AI as the straight man

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+1 NCBI
Post-viral cough (airways stay twitchy/inflamed). This can linger 3–8 weeks and slowly improves. Cleveland Clinic PMC
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 Clinic nhs.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 Manuals MedlinePlus

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 Clinic MedlinePlus
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. CDC Mayo 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. PMC AASM Sleep 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. PMC ERS 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.com Healthline NIAAA

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. CDC Dietary 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 EPA Tennessee 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 Government US 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 EPA CDC

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 EPA California 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 EPA Tennessee 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 Animals Nebraska 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 Board ATSDR

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.

Capturing story ideas: Should you keep a pen and paper on your nightstand?

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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.

-James

Celebrating 100 Short Story Submissions: Insights and Tips

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Breaking Into the Craft hit a milestone of receiving it’s 100^th short story submission on 12/16/25. Considering I received the very first submission on July 1^st, 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.

-James

Profanity in Fiction: When It Helps and When It Hurts

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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.”

-James

Tabula Rasa

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Tabula Rasa comes to us from D.H. Parish.

D.H.Parish (he/him) is, like Dr. Jekyll, a respectable physician by day who dabbles in darker things by night. He has had short stories presented on multiple horror podcasts, including Creepy, Scare You to Sleep, and Nocturnal Transmissions, and appear in print anthologies and magazines. His first novella, The Bodies, was just published. More information is available at dhparishstories.com.

When I asked D.H. what he loves about his story, this was his response:

First, I enjoy writing stories that invoke or invert Jewish and Christian religious imagery and ideas. Regardless of where one falls on the spectrum of belief or disbelief or nonbelief, the Bible and its associated literature (and I use the term literature here broadly) remain the richest and most enduring motherlode of stories and themes available to mine in Western culture. As I think about it, my story is ultimately going after an explanation of existence in a somewhat similar way to the Magician’s Nephew (the sixth book of the Narnia Chronicles), although my story is much briefer and far less reverent. Second, I love stories that have frame shifts, stories where you think you are comfortably reading one thing only to realize halfway through or at the end you have actually been reading or hearing or watching something quite different, the modern “classic” example being The Sixth Sense. In its laziest form, this is the “it was all a dream” kind of story (although that can sometimes work too). At their best, these are the stories that make you do a double take and immediately reread to find the hints and clues that were hiding in plain sight. Executed well, they give any twist (and any message implied in that twist) that much more impact and staying power. Finally, every superhero needs an origin story.

Tabula Rasa has been [mistakenly] rejected by Ethera, Epic Echoes, Apex, Kinpaurak, Orion’s Belt, Off Season, and Toil and Trouble.

Tabula Rasa by D.H. Parish

He looked out from his hiding place in the closet, a sliver of the room visible through a crack in the warped, ancient wood. He could see the Master hunched at his desk, neither reading nor writing, but lost in thought. For now, he had to wait. What were a few more minutes? Or hours? Or days?

Over the course of years too numerous to count, the Master had taught them from the great books of laws and spells. They had learned every rule. They had acquired proficiency in every endeavor. They could run like gazelles, swim like dolphins, and soar like eagles. They controlled magnificent creatures of immense stature and strength. They tasted whatever came to mind, listened to exquisite celestial symphonies, and witnessed beautiful scenes. All was fair and just and almost perfect.

But they were denied one power. The rest of them didn’t seem to realize it. They would say: “We dwell in the best of all possible worlds, do we not? We know how to control it, how to bend it to our will, to our delight. We have a kind Master who teaches us. What more could we desire?”

Blessed as this world was, it did not satisfy him, although he did not at first quite grasp why. Indeed, had he been asked, he could not have explained his complaint, which began as a fleeting thought that pestered him in quiet moments. But the thought grew, nourished with time, becoming a raging insistence, an all-consuming conviction, that they, that he, were deprived.

Once, when they had gathered in the Master’s study, savoring food and drink of their own conjuring while sharing and singing new songs, he noticed among the Master’s massive dark leather volumes one that bore no lettering on its spine. It seemed newer, untouched. As the others retired after the symposium, he stayed behind.

“Master,” he began, “I see on your shelf one book you have never shared with us. May I ask why?”

The Master looked at him with gentle eyes, “Of course you may ask. But I shall reply that that book is not for you.”

“Then why do you have it, why do you keep it?”

“Because I may need it.”

“May I look at it?”

“You may not. All you need, you already have. There is nothing in that book that will make this a better world for you, for anyone. Nothing.”

He studied the Master’s face, trying without success to interpret this cryptic reply. “Very well. Thank you, Master.” He bowed and took his leave, doing his best to hide his curiosity.

From that moment, however, reading that book became his mission. But how? He could not use a spell to obtain access; the Master would know and thwart him. He could not confide in others; they would not understand, or worse, would betray his confidence in a misguided attempt to “help” him. His only option was to bide his time until he could seize an opportunity to see that book. He dedicated years to this singular endeavor. Day after day, his hunger for the book grew, never sated by all else that was available to him.

