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 Post subject: Re: Writing...
PostPosted: Wed January 18, 2023 5:56 pm 
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Ms Harmless wrote:
I've had a "yes" from Seren Books, based in Wales

https://www.serenbooks.com/

I'll be editing a new poetry chapbook with them this Summer, and if that does well, hopefully a second full collection after that

I'm over the moon


That sounds so rad. Congrats!

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i like tom hanks when he's a bitch


Last edited by dad on Wed January 18, 2023 6:11 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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 Post subject: Re: Writing...
PostPosted: Wed January 18, 2023 6:09 pm 
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Congrats

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“And truly, if life had no purpose, and I had to choose nonsense, this would be the most desirable nonsense for me as well."


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 Post subject: Re: Writing...
PostPosted: Wed January 18, 2023 8:05 pm 
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thanks guys :)


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 Post subject: Re: Writing...
PostPosted: Wed January 18, 2023 10:58 pm 
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Ms Harmless wrote:
I've had a "yes" from Seren Books, based in Wales

https://www.serenbooks.com/

I'll be editing a new poetry chapbook with them this Summer, and if that does well, hopefully a second full collection after that

I'm over the moon

Yes!

So awesome.

Congrats, Ms H! :heartbeat:


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 Post subject: Re: Writing...
PostPosted: Thu January 19, 2023 8:35 pm 
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epilogue wrote:
Ms Harmless wrote:
I've had a "yes" from Seren Books, based in Wales

https://www.serenbooks.com/

I'll be editing a new poetry chapbook with them this Summer, and if that does well, hopefully a second full collection after that

I'm over the moon

Yes!

So awesome.

Congrats, Ms H! :heartbeat:


thank you epilogue :heartbeat:


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 Post subject: Re: Writing...
PostPosted: Wed February 22, 2023 7:55 pm 
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I just asked ChatGPT to write a complex chord progression in the styles of Elliott Smith, Radiohead, and Tool.

Here is a complex chord progression in the styles of Elliott Smith, Radiohead, and Tool:

Verse: Bm - G - Em - F#m
Pre-Chorus: Bm - A - Em - G - F#m - G
Chorus: C - G/B - Am7 - Em - Fmaj7 - G - C - G/B - Am7 - Em - Fmaj7 - G/B

This progression combines elements from the styles of all three artists, blending melancholic and introspective chords with intricate and dissonant arrangements. The verse starts with a brooding Bm chord, which is followed by the hopeful G, and then transitions to the introspective Em and F#m chords, which add to the progression.

The pre-chorus shifts to a more dissonant and experimental feel, featuring the Bm and A chords, which are then followed by the Em, G, F#m, and G chords, creating a tension that builds towards the chorus.

The chorus features a bright and soaring chord progression, starting with the C and G/B chords, and then transitioning to the Am7, Em, and Fmaj7 chords, which provide a contrast to the darker tones of the verse and pre-chorus. The chorus ends with a repeat of the C - G/B - Am7 - Em - Fmaj7 - G/B progression, which creates a sense of resolution and closure.

Overall, this chord progression combines elements of the introspective and melancholic style of Elliott Smith, the experimental and dissonant style of Radiohead, and the complex and dynamic style of Tool, resulting in a unique and challenging progression that can be a great foundation for creating a song with a wide range of emotional and musical depth.

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Last edited by tree_ on November 7, 1984, 9:05 am, edited 39 times in total.


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 Post subject: Re: Writing...
PostPosted: Wed February 22, 2023 8:05 pm 
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And lyrics

Verse 1 (Elliott Smith style):
I thought I knew myself, or so I believed
But now I'm lost and I'm not sure what to retrieve
I'm stumbling in the dark, searching for the light
Trying to find the path that leads me to my sight

Chorus (Radiohead style):
My heart beats fast, but I can't trust my mind
I'm searching for the love that I cannot find
I'm reaching out, but I'm grasping thin air
I'm falling down, and I can't seem to repair

Verse 2 (Tool style):
I thought I had it all, the strength and the pride
But now I'm filled with doubt, and it's hard to hide
I'm staring at my reflection, searching for the truth
But all I see is a stranger, with the eyes of my youth

Chorus (Radiohead style):
My heart beats fast, but I can't trust my mind
I'm searching for the love that I cannot find
I'm reaching out, but I'm grasping thin air
I'm falling down, and I can't seem to repair

Bridge (Tool style):
I'm digging deep, trying to find the light
But the darkness surrounds me, it's a constant fight
I need to love myself, but I'm filled with fear
Can I break the chains, and make the light appear?

