I was in high school in the mid-1980s, which means I lived through the Valley Girl era in real time. I remember an older kid telling me: “Don’t even get out of the chair or I won’t even hit you.” (Yeah, we had a real weird double-negative talk going there for a while at our High School.)
But every generation has its own version of language and slang.
Today I am picking up language from my 13 year old: “peak,” “mid,” and “low key.” Something can be “peak,” meaning excellent. Something slightly disappointing is “mid.” And “low key” seems to be something that is true but in a casual non-exciting way.
I am also hearing a lot of “Let’s goooo!” as a term for something exciting happening and from a wider audience than just teens.
When I was a kid I recall my grandmother being confused when I had referred to something as “Awesome.” She was a school teacher and I think she felt I was using the word incorrectly. To her, I probably was, but to me it felt perfectly legit 😉
Go back a bit further to fast-talking movie chatter of the 1930s and 1940s and think about the kind of clipped, snappy dialogue in old films. In It’s a Wonderful Life, there’s a tough-guy 1940’s rhythm when Clarence and George get thrown out of a bar: “That’s does it. Out you two pixies go. Out da door or through da window!”
The 1980s were only about forty years ago. The 1940s were less than a century ago. And yet the language from those times already has a foreign feel.
Going back even further, old books ask more of the reader because of language. The sentences are overly wordy, abbreviations and contractions are odd, and the syntax feels awkward at times.
Take the opening of Pride and Prejudice from 1813:
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”
We would look anyone saying that today with a raised eyebrow. A modern version might be:
“All rich single guys want a wife.”
Shakespeare is another great example:
“Wherefore art thou Romeo?”
Today we might think that Juliet is asking where Romeo is, but she is really asking him why he has to be Romeo and belong to the enemy family. The context of the words have shifted over time.
I’ve been thinking a lot about how languages changes over time because of a story I am working on. It’s set aboard a multi-generational ship traveling at 0.9c for 500 years. Generations are born, live, and die without ever seeing the point of origin or the destination. Twenty-three generations will pass aboard that craft. I have to think that language would change a hell of a lot in that time. If the ship has schools, archives, films, instructions, legal codes, songs, and AI systems preserving the original language, then people might still be able to understand older speech. But their everyday language would almost certainly mutate.
I can see meaning of common words changing over time. Shipboard terms would probably become metaphors. Technical jargon would become slang. New insults would appear. (And I am particularly looking forward to playing around with that last one.)
A phrase like “grounded” might lose its Earth meaning and become archaic. “Up” and “down” might depend on spin gravity or deck layout. “Outside” might mean the vacuum of space. “Weather” might mean radiation. “Sunrise” might be ceremonial rather than literal or forgotten altogether.
The fascinating thing is that language change would not just be decoration or a nice nuance. It will be a fundamental part of worldbuilding. Language can also be a great way for me to orient the reader as to what generation they are reading about, particularly if I need to flash back and forth in the story.
I can picture the last generation, getting ready to land the ship at the final destination encountering recorded instructions back from the time of the launch 500 years ago. These characters will probably understand the words, but they will sound the way Shakespeare sounds to us. I could play around with this fact and set up a nice bit of turmoil due to the misunderstanding of the context of some key words.
I am not sure how much I will ultimately rely on the drift of language over time in this story, but I am sharing it as an example of all of the challenges and opportunities language drift can afford us in our writing. It’s one more tool for the toolbox.
Let me know in the comments below whether language drift over time has played a role in any of your stories.
One of the most common weak spots I see in submissions is the lack of a real story arc or character arc.
Unfortunately, this is a frequent reason I reject stories.
Often, what I receive is not actually a full story but a scene. Something happens. It may be vividly written. It may even have an interesting premise. But the protagonist is not really challenged, doesn’t (or can’t) struggle against any significant conflict, and does not change in any meaningful way.
The protagonist should want something, face obstacles, and have to figure something out, fight against something, or make a meaningful choice. The plot should put pressure on the protagonist. Their actions should matter. By the end, something should be different: externally, internally, or, hopefully, both.
Many of the submissions I see feature a protagonist who is simply carried through events. Things happen to them, but they do not take part in shaping the outcome. As a result, the piece can feel static, even when the writing and premise are strong.
Story Arc:
To me, a story arc is the shape of the plot that happens around the character. There is a school of thought that there is really only one plot line: the Hero’s journey. I have mentioned the Hero’s journey before and that’s a topic deserving of a whole blog post of its own.
Character Arc:
A character arc is should be thought of in terms of personal growth. How did the events change the character by the end of the story? What did they learn and how are they different? In the Hero’s Journey the hero comes home at the end but is changed and often sees the familiar world they came back to in a different light.