Finally, opportunity came. He was strolling the halls when he saw Rafi standing in the Master’s doorway, inviting the Master to a musical performance. The Master heartily agreed, and the two of them departed in haste, such haste that the Master’s door remained ajar. Now was his chance! He pushed the door open, slowly, silently. He approached the shelf and stood before the book, the object of his desire.

Before he could seize it, he heard voices in the hall. Were they coming back? He glanced around, saw his only escape would be to the closet, and dashed in. He heard the Master return and tell Rafi that he would go to the concert when it was truly ready and then sit down again at his desk.

Thus matters stood. He was trapped in a closet, so tantalizingly close to his goal. And then it found him. It slithered over his sandals, a cold, scaly body that coiled itself around his left ankle, winding slowly but inexorably northward. He bit his lip as it circled his thigh and approached his groin. Carefully, deliberately, he reached under his cloak and, in one quick motion, grabbed its neck and yanked. It released its constrictive grip at the unexpected force. He held the serpent up to his face to look at it. The creature bared its fangs and hissed loudly, clearly upset at its unexpected capture.

Through the crack, he saw the Master rise from his chair and turn toward him. The door moved slightly as the Master placed his hand on the brass door handle to the closet. He was caught! Damn that familiar! But then Rafi came bounding in yelling, and the Master left again.

The room empty once more, he emerged from his hiding place. Still gripping the serpent, he hurled it back into the closet and shut the door to trap it. He walked to the shelf and pulled the book down, laying the tome on the Master’s desk. However much he was willing to violate the Master’s rule regarding the book, habits of obedience still kept him from sitting in the Master’s chair, and so he remained standing as he opened it.

Nothing.

It was blank.

He turned the pages. Empty leaf after empty leaf. No words.

Why had this been forbidden? What was the mystery?

Then he smiled, for he understood. A blank book meant creation. Creation meant control. Power! That was the hunger. With this book, he could write the spells, the rules. That was why the Master had hidden it. With it, he could become a master, the Master. Yes. That was now within his power, his destiny. He would make a better world, a world in his image, beholden to his will.

Aware of what lay before him, he allowed himself to sit in the Master’s chair. He opened the book to the first page, picked up the Master’s quill, and dipped it in the inkwell. He raised his hand, a small black droplet perching expectantly on the nib. He hesitated to write. Was this right?

As he paused, a quivering voice called out from the doorway: “Stop!”

He saw the Master standing in the doorway, shivering, quaking. He had never seen the Master afraid.

“Please, dear God,” the Master begged, “don’t do this. You will destroy everything we know and love. You may not mean to, but your action will release untold suffering.”

He was not used to the Master calling him by name, and as he heard the plea, he unconsciously let his hand fall until the quill tip gently kissed the vellum and irrevocably blemished the virgin parchment.

In that instant, the room vanished. He now sat alone in a vast, unending void. Nothing was visible save the open page and that first dark stain. He knew he had to continue writing. But how to start his own world, his own universe? And then he had inspiration:

“In the beginning, God created the Heaven and the Earth…”

On the F***ing Garden Path in Fiction

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This week we have a non-fiction guest post from Y. Len.

Sticking withe the theme of this Blog Y Len’s non-fiction post has been [mistakenly] rejected by CRAFT, Writers Digest and Authors Publish.

On the F***ing Garden Path in Fiction, by Y. Len

To a reader:

Note 1: The word in the title that caught your attention is “Forking” and NOT what you thought;

Note 2: Contrary to what you may be thinking now, this isn’t about Borges’s “The Garden of Forking Paths”;

Note 3: Read on if you consider yourself a contrarian. If garden variety sentences are your cup of tea—fork off onto your own path.

Garden path sentences are a tricky kind of phrase

They lead you to a dead end as you try to parse their ways

They start with words that seem to make a clear and simple sense

But then they twist and turn and leave you hanging in suspense

The rules of writing castigate garden path sentences—what better reason for taking a closer look and perhaps using them to break into the craft?

A garden path effect in writing is achieved by weaving a semantic ambiguity into a sentence. While being read, the sentence leads the reader toward a seemingly familiar meaning that is actually not the one intended. That’s where/how the “forking” happens. When read to the end, the sentence seems ungrammatical or makes no sense and requires rereading so that its true meaning may be fully understood after alternative parsing.

The horticultural label for this linguistic phenomenon hails from an old saying “to be led down (or up) the garden path”, meaning to be deceived, tricked, or seduced. In a century-old “A Dictionary of Modern English Usage” (1926), H.W. Fowler describes such sentences as unwittingly laying a “false scent”.

