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 problems I see in newer writers is the idea that mystery automatically creates interest.
It can, of course. Suspense matters. Curiosity matters. The reader absolutely wants a reason to keep turning pages.
But a lot of novice writers end up holding back so much information that it becomes difficult to care about the main character. This makes the whole story hard to care about. The reader becomes confused, and confusion is one of the main reasons readers quit reading.
There is a real difference between making the reader ask, “What happens next?” and making them ask, “What is going on here, and why should I care?”
Driving curiosity
Readers do not keep reading just because information is missing. They keep reading because they have just enough information that they want more.
They need to understand who they are following, what appears to be happening, and what kind of direction the scene is moving in. They do not need every answer right away but they do need enough clarity to form questions that feel meaningful.
If I open a story and a woman runs out of a church crying, clutching a torn envelope, I already have something to hold onto. I may not know what was in the envelope. I may not know why she is crying. But I understand enough about her plight to feel pulled forward. I have some open questions that keep me interested: Why is she crying? What is in the envelope that has her so upset? Why is she fleeing the church?
If, on the other hand, if the woman is crying and she doesn’t understand why or we are not given enough hints to suggest why, then that kind of mystery often creates distance instead of momentum. This is especially true if the reason for the crying remains open for a long time.
Withholding everything is rarely the answer
I think a lot of new writers believe that if they explain too much, they will ruin the suspense but usually the opposite happens.
When writers withhold too much, the story starts to feel evasive. Scenes hint at danger without defining any real stakes or conflict. The reader is expected to stay invested without being given enough reason to keep going.
You only need to hold back the key information
We do not need to hide a lot. We just need to hide the right thing(s).
Let the reader know the scene, the character’s emotional charge, and the general direction. Hold back the one crucial piece that changes how we interpret it.
Good mystery fiction is a great example of this. A detective can arrive at a crime scene, notice the broken watch, the open window, the missing photograph, and the mud on the carpet. This gives us a lot to work with. The writer is not starving us of information. The writer is guiding our attention while withholding the one or more facts that will reframe everything for us later on.
This set up feels satisfying to the reader because they are engaged in active discovery.
Suggest a direction
One of the best ways to keep readers hooked without becoming obscure is to suggest a direction.
Even if the final destination turns out to be different from what the reader expected, that sense of the story “going somewhere” is important. It gives the reader a line to follow.
If the story offers no direction at all, the reader has to do too much work just to understand why the scene exists. Sadly, sometimes a scene like that shouldn’t exist.
A few useful examples
I remember reading Shirley Jackson’s The LotteryIn high school. It’s a great example of controlled withholding. Jackson does not explain everything right away, but instead gives the reader a clear setting, a social ritual, and an ever-growing sense that something isn’t quite right. But she does it in a way where the story doesn’t feel vague. The withheld information is such that we don’t feel lost in the story or confused. She omitted just enough and that kind of precision is what gives the twist ending its force.
You can also see this in film. In Jaws, we do not need endless concealment to feel tension. We know there is a shark. We know the beach town is in danger. We know Brody is heading toward a confrontation. The intrigue comes from escalation and anticipation. There are specific details – in particular the sight of the shark – that is withheld in a way that builds wonderful tension. If you have a chance watch jaws again, it is interesting to see how little of the shark is actually shown. So much is revealed by showing us the effects of the shark but not the shark itself.
Readers want discovery
Readers love putting clues together. They love sensing that there is more beneath the surface. They love the moment when a scene shifts and something clicks into place.
If you want people asking, “What happens next?” then give them just enough to believe the answer will be worth it.
Hold back one or two key pieces but suggest a direction. Then let your story lead the reader into discovery.
A good question to ask while revising
When I am looking at a scene that is supposed to feel suspenseful or curious, I like to ask myself:
Am I causing the reader to leaning forward into the story, or am do I have them confused?
This is a lot trickier to answer than it seems. We know everything about the story so it is hard to fully picture where we might be leaving out too much. We often expect the reader to make bigger jumps and put more together than they often can because we know how it all fits. This is where clarity is once again king. Note that clarity is not the same as revelation. you can be clear and still withhold key information.
If the scene is clear about character, stakes, and objectives (telling us why we should care) , the reader will usually lean into the story. If the scene is built on a hazy reality with a lot of omission, the reader will usually drift away. I see this a lot in stories where the protagonist is unaware of where they are and what they are doing there. Starting with amnesia is a tricky bit. I loved the movie (and the book even more so) Project Hail Marybut I felt that aspect should have been done differently.