Great stories have both a strong story arc and a strong character arc.
And if I have rejected a story you submitted for one or both of these reasons, don’t feel bad, This is understandable because many stories start getting written when the author has a general scene or idea in mind. But the next step should be to ask more of your creation. What does the protagonist want? What stands in the way? And, most importantly, what will this experience cost them or teach them?
Without that, a piece tends to feel like an interesting scene rather than becoming a fully realized story.
Three Key Questions to Ask yourself about what you just wrote
What does my protagonist want, and why can’t they have it? (Tip of the hat to David Mamet for this one) A story needs desire and opposition to create what I like to call “driving conflict.”
Does my protagonist make choices or take actions that affect the outcome? The protagonist should have an opportunity to shape the events of the story. They should not be merely a victim (Note that a lot of horror stories I see end up this way. If you are writing horror make sure your protagonist has at least a glimmer of hope to win.)
How is my protagonist changed by the end of the story? Character change does not have to be positive (maybe they become morally worse for the experience) but something about them should change by the end of the story.
Hopefully this helps you to look at your writing from a new perspective. If you take the time to really understand story arc and character arc, it will absolutely make your stories stronger and more engaging.
One of the most satisfying things about a short story should be the ending. We want the protagonist to win in a unique and fulfilling way (or die trying) and we want the villains to get what they have coming to them.
Unfortunately, the ending can also be the most disappointing part of the story if not done correctly. Curiousfarmer and I often talk about how Stephen King tends to leave us wanting with his endings. He does a great job with character and clear, digestible, writing, but often tapers off when it comes to closing out the story.
During the first draft I usually write an ending that is the most obvious ending. There isn’t anything necessarily wrong with the ending and I typically do a good job of wrapping up any loose threads, but I have learned that there is usually a better way for me to end my stories.
The first idea for an ending is very rarely the best and most rewarding ending for the reader.
This is where putting down the story for a while and spending some time thinking about it pays off. I have a relatively long commute to work, so I will leave the radio off and just think about the story from a plot and logistical standpoint – turning things around, moving chunks, introducing twists and surprises to see what it could be.
David Mamet talks about going through all of the possible endings and when you get to the most outrageous one that is still plausible, that is usually the one you want to go with.
I do agree that having a certain amount of surprise in an ending can be very rewarding. Mamet likes to use the terms “Surprising and inevitable” when it comes to story endings. I have become a big fan of this concept as it rings true for me.
Another way that I have found to determine if I have a justified and suitable ending is to look at all of the characters and ask: “Did they get what they wanted? And did they deserve it? Meaning, is their final situation justified?” This also helps to highlight any loose threads I may not have closed out.
Some people like to look at the conclusion of their stories from a thematic or lesson standpoint. I tend not to put a lot of emphasis on the message a story is trying to send or what the reader should learn from the story. My approach is much simpler in that I am looking for the story to be entertaining. That may make me less literary than most, but I am okay with that.
Let me know how you determine whether your story has the right ending?
I have been working with Google’s Antigravity code development tool recently. And while that seems like a strange thing to open with for a writing blog, here is why I think it might matter to us:
Antigravity is a development environment for coding that has AI built in so that instead of writing all of the lines of code yourself, you can “vibe code” which is basically talking with the program in plain language and telling it what you want.
While “programming” with Antigravity I found that the more detailed and deliberate I was with my description, the better the results. This made me realize that our talents as fiction writers will be very useful when working with AI now and in the future.
AI can do a lot of very amazing (and scary) things but it needs us to be able to describe in detail what it is that we want it to do. The better we are at that, the more useful we will be when working with AI, which I suspect will be a very desirable skill in the near future.
As I try to follow the rapidly changing landscape of AI, I find this a refreshing thought that gives me a glimmer of hope.
Here are ten common tropes that have been used so often they’re usually better avoided. Also, I have to admit that most of these are seen more in movies, but I still consider that storytelling so, let’s just go with that and let me get away with it this one time. Thank you.
1. Crawling Through Air Vents
This one shows up constantly in action movies and thrillers. A character escapes or infiltrates a building by climbing into the ventilation system and crawling through ducts like they’re made for human travel.
In reality, most air ducts are thin sheet metal that won’t support a person’s weight. They’re also cramped, and if they are heating ducts would get pretty hot and probably cause you to pass out.
Once you think about how unrealistic this trope is, it becomes hard not to laugh when you see it.