In late 1970s–1980s, Lyn Frazier and Janet Dean Fodor developed the “Garden Path Model” of sentence processing. It argued that readers use simplest-structure-first heuristics. When those heuristics fail, readers experience the garden path effect. Later research argued that multiple cues (syntax, semantics, context, frequency of usage) all interact.

The old man the boats. The old man… here is first taken as a noun and a verb is expected next. Correct parse: The old [people] man (verb) the boats. This popular example illustrates how word class ambiguity (noun vs. verb) tricks the reader.

The horse raced past the barn fell. The horse raced past the barn… here feels complete. Correct parse: The horse [that was] raced past the barn fell. This, one of the most cited examples in the literature, shows how readers “commit too early” to a sentence structure and must re-analyze.

Fat people eat accumulates. Similar to the above example, intentional missing relative pronoun (that) prompts misanalysis.

Hard to argue the “expert” opinion that garden paths have no place in academic, technical and business writing where clarity rules. In case of fiction in general and certain genres of fiction in particular, the answer may not be as straightforward.

The optimist in me believes that not all readers are content with garden variety sentences. Some may enjoy cracking open verbs and nouns to attribute agency where others wouldn’t expect it, and/or stringing together phrases that tell stories with their structure, as well as with their content. Yes, the complex prose demands a mental effort when constructing the images or navigating the linguistic possibilities that it presents. Yet the payoff of doing so is (i) the immediate satisfaction (“Aha! That writer ain’t no slouch, but I got it anyway!”) AND (ii) an expansion of the boundaries of language and the enrichment of what one can imagine on the page.

Remember your inexplicable affinity for that IKEA piece you put so much time and frustration into putting together after putting so much time and frustration into understanding the accompanying instructions given in tiny font in multiple languages with English seeming only slightly less bewildering than the others? Similar satisfaction may result from reading “some assembly required” prose.

Another off the cuff example would be Hitchcock’s films that make the audience jump to conclusions that are inevitably incorrect. Doesn’t a garden path sentence do the same on a micro level? By momentarily misleading the reader, it can create a sense of mystery and intrigue.

At their core, garden path sentences manipulate the reader’s expectations. They present a surface meaning that sooner or later collapses under grammatical or semantic pressure, demanding rereading and rethinking. This small act of disorientation can be scaled upward: in fiction, a writer might mirror a character’s confusion, instability, or unreliability through similar linguistic detours.

For instance, in a psychological thriller, sentences that shift direction can echo a protagonist’s fractured mental state, forcing the reader to share in their uncertainty.

In my adventure/murder mystery “The Bloodvein River Monster,” the adult character is recovering from mercury poisoning that affected his mental ability.

The five-year-old boy with the runny nose woke thirsty and lay in the dark, listening to silence. No flashing colors, no frightening voices in his head. A clean scent of resin and wood told him where he was and that he was no longer that boy.

He had no idea how long he’d slept, only a vague memory of stumbling through the forest. It was still night. Or already? His body felt weak, but there was no panic. Thoughts drifted, bumping softly one into the other, yet he could hold on to them long enough to finish each before the next arrived. He scooped handfuls of snow into his mouth, the chill numbing his tongue but easing his thirst, and drifted back into sleep.

Next time Ezra woke with the feeling the dream left.

The last sentence of the excerpt carries the drifting, dreamlike atmosphere established earlier even after the character wakes—the garden path phrasing itself is deliberately ambiguous (Ezra woke, feeling that the dream has left or he woke with some unspecified feeling left by the dream?) inviting the reader to share in Ezra’s uncertainty. The psycholinguistic effect of a single short sentence here is comparable to that of the entire first paragraph that achieves the similar result as it starts with the character as the five-year-old boy only to end by denying that very fact.

The garden path technique also offers rhythmical and aesthetic value. “Traditional” prose strives toward clarity, smoothing the reader’s ride over the (often intentionally) bumpy roads our characters take. By contrast, garden path structures may introduce hesitation and slower reading, break immersion and compel attention to the mechanics of language itself.

The last but not least, garden path sentences can serve as thematic devices. Stories about deception, shifting identities, or supernatural interference gain resonance when their very sentences enact misdirection. The language performs the subject matter: just as a character may be fooled, so too is the reader. In this sense, garden paths may become not just ornamental puzzles but enactments of the story’s underlying concerns.

Of course, as with almost everything in life, restraint is essential. Overuse your rake in your writing and you’ll risk reader’s frustration, turning prose into a riddle rather than a narrative. But strategically placed—like a topspin serve à la Pete Sampras in your otherwise bland pickleball game—a garden path sentence or two of them can create surprise, deepen psychological realism, and remind readers that language itself is a valuable writer’s tool.

Have fun in the garden!