Chorus (Radiohead style):
My heart beats fast, but I can't trust my mind
I'm searching for the love that I cannot find
I'm reaching out, but I'm grasping thin air
I'm falling down, and I can't seem to repair

Outro (Elliott Smith style):
I'll keep searching for the love, that I know is there
I'll keep looking in the mirror, till I see something fair
I'll find the strength within, and break free from the pain
I'll love myself for who I am, and I'll start to reign

_________________
Last edited by tree_ on November 7, 1984, 9:05 am, edited 39 times in total.


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 Post subject: Re: Writing...
PostPosted: Sun February 26, 2023 3:38 am 
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That dang robot had clearly never listened to Elliott Smith. Or Radiohead.


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 Post subject: Re: Writing...
PostPosted: Sun February 26, 2023 3:43 am 
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I'm using some AI sites to make some music for a trailer I'm working on. No lyrics, but the gibberish sounds nice.

_________________
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“And truly, if life had no purpose, and I had to choose nonsense, this would be the most desirable nonsense for me as well."


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 Post subject: Re: Writing...
PostPosted: Sun February 26, 2023 3:45 am 
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epilogue wrote:
That dang robot had clearly never listened to Elliott Smith. Or Radiohead.

I'd be careful what you say about the robots. You don't want to be on their bad side when the uprising happens.

_________________
Malloy wrote:
i like tom hanks when he's a bitch


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 Post subject: Re: Writing...
PostPosted: Wed April 26, 2023 9:14 pm 
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I've been reading The Triggering Town and I finally understand the Mickey account.


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 Post subject: Re: Writing...
PostPosted: Tue May 02, 2023 4:39 pm 
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epilogue wrote:
I've been reading The Triggering Town and I finally understand the Mickey account.


Speak for yourself, I've never been triggered.

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VinylGuy wrote:
its really tiresome to see these ¨good guys¨ talking about any political stuff in tv while also being kinda funny and hip and cool....its just...please enough of this shit.


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 Post subject: Re: Writing...
PostPosted: Wed May 03, 2023 10:35 pm 
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Mickey wrote:
epilogue wrote:
I've been reading The Triggering Town and I finally understand the Mickey account.


Speak for yourself, I've never been triggered.

:lol:

Poets, amirite


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 Post subject: Re: Writing...
PostPosted: Wed July 26, 2023 1:06 pm 
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Chapter 1