Let me know in the comments below what your thoughts are on how to omit key information and still keep the story engaging.
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.
Today’s story comes to us from Martin Lochman of Malta.
Martin’s story was previously [Mistakenly] rejected by 5 venues: Interzone, Not One of Us, Clarkesworld, Cryptic Frog Quarterly, and Pulp Asylum.
Bio:I am an emerging Czech science fiction author, currently living and working as a University librarian in Malta. My flash fiction and short stories appeared (or are forthcoming) in a variety of venues, including New Myths, Kzine, Theme of Absence, XB-1 (Czech SFFH magazine), and others. My debut space opera “All Quiet in the Milky Way: Ray M. Holler’s Adventures vol. 1” was published in 2023. You can find me at: https://martinlochmanauthor.wordpress.com/, Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/people/Martin-Lochman-SF-Author/61552596028127/, or Twitter: @MartinLochman.
When I asked Martin what he loves about this story, this was his response:
First and foremost, this is one of those stories that I improvised from the beginning to the end (unlike most of my work, which is usually meticulously outlined and planned out before I even write the first word). What actually inspired me to write it was a dream I had one night – my memories of it were (naturally) quite fuzzy the next morning, but I distinctly remembered stands, vendors, and a pond with a giant crocodile in it. My overactive imagination filled in the rest and The Market was born. Another thing I love about the story is the fact that, despite being self-contained, it provides only a quick peek into the world within – which means I can explore it in subsequent writings.
The Market, by Martin Lochman
The sun had barely peeked out from behind the horizon, but the market was already filled with people. Locals and tourists alike moved from vendor to vendor, examining merchandise, negotiating prices, or committing to a purchase, all the while doing their best to stay out of each other’s way.
David stood at the edge of a stall on the outskirts of the market, frowning at a crate writhing with pitch-black insects the likes of which he had never seen. Every so often, their numerous limbs or antennae poked at the one-way force field at the top of the container, producing a semi-transparent, yellowish ripple.
They were about fifteen centimeters long and best resembled an oversized flying ant. The problem was that they possessed five pairs of legs, a twin elongated stinger, and what could be best described as half-formed claws on the upper thorax, just below the head. In a nutshell, they looked like something straight out of a B-horror movie concept art.
“Titanomyrma gigantea,” the vendor answered from behind a small counter before David could ask, enunciating slowly as if talking to a child. He was a thin, lanky man with a thick mustache and almost unnaturally blue eyes.
“They are the largest species of ants to have ever existed on Earth. If you’re interested, they are ten credits a piece, but I’ll give you a ten percent discount if you buy ten or more.”
“No, they are not.”
The vendor narrowed his eyes.
“Pardon me?”
Someone bumped into David from behind, causing him to lose his balance. Instinctively, he stretched his arms out in front of him… and nearly ended up burying them in the pool of the mysterious insects. Fortunately, he managed to land his hands on the opposite edges of the crate at the last possible moment.
Presumably, the same someone mumbled a half-hearted “Sorry!”, but by the time David steadied himself, they had already disappeared in the crowd.
Relief turned to irritation as he looked back at the vendor and saw the corners of his mouth curved up in amusement.
“What I mean is that these are not Titanomyrma gigantea,” David said coldly.
The man’s gaze hardened.
“I think I would know what I am selling. I collected them myself.”
David folded his arms across his chest.
“The real Titanomyrma was at best half the size. Didn’t have that many legs or a dual stinger. And don’t even get me started on whatever it is growing right under their heads.”
A hint of alarm flashed in the corners of the vendor’s eyes, but his face remained thoroughly impassive.
“You some kind of paleontologist?” he hissed, then, not waiting for David’s reaction, added, “Look, it’s not like we have discovered every single animal or plant in history. Even if we can literally visit it. Not my fault you don’t recognize this one.”
David shook his head.
“If you don’t like what you see, you can just move on. Plenty of other stands on the market,” the vendor insisted. A vein appeared in the middle of his forehead, indicating that his patience was wearing thin.
His irate demeanor didn’t escape the attention of several visitors who stopped to lurk behind David.
“I think you mean a paleo-entomologist, but no, you’re not that lucky,” David said, staring the vendor down.
“Lucky? Who the hell do you—” the man stopped abruptly, realization overtaking his features. “Oh no. No? No!”