Garden path sentences are fun to read and write

They challenge your grammar and the depth of your insight

They show you how the English language can be full of tricks

And how a single word can change the meaning in a flick

Even Death Must Die

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Even Death Must Die comes to us from Miguel Angel Lopez Muñoz. Miguel was born and lives in Madrid, Spain. He has a Bachelor’s degree in Mathematics with a Master’s degree in Quantum Cryptography. He writes fantasy, science fiction and horror and has won awards like the UPC of science fiction Award (in 2006 and again in 2024), and published books related to those three genres. He has been published in Bag of Bones, where he won the “206 Word Story” call, Microverses and Coffin Bell. He is a big fan of video games, transformers and board games, and you can follow his posts on these three topics on his Instagram @magnus_dagon

Miguel’s wonderful story has been [mistakenly] rejected by: Analog, Andrómeda Spaceways, and Ápex Magazine

When asked what he loves about this story, this was his response:

What I like most about this story is that it deals with a subject I don’t often talk about, which is religion. But it deals with it from a point of view that I really like, which is mythology (mythological stories, especially Greek ones, are among those with which I have won the most literary competitions).

I also really like the story from a narrative point of view, as there isn’t much dialogue but somehow the plot isn’t overloaded with descriptions, and also from a visual point of view, with veiled suggestions that focus on the aesthetic tone of the Great Temple and its hard-working builders.

Even Death Must Die by Miguel Angel Lopez

On rainy days, when it was my turn to descend from the tower, I saw the black clouds full of pollution. These same clouds, thick and dark like a great sea, yet dense and soft as velvet, forced us to ascend higher, banishing us from the promised land and made us gods to them — although I doubt the heavens would have wanted someone like me.

I secured my suit and checked the air cylinder, preparing for the exit to the outside as the glassed-in elevator reached the lowest level. As a precautionary measure, so that my appearance would not be observed from below, the exit at the base of the tower was slightly electrified to clear the area of curious androids. In my opinion, although at the time such a custom may have been of some use, by then they were no longer looking for me, but merely awaiting my arrival. That is understandable. We don’t go looking for her either; we just wait for her to arrive when the time is right. Human culture has represented her sometimes as a faithful friend, sometimes as an executioner of souls; but always as someone we want to have far away.

According to the reports I had received from the tower technicians, the android I was supposed to bring back had been split in two by one of the mechanical saws in charge of shaping the rocky terrain. In the middle of the downpour I arrived at the factory area, the robots making way for me, looking at me with devotion or fear. But for the first time since I had that macabre function I noticed that some robots were looking at me with a defiant attitude, a brave gesture considering that in the mystical terrain, I was a personification of the end of all living beings, and in the physical terrain, I was twice as tall as any of them.

I arrived at the place where the disabled robot was and there I found, as it always used to happen, the protective android. It was a robot like the others, but equipped with accessories whose only purpose was to imitate, in a misunderstood way, the accessories of my artificial breathing suit. It looked at me and pointed to what I was looking for.

“Hello, B33MH,” I said, without any tone in my voice.

“Welcome, deity Ben,” the android replied solemnly. “We knew you would come.”

The first time I introduced myself to the androids and told them my name, they decided to anticipate it with the deity treatment. At first I tried to force them to simply call me by my name, but to no avail. To them my name was something as imperishable as space or time.

“What happened?” I asked calmly.

“It was an accident, my lord. It got too close to the saw.”

“I want the androids who handle saws to stay farther away from them. There’s no need to take such risks.”

“But sir, that way it will take longer to complete the Great Temple of the deities.”

“The Great Temple can wait, B33MH. Your safety is more important to me now.”

“So it shall be done, my lord.”

I pulled out a tractor beam and put all the pieces of the fallen robot together then placed it in a box of darkness, a handy collapsible container that for robots must have been little less than a coffin. I carried it in both hands with as much respect as I could muster for my actions. B33MH looked at me, fulfilling the function its kind had bestowed upon it, to be a living witness to my actions, and asked me, as it always did, to accompany me back to my kingdom.

“When it is your time, you will come with me. But first you must not,” I said simply, hoping to settle a matter that was not open to discussion.

“What will become of our companion, deity Ben? Will it, like the others, have access to your kingdom?”

“They all have,” I replied. “You can stop worrying about it. It is at peace with itself and everyone else now.”

“You’re lying!” said another of the androids behind me. Despite my surprise, none of the androids noticed the slightest hesitation on my part. The suit, which they considered part of my own organism, helped.

“Why do you say that, C22RD?” I asked, trying to appear as calm as possible.

“I don’t believe you are a deity. You may be powerful, but you are something else. And I’m not the only one who thinks so.”

I kept quiet. Everyone was waiting for me to speak. I had to give them the opposite. I had to make it seem that my motivations were impossible for their perishable metallic bodies to conceive.

In response to the silence, C22RD spoke again.

“I will prove to everyone that you are a plastic god.”

I turned and walked away, oblivious to its comments, as if I could not hear them. Although I didn’t turn around at any point I know that all the robots were waiting for a reaction that would clarify how I felt about those direct attacks. Instead, I gave them uncertainty. It was the only thing I could give them, for it was the only thing I harbored at that moment.