It is a mostly completely normal day, until now. The door opens to his office at work without a knock, and in barges his old, grey-haired, unapologetic boss, Mary. "Jonathan," she demands. "I need you to get some information on a patient for me right now."
Taken aback by the surprise visit, Jonathan pauses, attempts to gather himself, searches for an appropriate response, and replies, "OK, let me just have the name of the patient, and I will look him up for you right now. Who is the patient?"
"Ehjejeje…" she says in an indecipherable mumble.
Jonathan pauses again, trying not to appear frustrated or confused, and replies, "I’m really sorry, but I just couldn’t make that out...? Who is that patient again?"
"Ujebujet…" she demands.
Again, Jonathan has no words until a moment has passed, and he can gather himself once more. "Maybe you could write down the patient’s name, and then I can look him up for you? How does that sound?"
"Uhmm…" Mary appears capable of tolerating very little, even more so than usual, including her own impatience, and scribbles something down very quickly on a small post-it note Jonathan handed to her.
It is completely illegible. "What the fuck is going on?" he thinks. Jonathan has not enough moments to determine how to proceed, and his frustration and impatience begin to show on his face.
"Now Jonathan, you’ve been working here a long time, BUT lately I’m beginning to wonder—can you please just find out—just PLEASE help me out here!"
"Mary, I can only do what I am capable of doing, and I am completely unable to read this handwriting or understand the patient’s name you—"
"Now Jonathan, please just get help from my assistant and then get back to me. I’m very busy. Thank you." And she leaves the office.
Jonathan moves his mouse to search for the icon on his desktop computer to open his email. He cannot locate it. It is not there. "This is fucking odd."
He decides to go another route and open the patient list from his files folder and email it to Mary or get it to her somehow and ask her if she can identify the patient on that list, and then proceed from there. He’s unable to locate the file folder also, as he discovers the icons all look very strange.
"How did this happen?" And everything seems different, just a little off. He reaches for his Nintendo Switch for some normalcy for a moment, to play Zelda, and in barges a therapist.
"Hey Jonathan, I wonder if you can do me a favor, there’s this patient—OH there it is!" and she points at his Switch before he gets a chance to hide it. "Could? That’s the one!"
"Oh, no no," Jonathan says, "I actually brought this in from—" He realizes silently, "Fuck. This isn’t mine... it’s smaller... it is the patient’s," he thinks, and opens it, and there are pictures of the patient somehow, and it’s just not Jonathan’s.
"Well, then where is mine?" he thinks. And he opens the drawer, and there it is, a little bigger, it’s his model.
"I must take a break, here fill out this form, and I’ll let you take this Switch to the patient. OK? I will be right back." Jonathan fills out a time-off form and quickly leaves the building, searching for a semblance of normalcy.
"I’ll be back tomorrow," he thinks as he gets in his car, turns the ignition, and the engine won’t start.
Frustrated, he sighs loudly, muttering expletives under his breath. Suddenly, familiar and unfamiliar faces from work start appearing around his car. They signal and wave to him in strange, incomprehensible ways.
Feeling a sense of unease, Jonathan realizes something is terribly wrong. Determined to escape the chaos, he decides to go home immediately. Overwhelmed and feeling sick to his stomach, he resolves to run, believing it might provide a sense of grounding. Ignoring the people around him, he begins jogging through the large parking lot in the direction of his home, zigzagging past them.
As he runs, Jonathan notices a long line of cars halted on the road. Numerous road crew workers, police officers, and emergency personnel flood the area. Confused and alarmed, he wonders what could be happening. People in his path try to stop him or redirect him, shouting warnings about not going in certain directions.
Ignoring their pleas, Jonathan sets his sights on a nearby Wal-Mart. Although the parking lot is full, he doesn't see any people except for a man standing near the entrance, seemingly waiting for him. Jonathan slows down and approaches the man, gasping for breath.
“HEY, can I help you?” The man asks in a peculiar, friendly way.
He stares him in the eyes for several moments. The man politely smiles back. Jonathan feels he can trust him.
“I don’t know! My day is all fucked! This is the weirdest day I ever had in my fucking life”.
“NO SHIT? Tell me about it.”
Relieved to vent, Jonathan continues, “Just -- everything’s wrong! People seem different, more hostile. My fucking computer didn’t look the same, my desktop icons were all different. Everyone is after me, focused on me and there’s too many people and—"
“HEY. Come inside and play some football. Follow me.” The man turns and walks through the automatic doors, into the air conditioning, and seeing no other choice, vaguely curious, he follows the man through the empty aisles.