2. The “Knock Someone Out for a Few Minutes” Trick
This is where a character knocks the guard unconscious with a punch to the head. The victim wakes up later with nothing worse than disorientation or a mild headache.
In reality, a loss of consciousness lasting more than a few seconds is a serious brain injury. If your character regularly knocks people out this way, they’re probably leaving a trail of permanent neurological damage behind them. I would much rather see some chloroform on a rag get held in front of the guards mouth and nose, or a taser disable them for a moment.
3. The Conveniently Overheard Conversation
Your protagonist just happens to walk past a door just as the villain is revealing his entire plan.
No effort required. No investigation. Just perfect timing. (see also my post on what role luck should play in fiction)
This trope removes agency from the main character and replaces it with coincidence. Information in a story like this should come from effort, not luck.
4. The Villain Explains the Entire Plan
This works for me in the Bond movies because it sort of “is what it is” in those. I feel like those movies define the whole trope and I give them a pass for it. But even then it’s still clear that this kind of exposition exists purely as an information dump. If these were real villains, monologuing their evil plans would be very careless. There is really no advantage to doing that, unless you want to compromise the 4th wall and let the audience (or in our case reader) in on something.
5. The Countdown Clock
A bomb is set to explode in exactly ten minutes. We can tell this from the red LED display conveniently visible to the hero. Being a very technical person, this one has driven me crazy for years. Bomb timers based on old-style alarm clocks where the alarm goes off and there is a physical contact closure built into the bell mechanism, yeah, that makes practical sense. Spending extra money and design time to put a digital LED read-out into something that will blow up seems like a lot of unnecessary cost and work. It’s good to have a metaphorical ticking clock that provides pressure for the protagonist but it’s doesn’t have to be a real one and it rarely makes practical sense to have a LED display.
6. The Instantly Hacked Computer
A character types furiously for ten seconds and announces:
“I’m in.”
Complex computer systems do not collapse instantly under a few keystrokes. Real intrusion involves research, social engineering, and patience.
I also see this kind of instant solution when a character in a movie goes to hotwire a car – they put two wires together and have it running in a matter of seconds. I guess we are just supposed to ignore the fact that it would take more wires than that and the fact that the steering wheel is usually locked.
7. Guns That Never Run Out of Ammo
You see this when characters fire dozens of rounds without ever reloading. I have to admit this has gotten better in movies lately but you do still see it. The new foul is that they change magazine so often now you wonder where they were keeping all of that heavy ammo when the chase scene was happening.
In fiction, running out of bullets is often times more interesting than having an infinite supply.
8. The Totally Useless Security Guards
In many stories, guards exist only to be knocked out or distracted.
They rarely communicate with each other, never notice obvious problems, and seem completely unaware of their surroundings.
A competent security system has multiple guards, cameras, procedures and can create much more interesting obstacles for your characters than the cardboard cut-out guards we usually see.
9. The One-Line Medical Miracle
A character receives a serious injury but is fine after a quick bandage and a few minutes of rest.
Broken ribs, stab wounds, and gunshots tend to have a much longer recovery times than a few minutes. Think about the last time you were injured in anything more than an inconvenient way and how much that slowed you down. I literally had my back go out when I was turned wrong and sneezed one time and I was basically disabled for three days, bordering on tears when I went to put my socks on. I have to imagine being shot in the stomach would slow me down quite a bit more than that.
Injuries that actually affect a character’s abilities make stories much more believable and raise the stakes.
10. The “It Was All a Dream” Ending
Few endings frustrate readers faster than discovering that the entire story didn’t really happen. Now, I did just see the Wizard of Oz at the sphere (which I equate to Disneyland in the expense and “gotta see it at least once” factor) and I am giving that movie a pass at this but for every other piece of fiction, you have to realize that dream endings are a cheat. They erase consequences and invalidate the emotional investment the reader made throughout the story.
Unless the dream itself is the point of the story, this trope almost always a bad idea.
The Real Problem with Tropes
The problem comes when tropes becomes so familiar that the stop feeling like a story choice and start feeling like lazy writing.
Readers enjoy stories where events happen for believable reasons, where characters solve problems through effort and skill and where the world behaves in ways that feel authentic.
If you find yourself reaching for one of these tropes, ask a simple question:
“What Could really happen instead?”
The answer is often surprising and far more interesting than the cliché. Spend a bit more time thinking through potential endings and as David Mamet would say, “make them surprising and inevitable.”
Stories vary in the amount an author receives for publication. One of my stories, The Right Answer, has provided a lot in return for the amount of time it took me to write it. And that return has been more than just financial.