Now, remembering that day, I know that many things had to happen to get to that point. At the beginning I was a mere observer, just another technician with the only incentive of maintaining direct contact with the androids. It was a poorly paid job and not without its dangers; I would arrive in my suit, take the defective models with me when they stopped working, check a couple of systems to verify programming guidelines, and supervise the progress of the domes that would one day house us. But little by little they began to invest more in such construction, as humanity as a whole began to believe hopefully that this would be the solution, that truly someday the metal slaves would complete a cupular world isolated from the toxic emanations of the clouds. The Great Temple, as they now call it. Paradise on Earth. It is the only one of their biblical expressions that I do not consider exaggerated. Not that the towers were bad to live in, but home, no matter how many generations pass, is still home. It is written as one more mark on our genetic will until there is no way to overlook it.

It was around those days that I began to think of androids as more than just machines and they began to think of me as something… metahuman. It was always ensured that they didn’t know the truth of their existence, that they would simply work in exchange for having watchmen looking out for their safety. It was never really slavery. It took me a while to realize it, but our situation was very similar to that of the gods in ancient times. They worked convinced that in a way they were honoring unquestionable beings. We were giving them resources, technological help and renewing their population, for them this was greatest gift that we could ever bestow. The only difference with the Greek or Egyptian gods was that we humans did exist and were actually trying to protect them.

Without missing a beat, the robots were working out answers to questions we did not at first imagine they could ask.

When the extent of their perception became clear, our superiors decided to specialize us so that they would have a whole legion of creatures and symbols to worship. Thus, from the point of view of the androids, the deity John was in charge of bringing new life among the robots, the opposite of my function; the deity Robin was in charge of the proper functioning of the lesser machines and the deity Carl was in charge of quelling revolts. The relationships we might have with each other and our working style formed a whole complex mythological imaginary for the robots. Thus, for example, for them living and dying were twin processes that for a time were simultaneously hosted by both deities until they decided to arrive on their own to attend to their personal affairs among the non-eternals. Something so complex to explain that my turn and John’s simply ceased to coincide.

At first we were given instructions and courses so as not to disrupt the pantomime they had so carefully worked out for themselves. In my particular case I was advised to provoke in them the same panic of death that most humans experience. They showed me a multitude of allegorical images, and made hundreds of suggestions about how I should express myself and move in front of them. But I didn’t want or intend to be a clear-cut symbolic thing, I didn’t want to be the quivering thought of those wretched metal entities. For God’s sake, I was an engineer, not Machiavelli or Milton. I believed in knowledge, not in turning the headboard upside down to ward off evil spirits. So I ignored all ethical and aesthetic advice and stuck to my own script. No ankh, no scythe, no huge wings full of eyes. If they must live in the shadows, I thought, I’ll make those shadows a little more pleasant place.

Sometimes I wish that beings more intelligent than me would burst into my life and, by means of complicated artifices and subtle orchestrations, would suddenly restore the beliefs I had lost so long ago. That an angel would come from the heavens and tell us all, yes, there is life after death, neither emptiness nor nothingness awaits you. That he would disprove all my suspicions. That is what I tried to give to the androids. The hope of continuity against all logic of nature. If in doing so I was right, they would thank me after all; if I was wrong, then they would never feel cheated because wherever they were they would feel no joy, no sadness, no hate, no pain, no nothing. The truth is that it often torments me to think that they might have a chance and we might not. That those who are no longer operative look at me from somewhere we fail to understand and pity me, their false crystal idol, full of doubts and uncertainties, then accuse me, with pointed finger, of behaving as a giver of something that I am not even capable of receiving.

Not all the idolized technicians shared my point of view, of course. It’s amazing how much misery man is capable of when given the opportunity. Carl Tinerch, the man in charge of quelling riots, enjoyed his task with psychopathic pleasure. He must have been the kind of kid who chased cats on tower roofs with neural lasers. Although the other technicians despised him, they did not feel the same animosity toward him as I did, partly because their job was not to palliate his excesses or to restore the delicate balance between good and evil in the robot pantheon. One fine day I decided to send the balance to hell and descended before my turn with the healthy intention of giving Tinerch a little thrashing in front of the robots, a fight that they added to their list of mythical events, with the sole intention of stopping his cruel slaughter. I made all the robots present promise that there would never be a similar revolt.

The superiors reprimanded me and reduced my salary, arguing that I might have broken Tinerch’s suit, which is otherwise absolutely true. However, I was not dismissed from my position. They knew I was important down there, and that was not to be changed. The riots, however, soon broke out again. Many robot sympathizers defended their position by saying that there was no society down there. I agree with them on that; the problem is that they thought that had been the intention at some point in the experiment, a kind of peaceful coexistence between creators and creations. I was quickly disillusioned. Anyway, I prefer to see robots as individuals rather than as a mass. Their collective destiny is beyond my capabilities even if I pretended otherwise.