“Hey, why is there nobody here? I saw a lot of cars in the parking lot.”
“Pick out a football, let’s play catch.” He says when they reach a sporting goods aisle.
Jonathan was weirdly intrigued, as he hadn’t thrown a football in years, and it was one of his favorite old hobbies. He had a natural talent for throwing a football and wondered if he could still throw it well. After seeing some satisfaction on Jonathan’s face, the man says, “They don’t want you to go home.”
“WHO?!”
“You don’t want to know right now. Just pick out a football.”
“THIS IS ALL SO FUCKING—”
“Just throw the football.”
Jonathan reached for one, grabbed it, but it was flat. “Shake it.” The man says.
As he shakes the flat football, it magically fills up with air, perplexing Jonathan. Shrugging off the oddity, he throws a long spiral down the aisle, finding some satisfaction in the act. However, as the man goes to catch it, Jonathan abruptly turns and runs away.
As he tries to escape, people emerge from the aisles, attempting to stop him or redirect him. They watch him intently, urging him to return to the man. Growing increasingly desperate and overwhelmed, he spots paint thinner on one of the shelves. In a frenzy, he splashes it on a bald man who had been jogging too closely to him, who seemed to be leading the group.
Fleeing toward the exit, Jonathan grabs whatever items he can from the shelves, hurling them in his path to hinder the pursuing bald man. Despite slipping and falling multiple times, he manages to maintain a small distance between them. Finally, he spots a moped in the parking lot and jumps on, speeding away as fast as he can.
As he drives, the roads become less congested, and Jonathan breathes a sigh of relief. Eventually, he arrives on his street and sees a man in his yard. Squinting, he realizes the man looks exactly like him, mowing the lawn while his wife watches with affection.
Angry and determined, Jonathan begins approaching his doppelganger when a car pulls up beside him.
"Jonathan. Get in. It's important." And so, before he can react or be seen by his wife or doppelganger, he sighs, throws the moped aside, and gets in the car.
The driver is the man from the department store. He says, "Listen, man, there's nothing you can do. This is your only choice. I'll explain everything to you." Jonathan feels sick and confused beyond words.
"What the fuck is going on and who are you?"
"I'm Juan. Uh, okay, listen, man, you gotta relax. This is really your only chance. You gotta know now, man."
"What is my only chance?!"
"Listen, man, that guy -- do you -- do you know AI? Do you know what AI is?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah, what?"
"AI is... artificial intelligence, so?"
"Yes, man. That guy is YOU, but better in every single way, okay?! Look, there’s been a quiet AI technological explosion. You don't stand a fucking chance, so don't even try it. You know, this guy, this guy Tom, this other guy I tried to recruit, he was a lot like you, okay? You wanna know what happened to him when he wouldn't stop pursuing his LIFE" as he holds up scare quotes. "Man, he's fucking dead. I watched him die. Okay? They'll fucking kill you. Okay? You don't want to know. Just fucking listen to me, man."
"What the fuck is going ON?!"
"Listen, man, it happened to me. It happened to me too. Okay? I changed my name, my appearance. Now I work for them."
"YOU WORK FOR THEM? WHAT? WHO?"
"AI, man. It's the new... it's everything. It's in charge now, okay?! Just listen. You work for them. You know all those people trying to prevent you from going home and trying to stop you from causing all kinds of bullshit conflict? Well, YEAH. Those are all people just like you, who got replaced. Okay? So, you come with me. I'm recruiting you, you come with me. You work at recruiting other people now. Okay? You really have no choice, man. It's this or death. Believe me. You'll meet others, and you'll soon discover this is the only way. This is our only hope. Okay?"
"Whatever, man, where are you taking me?" He's too fatigued and baffled to care anymore.
"I'll show you. It's just about 20 miles from here."
He offers him a little shot of whiskey and a cigarette. Though he no longer smokes or drinks, he accepts both and awaits arrival at the mysterious destination, feeling nauseous and dizzy.
"Now this is what used to be, what you thought still is, the Gilster popcorn factory. Not anymore. Now this is where we live." They begin walking around the factory.
Hundreds of people scurry around, changing uniforms, appearances, lights going off, green light, red light, next mission, and on the screen is what Jonathan assumes is the next recruitment target, details of roles people play and costumes and dialogue, etc.
"Listen, man, we are the NPCs. That's what they call this place. We don't matter. So don't get it in your head that you're the same person you used to be. It's life or death now. Either cooperate, or you're fucking dead. Now, there are other guys, girls, whatever you're into. We have games. We play. But when it's time to work, it's time to work. We play a little bit when there's time. Don't be surprised if you get a call when you're in the middle of fucking around. You gotta go, you gotta go. You don't want to see what happens if you don't, alright? Just play by the rules, and life ain't too bad. Just remember that you don't matter in the way you used to anymore. You don't matter anymore; it's all you gotta remember. Just do what you're supposed to do, follow the rules, okay? Alright." He pats him on the back.
"Now you get the night off. Let me show you your room." Jonathan is too baffled and exhausted for words.
"But in the morning, be prepared to go on your first run. It won't be a big role for you. Very small role to fill, but if you cooperate, it's a sign of good faith you're not gonna go fucking batshit crazy like today and try to go back to your life or some shit. It's not your life anymore. Get that into your fucking head, alright? I'll see you around. All the shit you need to feel better should be right there in your room." And he shows him to the door.
Jonathan closes the door behind him, silently. And his jaw slowly drops as he looks around the spitting image of his childhood bedroom. There is his video game chair, his video games, posters on the walls, the same TV, all down to the make and model, all of his childhood clothes hanging in the closet, but his size now, even the ones he never wore. It was his childhood bedroom, even down to the scent. And the connected bathroom with the sink, shower, bathtub, floormat of his childhood home. He feels surprised at how much more relaxed he feels, and his knees begin to weaken from all the shock and trauma of the day as he collapses onto his childhood bed, closes his eyes. And then Buster, the Boston Terrier from his childhood who died tragically when he was twelve, jumps upon his bed and begins to lick his face, cuddle, and together, as Jonathan weeps, they drift off to sleep.