“Yes,” David smiled, savoring the swift change in his counterpart’s attitude.
“This is not what it looks like,” the vendor offered weakly, raising his hands, palms toward David.
“It’s not?”
Putting on an exaggerated expression of surprise, David gestured toward the crate: “You mean these are not some genetically engineered abominations you are selling as genuine prehistoric specimens, breaking six different federal laws in the process? Is that what you are telling me?”
There was a gasp, an expletive muttered under the breath, a triumphant aha!—but these were just the reactions from the slowly growing gathering of lurkers around the stand. The vendor himself stayed silent, steadily turning pale.
“Keeping quiet won’t do you any good now,” David pressed on, a subtle warning underscoring his words.
For a long moment, the vendor just glared at him, evidently considering his options or questioning his life choices. Or both.
“Okay,” he said finally, looking away. “You are right. These are not the Titanomyrma. But I swear to God I didn’t make them. And—” he beckoned David closer.
David reluctantly leaned forward, careful to stay well clear of the crate.
“—they are not the only fakes here,” the vendor finished in a low voice.
David frowned. The guy was obviously grasping at straws, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was lying. And if he weren’t, then, well, David might end up spending more time at the market than he had originally planned.
He took a deep breath and straightened. Turning around, he addressed the onlookers: “Move along, people. Nothing to see here.”
The less curious dispersed almost immediately; the rest needed an additional encouragement. Begrudgingly, David withdrew the badge from his pocket and waved it around, causing two or three people — who looked so similar to one another they had to be related — to openly express their displeasure with authorities. In the end, however, it worked, and the unwanted audience dispersed.
As soon as the flow of the river of bodies past the stand resumed, David walked around it and joined the vendor in the back.
“Well, I am all ears.”
“Na-ah,” the man said and pressed his lips together. “I want to make a deal.”
“A deal?” David repeated, incredulous.
“Yeah. I give you the supplier and point you in the direction of their clients, and, in exchange, you let me off with a warning.”
The vendor jutted his chin out in defiance, though his eyes betrayed uncertainty.
“Do you really think you are in a position to make demands?” David said sharply. “I can just go and find the fakes myself, just like I found yours.”
“You can. And I am sure you’ll have no problems spotting the easy ones. But—” the vendor smirked. “—you should know that the merchandise I got is—how do I put this—on the lower end of the price range. The high-end stuff? You won’t be able to tell the critter isn’t real unless you run a full damn DNA analysis.”
He paused, shrugging. The gesture almost looked nonchalant.
“Besides, you won’t know who’s manufacturing them in the first place.”
David gritted his teeth.
“Tell you what,” the vendor continued, capitalizing on David’s hesitation. “I’ll give you the first one for free. See that Airstream over there?”
He waved his arm in the direction of a bullet-shaped trailer parked about fifty meters away. A long table was set up in front of the vehicle’s open door, and on it, opaque cubical containers about the size of shoe boxes were stacked one next to each other. A large, bearded man stood behind the table, gesticulating frantically at a group of bystanders.
“The guy will tell you he’s selling Deinosuchus eggs, but in reality, he just modified a common alligator to grow three times its normal size and sprinkled in some minor cosmetic details to make it look distinctly different.”
David closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. He exhaled slowly through his nose and reopened his eyes to the vendor’s hopeful face.
“How much did you make on these?” David asked slowly. “In total?”
“About four hundred credits,” the man replied, hesitantly.
Raising an eyebrow, David tilted his head to the side.
“Maybe five?” the vendor offered, before sighing. “Fine, it’s seven-fifty. Not a fraction over seven-sixty, I promise.”
“And you haven’t downloaded any to your personal account?”
David indicated the terminal, which was secured to the counter with a smart lock to prevent theft.
“No, sir. It’s all there.”
David nodded, taking another deep breath.
“Okay, I’m keeping the credits you made on these, of course. And you need to give me the names of everyone you know who is selling the fake crap, plus the manufacturer, then I’ll forget you were ever here. ”
Relief swept across the man’s face.
“But if I ever see you at one of these, I’ll remember really quickly who you are and exactly how much your illicit sales garnered.”
The vendor’s eyes flicked to the terminal. For a moment, it looked like there was a question at the tip of his tongue, but ultimately, he likely thought better of voicing it.
“Right. Got it.”