But that day, at that moment, with the box of darkness in my hands and returning until I was lost in the heights that no android would ever know, I knew that something else was going to happen. I had the same cold feeling as when I went down to hit Tinerch, only that I was no longer the trigger of the events. And sure enough, something happened. C22RD made good on its threats, but not in the way I would have expected.

I had just arrived on the observation floor from my own home. I hadn’t even had time to eat, so I was about to grab the first piece of crap I could find in the vending machines. I was already heading for the one in the hallway with the idea that everything it would have would be out of date when John Redfer signaled me to come in.

“What’s wrong, Johnny?” I said, not hiding my concern. John would never have bothered me off shift unless it was for something serious.

“We haven’t received a signal from C22RD since yesterday, and the cameras can’t find it. The last we heard, it was headed for the Grand Temple base.”

Sometimes among ourselves we used the same religious jargon that the androids themselves, mostly for practical reasons. I walked over to the monitors and made a mental note of the coordinates of the area.

“I’m going down,” I said as I approached the closet and put on my suit. “I have a bad feeling.”

“Do you want me to come down with you?”

“Thank you, John, but I think you’d better not. I’m afraid we’re facing a crisis of ideals. I’ve got to solve this one on my own.”

“What do I do if Tinerch comes? This looks like his business.”

“Give him my regards,” I replied, leaving the air cylinder in hand.

When I reached the edge of the dome, which was already at an advanced stage, I noticed that all the robots were looking at me impatiently. It didn’t take me long to see why. There, where the cameras could not reach because it was normal for new tunnels to be opened every day, was the body of C22RD, motionless and guarded by two other androids. I bent down to get through the tunnel and take it away, but they blocked my way.

“It was right. You didn’t get there to take it because you wouldn’t be able to find it in time. Its sacrifice was not in vain.”

I came out of the tunnel to return to the ditch again and met the protective android. It looked frightened.

“My lord, you were late in coming.”

“I came as soon as I could, B33MH. As you well know, there are many things I have to take care of.”

“But this poor wretch, my lord… will no longer receive rest in your kingdom, for several cycles have passed since your last arrival.”

“It’ll be able to rest like the others, you don’t have to worry about it.”

Suddenly an android hit me with a stone and broke a tube of the suit. Fortunately it was not serious, but B33MH did not interpret it that way. It activated the tunneling machines and buried the android. I was witnessing the first display of artificial violent fanaticism in history, as well as the first robot suicide. I was really going to have a lot of explaining to do when I got to the surface.

If I made it, that is.

Several more androids stoned me until one of them finally hit a carbon dioxide processing tube. The malfunction was not total, but I had to get back to the tower as soon as possible or I would die without remedy as soon as I was exposed to the noxious gases. I grabbed as best I could both the body of the buried android and the body of C22RD and took them away without even having time to use darkness boxes. Some robots began to chase me, and although their stones hardly hurt me, they would soon end up breaking another tube and write a black chapter in their particular myths. After a while, however, Tinerch appeared in his armored suit. Despite hating him and his methods, I was glad of his presence. He merely put a smokescreen between them and us to slow them down, because to the robots, the smoke from the Carl deity carried evil effects on the circuits. I guess he didn’t attack them because he knew that under no circumstances would I be sent to ground level again right after the incident and then it would be his turn to pick up the robots he slaughtered. I was always curious how the androids would have interpreted that.

My superiors decided that for a couple of days it would be wise for me not to go back down, with John taking over my job. The two days became a week and the week became a month. Finally I was announced that I could no longer go down again. There were enough robots who didn’t believe in me to make my descents dangerous, but I should train my replacements to learn how to do my job in every way imaginable.

It didn’t work out. None of the substitutes were admitted by the robot community, thinking of them as heretics, as impostors. Part of the fault was that the new ones always tried to be very theatrical, very lyrical, so as to instill awe in them and hold them in check. The experience, at least, helped me to understand that when you want to gain the respect of someone, whether human or robot, you can do it from the path of equality or from the path of superiority, but the second path will never make you truly respected. Feared, adored. But not really respected.

I seem to remember that after I was relieved of my position I was angry with the androids for having spurned the opportunity I had given them to reconcile their fears of dying. I suppose it is true that it was a beautiful gift, but it is also true that they never asked me for it. Perhaps I should have let them learn for themselves, freed them from that vicious circle that had formed around them, secretly lectured them on how terrible life really was, that they were less than nothing, the offspring of an imperfect culture and race that did not know for itself its own end. That we were not giving them the chance to exist but that it was precisely the opposite. That if there were gods it should be them.

One fine day, thirty years later, I decided to ask for permission to descend again. I knew I would have no problem in getting approval, and I was curious to see with my own eyes the evolution of the Great Temple, now almost completed. It was fortunate that this happened, because all the technicians were already quite old, and if it was impossible to replace me at the time, it would be even more impossible to do it with all of them at the same time.

