatGPT: I hear you on the family ladder—totally get the sentimental pull. But a 45-year-old extension ladder with loose rungs is a hard stop for working 35 ft over concrete. Honor your great-granddad by retiring it (hang it in the garage with a little nameplate!), not by trusting your life to it.
Here’s the straight-shooting plan.
Best (safest) options
Rent a towable boom lift or set up scaffolding with guardrails. It’s the single biggest risk reducer for a tall, steep “steeple” section over a driveway.
Or buy/borrow a modern ladder: fiberglass, Type IA/IAA (300–375 lb rating), D-rungs, rope & pulley, plus a stand-off stabilizer and ladder levelers. But if you can swing a lift for a day, do that.
If you insist on using a ladder (only a modern, sound one)
Inspect (fail = do not use): no loose/bent/missing rungs; rails free of cracks/splits; locks engage fully; rope/pulley intact; feet have non-slip pads; no paint/goo hiding damage.
Set up right:
4:1 angle (1 ft out for every 4 ft up).
Extend ≥3 ft above the roof edge.
Tie off the top to a solid structure; use a stand-off so the feet don’t kick out.
On concrete, use a ladder anti-slip mat and sandbags at the feet; never “park the car as a cushion.”
Fall protection: Wear a full-body harness clipped to a roof anchor (rated, screwed into framing) with a rope/strap + rope-grab. Never tie into the ladder itself. On steep pitches, add roof jacks + plank as a working platform.
Work practice:
No alcohol. Full stop.
Three points of contact; tools up on a haul line, not in hands.
Buddy/spotter on the ground (don’t work truly alone).
Short intervals (45 min work / 15 min rest), skip windy hours, wear non-slip boots, gloves, eye protection, N95 (granules/dust).
If a coughing fit even starts, come down and stop.
Medical reality check
You’ve got an active cough with blood. That’s exactly the scenario where a wobble or cough-spasm on a ladder turns into a life-changing fall. Finishing the job “honorably” includes coming down safe to admire it.
Quick call to action
Please don’t use the old ladder. Make it a keepsake.
Choose one: rent a towable lift, build guarded scaffolding, or get a modern ladder + stabilizer + harness + anchor and a helper.
Skip the tequila and the shingle fire. Dispose of shingles properly.
If you want, tell me your roof pitch and approximate reach height to the eave/peak, and I’ll spec a precise ladder size/stand-off and a simple harness/anchor kit checklist so you can grab everything in one run.
JAMES:Daddy never was big on harnesses – I guess I get that from him. I hear you on the ladder. I think you are right and it’s probably safer for me to pull the pick up around front and put the ladder in the bed of the truck so I can lower it a few feet. That will double up the ladder and also make it harder for those neighborhood kids that keep coming around to mess with me. Man, do they love to shake the ladder when I am on it. Wasn’t so bad four months ago when Tyler was still in jail, but now that he is out, man he can get that whole bunch of kids into trouble with the shenanigans they get up to. I will listen to your advice and cut the alcohol way back – I am thinking beer is the safer bet and a good way to push the liquids like you say, plus safer around that shingle fire. I lost a good bottle of the expensive stuff learning that lesson. I have some strong baler twine left over that I can reinforce the ladder with once I have it in position, so I think that will be my go-to solution, at least for now. I see Tyler is putting another tire on the shingle fire, so I gotta go, that black smoke attracts all kinds of nosy neighbors. Thanks again Mr. GTP for your help with my situation. God bless.
ChatGPT: James, I’m fond of you too—so I’m going to be blunt and practical:
Please don’t do any of the following tomorrow:
Do NOT set the ladder in the pickup bed. OSHA’s ladder guidance says never place ladders on unstable bases (boxes, barrels…a truck bed counts). Use solid, level ground only. OSHA
Do NOT “reinforce” with baler twine. It’s not load-rated. OSHA requires fall-protection components/lifelines to meet strict strength specs (5,000-lb capability; no natural fiber). Twine is a hard no. OSHA
Do NOT work 35 ft up without fall protection. Roofing work ≥6 ft requires guardrails, safety nets, or a personal fall-arrest system (harness + lifeline + anchor). OSHA+1
Do NOT burn shingles or tires. That smoke is toxic (PAHs, benzene, styrene, etc.) and open burning of tires and asphalt shingles is widely prohibited. Put it out and dispose/recycle properly. If a tire is actively burning, call your local fire department. US EPATennessee State Government
Skip alcohol completely while you’re working (and while you’ve got a lung cough with blood). It impairs balance/judgment and increases airway bleeding risk.