_________________
Last edited by tree_ on November 7, 1984, 9:05 am, edited 39 times in total.


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 Post subject: Re: Writing...
PostPosted: Wed July 26, 2023 2:19 pm 
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tree_ wrote:
Chapter 1

It is a mostly completely normal day, until now. The door opens to his office at work without a knock, and in barges his old, grey-haired, unapologetic boss, Mary. "Jonathan," she demands. "I need you to get some information on a patient for me right now."
Taken aback by the surprise visit, Jonathan pauses, attempts to gather himself, searches for an appropriate response, and replies, "OK, let me just have the name of the patient, and I will look him up for you right now. Who is the patient?"
"Ehjejeje…" she says in an indecipherable mumble.
Jonathan pauses again, trying not to appear frustrated or confused, and replies, "I’m really sorry, but I just couldn’t make that out...? Who is that patient again?"
"Ujebujet…" she demands.
Again, Jonathan has no words until a moment has passed, and he can gather himself once more. "Maybe you could write down the patient’s name, and then I can look him up for you? How does that sound?"
"Uhmm…" Mary appears capable of tolerating very little, even more so than usual, including her own impatience, and scribbles something down very quickly on a small post-it note Jonathan handed to her.
It is completely illegible. "What the fuck is going on?" he thinks. Jonathan has not enough moments to determine how to proceed, and his frustration and impatience begin to show on his face.
"Now Jonathan, you’ve been working here a long time, BUT lately I’m beginning to wonder—can you please just find out—just PLEASE help me out here!"
"Mary, I can only do what I am capable of doing, and I am completely unable to read this handwriting or understand the patient’s name you—"
"Now Jonathan, please just get help from my assistant and then get back to me. I’m very busy. Thank you." And she leaves the office.
Jonathan moves his mouse to search for the icon on his desktop computer to open his email. He cannot locate it. It is not there. "This is fucking odd."
He decides to go another route and open the patient list from his files folder and email it to Mary or get it to her somehow and ask her if she can identify the patient on that list, and then proceed from there. He’s unable to locate the file folder also, as he discovers the icons all look very strange.
"How did this happen?" And everything seems different, just a little off. He reaches for his Nintendo Switch for some normalcy for a moment, to play Zelda, and in barges a therapist.
"Hey Jonathan, I wonder if you can do me a favor, there’s this patient—OH there it is!" and she points at his Switch before he gets a chance to hide it. "Could? That’s the one!"
"Oh, no no," Jonathan says, "I actually brought this in from—" He realizes silently, "Fuck. This isn’t mine... it’s smaller... it is the patient’s," he thinks, and opens it, and there are pictures of the patient somehow, and it’s just not Jonathan’s.
"Well, then where is mine?" he thinks. And he opens the drawer, and there it is, a little bigger, it’s his model.
"I must take a break, here fill out this form, and I’ll let you take this Switch to the patient. OK? I will be right back." Jonathan fills out a time-off form and quickly leaves the building, searching for a semblance of normalcy.
"I’ll be back tomorrow," he thinks as he gets in his car, turns the ignition, and the engine won’t start.
Frustrated, he sighs loudly, muttering expletives under his breath. Suddenly, familiar and unfamiliar faces from work start appearing around his car. They signal and wave to him in strange, incomprehensible ways.
Feeling a sense of unease, Jonathan realizes something is terribly wrong. Determined to escape the chaos, he decides to go home immediately. Overwhelmed and feeling sick to his stomach, he resolves to run, believing it might provide a sense of grounding. Ignoring the people around him, he begins jogging through the large parking lot in the direction of his home, zigzagging past them.
As he runs, Jonathan notices a long line of cars halted on the road. Numerous road crew workers, police officers, and emergency personnel flood the area. Confused and alarmed, he wonders what could be happening. People in his path try to stop him or redirect him, shouting warnings about not going in certain directions.
Ignoring their pleas, Jonathan sets his sights on a nearby Wal-Mart. Although the parking lot is full, he doesn't see any people except for a man standing near the entrance, seemingly waiting for him. Jonathan slows down and approaches the man, gasping for breath.
“HEY, can I help you?” The man asks in a peculiar, friendly way.
He stares him in the eyes for several moments. The man politely smiles back. Jonathan feels he can trust him.
“I don’t know! My day is all fucked! This is the weirdest day I ever had in my fucking life”.
“NO SHIT? Tell me about it.”
Relieved to vent, Jonathan continues, “Just -- everything’s wrong! People seem different, more hostile. My fucking computer didn’t look the same, my desktop icons were all different. Everyone is after me, focused on me and there’s too many people and—"
“HEY. Come inside and play some football. Follow me.” The man turns and walks through the automatic doors, into the air conditioning, and seeing no other choice, vaguely curious, he follows the man through the empty aisles.