When I descended I noticed how there was a lot of commotion everywhere. Most of the androids did not have to work too hard because of the little that remained to be done, a fact that they had interpreted as the advent of the new order. My arrival only compounded that feeling. That the deity Ben was descending from the heavens again after thirty years was for them an indication that we were very satisfied.

I wanted to tell them that the reality was that as soon as the dome was finished hundreds of men in armored suits, hundreds of Carl deities, would descend to disconnect them all, by hook or by crook, and melt them down to become part of the Great Temple structure, but I refused to do so. I’m sure they would have managed to concoct some sort of pseudo-Buddhist narrative to justify such an action. A nirvana to which to throw their last prayers.

The people upstairs had asked me to check that the air levels were correct as I was going down, so I went into the huge, diaphanous dome and took out the measuring instruments. When I had finished, I noticed an old android approaching me, barely able to move, but still able to operate certain devices such as hydraulic cranes. It was B33MH.

“My lord, you have returned. I have waited so long…”

At that moment I was sure that, if robots could cry, it would have done so.

“I have returned, yes. But I must tell you — it is not for long.”

“Why did you leave us? Some of us were still faithful to you.”

“I ceased to be necessary, B33MH. Even we must retire when the time comes. Come closer.”

The android came as fast as it could until it was in front of me. Then I removed the helmet from my suit very slowly. For the robot that must have been a mystical experience like no other.

“I just want you to know that, believe it or not, deep down we are just like you. We have fears. We doubt our final destiny. I know you will never say it, that’s why I share it with you.”

“Is that true, my lord?”

I put the helmet on the ground, so that it would be clear that it was not part of myself.

“Even Death must die,” I said, my aged face uncovered.

Published!

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I have been lucky enough to land a story at Factor Four Magazine (Issue 52, November of 2025). Factor Four has a decent acceptance rate and pays pro rates. The only quirk I experienced was that I didn’t get a notification of when the story was to go live. Once I received payment, I just keep checking back every couple days to see if the story was on their site. This is not completely uncommon in short fiction markets, so I wanted to mention it for any budding writers out there who haven’t experienced that yet.

Please check out my story, We don’t like to use that term, when you have a chance. It is a quick 700 word read and, I think, a fun one.

-James

What Do Readers Want?

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It’s important to think about what a reader is really looking for when they search for a book or look for the next short story to read. Their need is the demand that we are looking to supply. If we can align with that in what we write, our stories will always find a home.

Here are a few things I came up with. See if you agree:

1. Surprise: The Unexpected and the Inevitable

David Mamet, the legendary playwright, once said that a great story is “unexpected and inevitable.” That seeming contradiction captures something essential about storytelling. We want to be surprised but in a way that makes perfect sense once it happens. Not random or gimmicky but with a twist that feels like the only possible outcome.

Think of the best stories you’ve read or watched. There’s a moment when the truth snaps into place like a puzzle piece. You didn’t see it coming but you should have. That’s the sweet spot. The Sixth Sense is one that comes to mind for me that did that very well.

Readers crave that moment, not just for the thrill, but because it affirms meaning. Surprise, when done right, is more than a twist. It’s a revelation.

2. Exploration: The Deep Human Need to Discover

We are all explorers. We read to venture into the unfamiliar: new worlds, new minds, new truths about ourselves. That’s why genres like sci-fi and fantasy endure but also why, to Matt Walter’s point in a previous post, that story is an important in nonfiction as well. All generas and types are vehicles for exploration.

3. It Has to Be Interesting

Years ago, a blogger said something that stuck with me: “The only rule to writing is that it has to be interesting.” That has stayed with me and always rung true through the years.

You can break every convention, tense, point of view, structure, grammar, and still succeed, if your writing is interesting. But “interesting” doesn’t just mean flashy or weird. It means engaging and alive. It means giving the reader something to care about and to feel.

Always remember the readers don’t owe us their time; we have to earn it, word by word.

If we can give a reader surprise, exploration and something that is interesting, we will earn that time and it will also be something editors will want to publish.

Let me know in the comments below what you think readers want.

-James

Why It’s Hard for Us to See Where Our Stories Go Wrong?

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You’ve written a story. You’ve poured your heart into it. You’ve rewritten sentences, perfected metaphors, and shaped characters you care deeply about. You’re sure it’s good, hell, maybe it’s even great. Yeah, the big names will want this one. It’s probably worthy of The Atlantic or the New Yorker. This could even be the one that finally nails the Pushcart Prize.

Then the wind goes out of your sails when the first person to read your masterpiece points out how you spelled the name of your main character differently in two places in the opening paragraph. How could you have missed that? You must have read through the story a hundred times with all the rewrites. It’s embarrassing and aggravating.