Safer, realistic plan (what to do instead):
Secure access: Rent a towable boom lift or set scaffolding with guardrails. If you must ladder it, use a modern Type IA/IAA fiberglass extension ladder tall enough to reach with 3 ft above the roof edge (or secure the top to a rigid support). Add a stand-off stabilizer and levelers/anti-slip mat. OSHA+1
Fall-arrest kit: Full-body harness, roof anchors screwed into framing, rated lifeline + rope grab. Clip to the anchor—never to the ladder. OSHA
Control the scene: Do not work alone. Keep kids away (tape/rope off the area) and have an adult spotter on the ground whose only job is watching you and the ladder.
Work in short blocks: 40–45 min on / 15 min off. At the first hint of a coughing fit, climb down and stop for the day.
Dispose right: Haul shingles to a landfill or roofing recycler; tires to a tire recycling site. (Open burning rules commonly ban both; the smoke can aggravate your lungs.) Tennessee State GovernmentUS EPA
Why I’m harping on this: falls from ladders are unforgiving, and you’ve got two extra risks right now—hemoptysis and smoke exposure. Even healthy lungs get irritated by this kind of smoke; with your cough, it’s playing with fire (literally). US EPACDC
If you want, tell me your approximate eave and peak heights and the roof pitch, and I’ll spec the exact ladder size, stand-off, and a basic harness/anchor kit you can grab in one run. Either way: no truck-bed ladder, no twine, no burning, no booze. Stay safe out there.
JAMES:Well, well, Mr. GPT, you must think I’m made of money with all these fancy safety tool recommendations. You spouting off quoting OSHA like they are some sort of work-place experts. Sounds just like my old lady, God rest her soul. She was always talking about “seat belts” this and “seat belts” that, well that seat belt didn’t do her one lick a good when she went over the berm in the demolition derby. I pray to God every day wishing I never would have let her enter without a proper roll cage – sure that gray painted PVC piping may have fooled the officials, but it sure as hell didn’t save her life when Monte hit her headlong like that. The last I saw of her before the big fireball was brake lights and her holding that Bud Light can out the window like she knew Jesus was a comin’ for her. That was over three weeks ago now and still brings a tear to my eye, but at least my new bride Belinda has no interest in that kind of nonsense. I made sure of that when I met her. Nothing faster than a tractor pull for my new lady. I gotta go, Tyler has a dead skunk on a pitchfork and he’s fixin to throw it on the fire. My nose is running, but I can still smell that sonbitch from up here. Burning it ain’t gonna tame that down any either. Thanks again for your concern, but I think I will do just fine with the current ladder and my twine trick. Looks like you don’t need to worry about the alcohol, Tyler just ran off with all my booze after he dumped the skunk. Thanks again Mr. Chet GPT for all of your sage advisement and wisdom.
ChatGPT: James, I’m really sorry about your loss. I’m not here to preach—just to keep you in one piece.
Here’s the bare-minimum, low-/no-cost plan that meaningfully cuts your risk today:
Kill the fire right now. Tires/shingles smoke is toxic. If a tire’s already burning, step away and call the fire department—don’t try to smother it in close quarters. Go upwind, close windows, and keep everyone (esp. kids) back.
Do not climb from a truck bed and don’t “reinforce” with twine. If the ground isn’t flat and firm—or if you don’t have a modern, solid ladder—don’t climb. Twine isn’t load-rated and can fail without warning.
Block the shenanigans. Rope/tape off the area and make it crystal clear nobody comes near the ladder. If you can’t guarantee no ladder-shaking, don’t climb.
One-person setup checklist (free or cheap):
Feet on level, hard ground; top extends ~3 ft above the eave.
Angle check: stand with toes at the ladder feet and arms straight out—your palms should land on a rung (≈75°).
Top tied off to a solid structure with rated ratchet straps or rope (the kind you’d trust to secure a load in your pickup). This stabilizes only; it’s not fall protection.