Less than ten minutes later, the stand stood empty. David had made the vendor take his abominable merchandise with him and safely dispose of it. Even with the crate’s force field, it’d be irresponsible to leave them. The the man hadn’t been very happy about it, but ultimately had no other choice but to accede to. David watched him drag the trolley with the crates stacked on it in the direction of the nearest teletransport station, and once his tall frame disappeared from view, he leaned against the counter, letting out a small laugh.
Seven hundred and fifty credits for what had it been — ten, fifteen minutes of work? And they said his doctorate in paleontology was as good as one in gender studies in the era of time zoos, prehistoric safaris, and public markets where you could literally buy yourself a pet trilobite.
David patted his jacket pocket, feeling the hard contours of the appropriated terminal inside, then considered the file on his wrist computer, hastily put together and transferred by the vendor. David was sure the incriminating information on it would be of great interest to the real inspectors, so the right thing to do was to make sure they received it. He could slip them an anonymous message, nudge them in the right direction… of whoever it was who was manufacturing the fakes.
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.”
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.”
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.
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.
We often talk about the craft of writing as if the words on the page are the story. But that’s not quite true.
What you write isn’t the story, it’s the framework used to trigger an imaginative experience inside the reader’s mind. The real story happens inside the reader’s head.
Every reader brings their own experiences, biases, memories, and emotional context to your work. When two different people read the same story, they don’t actually experience the same story. One reader might see a character’s silence as deep introspection, another might read it as passive aggression. A setting described as “dusty and quiet” might evoke peaceful nostalgia for one reader and tension or dread for another.
It’s one of the challenges of storytelling. You have to structure what you write so that your readers fill in the blanks with their own intelligence and intuition in the way that provides the experience and emotion you intend.
This is where reading is very different from going to see a movie. When watching a movie, all of the images and sounds are pushed to us, predefined with little room for our own creative interpretation. Because of this, the story inside the head of every member of the audience will be very similar.
When reading, a story only happens when a reader engages with your words and transforms them into sights, sounds, feelings, and meaning.
I subscribe to the theory that most of what we are trying to do when we tell a story is get people to feel. Emotion is what makes people care about what happens to the characters in the story and that keeps the pages turning.
I also like to think of it in terms of writing to create an experience.
Be intentional, but not controlling. You can guide the experience, but you shouldn’t dictate every detail. The reader is your collaborator.
Embrace slight ambiguity. Sometimes, the most powerful moments are the ones left just a little open-ended, allowing the reader to land on their own truth. Be careful here, clarity is still king, don’t omit too much and leave the reader confused. Confusion makes the reader put down the story and walk away.
Revise with the reader’s interpretation in mind. Ask yourself: Will this paragraph spark the right images and emotions? Or am I over-explaining and closing down possibilities for the reader to work with my words to make the story their own?
A story only lives when someone interprets in within the context of themselves.
“Andy knew this was his last chance to make things right with Cindy.”
With just one sentence, we’re already leaning in. The stakes are clear; there’s a relationship on the line. We don’t know the details yet, but we already care.
This is the power of starting with stakes.
When readers pick up a story, they’re subconsciously asking, “Why should I care?”
That doesn’t mean you need a car chase on page one. It means the story must immediately communicate that something is at risk, and that it matters deeply to someone. Stakes create tension.
Early Conflict = Early Investment
Going back to our opening line:
“Andy knew this was his last chance to make things right with Cindy.”
From this, we immediately understand:
There’s a broken relationship.
There’s urgency: a last chance.
There’s emotional weight: he wants to “make things right.”
We don’t know what Andy did and we don’t know if Cindy will forgive him, but we already want to see what happens.
The Mistake to Avoid
Too many stories start with background instead of conflict. A little background is fine. It helps to orient us as to what is going on and color in tone and setting. But often times I see stories where the author goes on for pages describing the setting or a scene before for we get to anything that matters to the character. The quicker you can get to the core conflict or stakes, the better.
Try This Exercise
Take the first paragraph of any story you are currently working on. Ask yourself:
What’s at risk here?
Does the character know it?
Will the reader care?
If the answer to any of those is “not yet,” consider revising to make sure these questions are answered.
Stakes are a promise to the reader
Keep in mind that starting with stakes is a promise to the reader. When we mention Andy’s situation in the opening line in the way we did, we are committing to our reader that by the end of the story there will be answers as to how Andy got into that situation and what the outcome will be for him.
Stakes make us care what happens and that keeps us reading.
Breaking Into The Craft 