The financial side was good, as far as 3000-word fiction goes anyway. I initially published it in Alex Shvartsman’sUFO 3 anthology (still available on Amazon, BTW) then later as an audio “reprint” on Escape Pod and Tall Tale TV. I received a small payday each time it went live.
This is pretty good considering I wrote the story in one sitting. I did do a bit of editing later and then had to reshape it based on the feedback the market provided but as stories go, this one had a lot less of my time into it than some of my stories that have never been published.
But the most rewarding “return” I got was being able to see the feedback from those who read it. I recall a highlight for me when it was initially published: A woman from Australia emailed me to tell me how much she enjoyed the story. She was eating cereal while reading it and nearly shot milk out of her nose at one funny part. It’s an indescribable experience to know that I tickled the funny bone of some stranger, on the other side of the planet, so much that they felt they needed to reach out to me.
Only recently did I notice that Escape Pod has a discussion forum (and do check this out) for stories they publish. It is thrilling to see people talking about the words I have put together. There were a few people that didn’t like the story, which an author never likes to see, but there are many more who enjoyed it very much. The story is [meant to be] a comedy and tastes can vary quite a bit, so I do expect there to be some that give it a thumbs down.
Let me know in the comments down below what your experiences have been with feedback from those who have read your work.
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.
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.”
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.
Profanity is one of those tools writers either lean on too hard or avoid like it’s radioactive. But swear words aren’t automatically “bad writing” or “edgy writing.” They’re just words and like any other words, they need to earn their place on the page.
If you’re deciding whether to drop an f-bomb (or like in some of my stories, fifty), here’s some guidelines I go by:
Every word should serve character or plot
A useful gut-check: what does this profanity do?
Does it reveal a character’s temperament, background, stress level, or worldview?
Does it intensify a moment that matters to the plot?
Does it sharpen the rhythm of dialogue in a way that fits the scene?
If the answer is “it just sounds cool” or “it makes this feel more adult,” it’s probably filler. Profanity is strongest when it functions as characterization.
Try this: Remove the swear word. If the line loses meaning, tone, or character truth, you may need it. If nothing changes, omit it.
Profanity comes with a real risk of offending some readers
I do think this is less of an issue than it was say fifty years ago, but it is something to keep in mind.The key is to choose intentionally and ask yourself:
Who is my target audience for this story?
What’s the tone I’m going for here (cozy mystery vs. grim thriller, for example)?
Am I okay with losing some readers because of this?
One thing profanity is good at is a quick way to signal genre and voice. It can also break immersion for readers who don’t like it.
Profanity should be true to the character, not the author
The best profanity usually feels inevitable. In other words the character couldn’t have said anything else.
A few examples of true to character uses:
A character swears when they’re scared, cornered, or losing control.
A character uses profanity casually because it’s part of their everyday speech.
A character never swears… until the moment it finally slips, and that tells us something about what is going on.
On the flip side, try to avoid:
A character who suddenly starts cursing because the author wants the scene to feel “more intense.”
Everyone in the cast swears in the same way (same words, same rhythm), which usually makes it feel like it’s the writer’s voice coming out of all of them.
Can you identify who’s speaking if you remove the dialogue tags? If swearing makes the voices blur together, then it’s really not adding anything of value.
Profanity should also be thought of as a natural byproduct of:
real emotion
real conflict
real character choices
If the scene is already powerful, profanity can add some heat, but if the scene isn’t working to begin with, adding profanity won’t fix it.
The one F-word check. I see this in stories a lot more than you would expect; a story has little to no swearing then, out of nowhere, a character drops the F-bomb.
If you use the F word only once in the entire story, ask yourself whether you really need it. There are two reasons I can think of why, as Ralphie would say, the Queen mother of dirty words would only appear once:
It’s true to the situation. Maybe it lands at the exact right emotional peak, and the rarity makes it hit harder. Sure go ahead and keep it it in.
Shock value. If the profanity exists mainly to jolt the reader, it can feel cheap and manipulative. Readers can can tell when the author is yanking at the steering wheel. It reminds me of a creative writing teacher I had who would always talk about the author “Showing their hand.” His point was that only in rare cases is that a good thing.
Before you submit, ask these questions:
Does this word reveal character or move the plot?
Would this character really say it, right here, right now?
Is it doing more than just trying to sound edgy?
Am I okay with the readers I might lose?
If this is my only F word, is it really needed?
If you can answer “yes” to those, you’re using language with intent.
The goal is to write in a way that is true to the characters and true to the story. Remember a great way to to test is by taking out the “bad words” to see how it affects the story. If, after that you still can’t decide… well, sometimes you just have to say “Fuck it.”
Breaking Into The Craft 