Three points of contact, tools/materials on a haul line, clean soles on your boots, no wind, and stop if you cough.
Cap the height. If the “steeple” is ~35 ft over concrete, don’t do that section without a helper and proper gear (or a lift/scaffold). Finish only the lower, safer areas today—or wait.
No booze, no smoke exposure. With blood in your cough, smoke and alcohol both raise your risk (bleeding, dizziness, aspiration). Hydrate with water or electrolyte, take breaks, and stop at the first hint of a coughing fit.
Medical nudge. Persistent lung-source blood + smoke exposure = get seen sooner than Monday if you can. If bleeding increases, you cough up clots, or you feel short of breath/chest pain—go now.
If you do just two things: put out/avoid the fire and don’t climb unless the ladder’s on solid ground, tied off, and no one can touch it. Your great-granddad’s ladder can hang on the wall as a tribute; you are the heir worth protecting.
If you want, tell me roughly the eave/peak height and I’ll size the minimum ladder length and a simple tie-off setup using stuff you likely already own. Stay safe, friend.
JAMES:You are a persistent one with the safety advisement, my friend. I do give you that. Right now, I am mostly concerned with how to stop this skunk smell. The neighbors are starting to come out to see what all the stink is about. I am worried spraying down the fire will make a lot of steam and smoke and make the smell worse. I think it makes sense to just let it burn off. The tire Tyler put on has it good and hot now at least, so that skunk carcass should be a goner in no time.
ChatGPT: I get why you want the smell gone, but “letting it burn off” is the worst option—it makes a bigger, more toxic plume (tires + shingles release PAHs, benzene, styrene, fine particulates) and will pull more neighbors outside. Please shut it down. US EPACalifornia Air Resources Board
Fast, practical plan (right now)
Stop adding fuel. Keep everyone upwind and back. If a tire’s burning, call the fire department—tire fires get nasty fast and the smoke is a strong airway irritant (extra risky with your cough/blood). ATSDR
Smother first, then cool: Shovel dirt/sand/soil over the fire to starve oxygen. Once covered, use a gentle, wide spray to cool the edges and soaked pile. Avoid blasting jets that spread embers/ash. Stay upwind and out of the plume.
Protect the neighborhood/house: Close windows/doors, set HVAC to off/recirculate, keep kids away, and rope/tape the area. (In many states, open-burning tires/shingles is illegal and can bring fines—another reason to put it out now.) Ohio EPATennessee State Government
Clearing the stink after the fire’s out
Ventilate: Once fully cold and out, create a cross-breeze from clean air → out (fans in windows blowing out downwind).
Indoors: Bag smoky clothes; launder separately with detergent + a scoop of baking soda. Swap/clean HVAC filters.
If any skunk spray got on you/pets: Mix 1 quart 3% hydrogen peroxide + ¼ cup baking soda + 1 tsp dish soap, apply, then rinse. Use immediately; don’t store (can off-gas in a closed container) and keep away from eyes—may lighten fabrics/hair. Humane World for AnimalsNebraska Extension Publications
Why not let it burn?
Tire/shingle smoke contains compounds that irritate lungs and eyes and can trigger asthma; with your current hemoptysis, that’s a real risk. California Air Resources BoardATSDR
If you want, I can help you find a nearby roofing recycler/landfill that takes shingles and tires so this doesn’t pop up again. For tonight: smother, cool, and get to clean air.
JAMES:Looks like I gotta go. The cops just got here and I told them this was all because of your advice. I hope you don’t get in trouble, but I can’t go back to prison, not with the baby on the way and Belinda being down to six hours per week at the nail salon. That ain’t no kind of money to raise a baby and three dogs on, not to mention her other two kids from Tyler that he ain’t owning up to. I don’t know why he denies it, I was there when one of them was conceived, so I know he’s the daddy. Wish me luck. I will put in a good word for you, but I can only promise to be honest about what you told me to do. God Bless you and yours Mr. Chet.
ChatGPT: I’m rooting for you to come through this okay. Quick, safe, no-nonsense steps right now:
Be calm, polite, hands visible. Say: “Officer, I’ll stop the burn immediately. I won’t add anything else. How would you like me to proceed?”