And it’s one of the most fundamental truths in writing: it’s incredibly hard for us to see the flaws in our own work. Here’s why:

We’re Too Close to the Story

Writers live inside the world they’ve created. We know every motivation, backstory, and all the subplots. The backstory that isn’t on the page lives in our heads “rent free” as the kids say. We mentally fill in all of the things we know about the story as we read through it. Your brain fills in the gaps, smoothing over inconsistencies and connecting dots that were never actually drawn and not clear to other readers.

We’re Emotionally Invested

We writers form emotional bonds with our characters and often fall in love with select scenes and phrases. This emotional attachment can make us blind to, or cause us to push back against, needed changes. Cutting scenes and characters, also known as “Killing our darlings” as the saying goes, feels like a loss to us even though it usually makes a story stronger.

Sometimes we don’t really know the Story We’re Telling

We often begin writing with an idea but no clear theme. Or we have a theme but it gets lost in the logistics of plot development. The result is a story that meanders or contradicts itself. I also tend to see a lot of what I call “lopsided stories” where way too many words are spent on things that do not advance the plot or develop the character.

Hard Work Doesn’t Make It Good

We sometimes confuse “I worked hard on this” with “This is the best it can be.” But hard work doesn’t guarantee a polished end result. Rewriting, re-envisioning, and sometimes throwing everything out and rethinking it from the ground up, often lead to better storytelling.

Our Brains Want to Be Done

Writing is hard. Getting through that first draft is a triumph. So when we type “The End,” part of our brain wants it to be done. The desire to move on and submit makes us less critical of our work. We stop interrogating where the story doesn’t work.

So What Can You Do?

Time: Step away from your draft. A few weeks or even months can give you enough distance to see it with fresh eyes. Sometimes when I go through my “false starts” that I haven’t touched in years, I am surprised at what I see. It often feels like someone else wrote the words I am seeing. (and I mean that in both in a good and bad way). This is the ideal kind of distance you want from your work, where you have forgotten about the story entirely and are coming at it completely fresh. Unfortunately that isn’t always practical.
Read your work out loud: A more immediate solution is reading your story out loud. In Steve Martin’s Masterclass he talked about how he reads his work to his cat. I will even record myself reading a story so I can play it back later and really listen. Hearing your story often reveals awkward pacing, unclear dialogue, or tonal shifts you might miss otherwise.
Re-outline: After the first draft, take the time to outline what you actually wrote. It often differs from your plan and can reveal plot holes. One trick I have learned, especially if if I have “pantsered” a story is to force chapter breaks and title those breaks in the story as though they were chapter headings. I do this even though I am mainly writing short stories, which don’t usually have chapter titles. It really helps me to see the plot progression and where I have sections that repeat information previously covered. It also really helps me to see where I can cut.
Get feedback from others: Other people have a fresh set of eyes and the advantage of knowing nothing about the story. No preconceived notions, no biases (other than these people are likely your friends so they might be softer on you than you need). Issues we tend to read past will stand out to them like a neon sign.

Recognizing that we have literary blind spots is the first step toward better writing. Every great story was once a messy draft, written by someone who couldn’t see the flaws, until they eventually found a way to work through them, often by giving a story time and/or getting feedback from others.

-James

Breaking Into The Craft

All about getting published

AI as the straight man

Capturing story ideas: Should you keep a pen and paper on your nightstand?

Celebrating 100 Short Story Submissions: Insights and Tips

Profanity in Fiction: When It Helps and When It Hurts

Tabula Rasa

On the F***ing Garden Path in Fiction

The old man the boats. The old man… here is first taken as a noun and a verb is expected next. Correct parse: The old [people] man (verb) the boats. This popular example illustrates how word class ambiguity (noun vs. verb) tricks the reader.

The horse raced past the barn fell. The horse raced past the barn… here feels complete. Correct parse: The horse [that was] raced past the barn fell. This, one of the most cited examples in the literature, shows how readers “commit too early” to a sentence structure and must re-analyze.

Fat people eat accumulates. Similar to the above example, intentional missing relative pronoun (that) prompts misanalysis.

Even Death Must Die

Even Death Must Die by Miguel Angel Lopez

Published!

What Do Readers Want?

Why It’s Hard for Us to See Where Our Stories Go Wrong?

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The old man the boats. The old man… here is first taken as a noun and a verb is expected next. Correct parse: The old [people] man (verb) the boats. This popular example illustrates how word class ambiguity (noun vs. verb) tricks the reader.

The horse raced past the barn fell. The horse raced past the barn… here feels complete. Correct parse: The horse [that was] raced past the barn fell. This, one of the most cited examples in the literature, shows how readers “commit too early” to a sentence structure and must re-analyze.

Fat people eat accumulates. Similar to the above example, intentional missing relative pronoun (that) prompts misanalysis.

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Even Death Must Die by Miguel Angel Lopez

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