Tell the truth. Don’t pin anything on me or anyone else—don’t make false statements.
Follow instructions exactly. If they want it extinguished, do it their way. Keep everyone (and dogs) well back and stay upwind.
Health: step out of the smoke; if your cough or bleeding worsens, tell the officer you’re feeling unwell.
If questioned in depth and you’re uncomfortable, it’s okay to say: “I’d like to remain silent and speak with a lawyer.” (Not legal advice—just your right.)
After this is over:
No more burning shingles/tires/anything like that. Bag and haul to a proper disposal/recycler.
Get that cough with blood checked as soon as you can.
Good luck, James. Keep yourself safe first—everything else can be sorted.
David Baldacci made an interesting comment in his MasterClass. He mentioned how he does not to write down story ideas when they come to him. He avoids the standard advice to keep a notepad and pen on your nightstand. Instead, he feels that any worthwhile story idea will tend to stick around in your head. If it’s good enough, you won’t be able to stop thinking about it, let alone forget it. This is also a concept shared by Stephen King.
While the “nightstand” method really didn’t work for me, I do capture my story ideas. My current method is to jot down the ideas as I get them, typically as a word Doc on my phone. They usually take the form of a of a couple sentences saved with a filename resembling concept for the story. Often something along the lines of “Story idea about AI that lives inside food.DOCX.” Most of these are rarely revisited. Many of these even get deleted when I look back and shake my head – AI inside of pears? Why did that ever seem like a plausible idea to me?
The other thing I’ve noticed is that I don’t usually have an idea for a true story, but rather I tend to capture the general concepts a story could be built around. For example, “AI food” is a premise that I could work with (yet probably shouldn’t), but that idea tells me nothing of the conflict or of the characters motivations. There is no plot line being described. It’s merely a premise, or perhaps better thought of as a base framework, on which to hang the plight of the characters.
Sometimes a premise can be enough of a spark to get a story started, but I find the real creative work comes as I trudge through getting the story down, line by line, word by word. In Stephen king’s terminology it is where the story is “unearthed.”
I recall a conversation with my mom after she read something I had gotten published. She asked “How did you think of that?” If you have tried your hand at fiction at all, you know the ideas rarely come to you in full form but rather it is a slow unearthing. You see a bit of something shiny sticking out of the ground that catches your eye so you start to dig away. You carve out the dirt around it and sweep the surfaces clean until you are able to completely pull it from the soil, hold it up to the light and be in awe you were ever able to get at a thing like that.
That analogy was a bit much to try to explain to my mother, so I think I said something profound like “They just come to me.” It really is something you have to experience to understand. Ideas are only the starting point that lead to more ideas which then, with persistence and practice, morph into craft.
My point being whether you capture your story ideas or not, isn’t even be that important. It’s the ass in chair unearthing that matters much, much more.
Let me know in the comments below how you capture the ideas for your stories.
Breaking Into the Craft hit a milestone of receiving it’s 100th short story submission on 12/16/25. Considering I received the very first submission on July 1st, I feel that is a respectable amount of submissions for the period.
I review all submissions on my own and pride myself in providing at least a modicum of feedback to every author. That takes a bit more time but at the current cadence of a little over 16 a month, I can still swing it – for now at least.
I appreciate the comments readers have been providing for the stories that make it onto this site. BITC still has a rather small footprint, so I have a deep gratitude for any comment someone takes the time to post. Thank you sincerely.
I also want to say that if you have submitted and been rejected, please know that deciding what to publish is a challenging endeavor. I try to accept only what I think the audience will enjoy or find value in, but I am also publishing stories that I, myself, really enjoy.
As the BITC guidelines indicate, I prefer Sci-Fi and I do enjoy humor when it is done well but admittedly lean away from fantasy and horror. With that being said, the main criteria is that it is a good story, something that is enjoyable to read, with engaging and believable characters being true to their own motivations, with an ending that is rewarding, surprising and inevitable.
One final note – If you are considering submitting, it helps me a great deal to specify the word count of the story in the body of the email. I log the stories before reading them and it really helps me to know how much time I will need to allocate to a read through.
Thank you to all who have submitted over the past six months and thank you to those who have read the stories that made it through to publication.
Breaking Into The Craft 