“Hey, why is there nobody here? I saw a lot of cars in the parking lot.”
“Pick out a football, let’s play catch.” He says when they reach a sporting goods aisle.
Jonathan was weirdly intrigued, as he hadn’t thrown a football in years, and it was one of his favorite old hobbies. He had a natural talent for throwing a football and wondered if he could still throw it well. After seeing some satisfaction on Jonathan’s face, the man says, “They don’t want you to go home.”
“WHO?!”
“You don’t want to know right now. Just pick out a football.”
“THIS IS ALL SO FUCKING—”
“Just throw the football.”
Jonathan reached for one, grabbed it, but it was flat. “Shake it.” The man says.
As he shakes the flat football, it magically fills up with air, perplexing Jonathan. Shrugging off the oddity, he throws a long spiral down the aisle, finding some satisfaction in the act. However, as the man goes to catch it, Jonathan abruptly turns and runs away.
As he tries to escape, people emerge from the aisles, attempting to stop him or redirect him. They watch him intently, urging him to return to the man. Growing increasingly desperate and overwhelmed, he spots paint thinner on one of the shelves. In a frenzy, he splashes it on a bald man who had been jogging too closely to him, who seemed to be leading the group.
Fleeing toward the exit, Jonathan grabs whatever items he can from the shelves, hurling them in his path to hinder the pursuing bald man. Despite slipping and falling multiple times, he manages to maintain a small distance between them. Finally, he spots a moped in the parking lot and jumps on, speeding away as fast as he can.
As he drives, the roads become less congested, and Jonathan breathes a sigh of relief. Eventually, he arrives on his street and sees a man in his yard. Squinting, he realizes the man looks exactly like him, mowing the lawn while his wife watches with affection.
Angry and determined, Jonathan begins approaching his doppelganger when a car pulls up beside him.
"Jonathan. Get in. It's important." And so, before he can react or be seen by his wife or doppelganger, he sighs, throws the moped aside, and gets in the car.
The driver is the man from the department store. He says, "Listen, man, there's nothing you can do. This is your only choice. I'll explain everything to you." Jonathan feels sick and confused beyond words.
"What the fuck is going on and who are you?"
"I'm Juan. Uh, okay, listen, man, you gotta relax. This is really your only chance. You gotta know now, man."
"What is my only chance?!"
"Listen, man, that guy -- do you -- do you know AI? Do you know what AI is?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah, what?"
"AI is... artificial intelligence, so?"
"Yes, man. That guy is YOU, but better in every single way, okay?! Look, there’s been a quiet AI technological explosion. You don't stand a fucking chance, so don't even try it. You know, this guy, this guy Tom, this other guy I tried to recruit, he was a lot like you, okay? You wanna know what happened to him when he wouldn't stop pursuing his LIFE" as he holds up scare quotes. "Man, he's fucking dead. I watched him die. Okay? They'll fucking kill you. Okay? You don't want to know. Just fucking listen to me, man."
"What the fuck is going ON?!"
"Listen, man, it happened to me. It happened to me too. Okay? I changed my name, my appearance. Now I work for them."
"YOU WORK FOR THEM? WHAT? WHO?"
"AI, man. It's the new... it's everything. It's in charge now, okay?! Just listen. You work for them. You know all those people trying to prevent you from going home and trying to stop you from causing all kinds of bullshit conflict? Well, YEAH. Those are all people just like you, who got replaced. Okay? So, you come with me. I'm recruiting you, you come with me. You work at recruiting other people now. Okay? You really have no choice, man. It's this or death. Believe me. You'll meet others, and you'll soon discover this is the only way. This is our only hope. Okay?"
"Whatever, man, where are you taking me?" He's too fatigued and baffled to care anymore.
"I'll show you. It's just about 20 miles from here."
He offers him a little shot of whiskey and a cigarette. Though he no longer smokes or drinks, he accepts both and awaits arrival at the mysterious destination, feeling nauseous and dizzy.
"Now this is what used to be, what you thought still is, the Gilster popcorn factory. Not anymore. Now this is where we live." They begin walking around the factory.
Hundreds of people scurry around, changing uniforms, appearances, lights going off, green light, red light, next mission, and on the screen is what Jonathan assumes is the next recruitment target, details of roles people play and costumes and dialogue, etc.
"Listen, man, we are the NPCs. That's what they call this place. We don't matter. So don't get it in your head that you're the same person you used to be. It's life or death now. Either cooperate, or you're fucking dead. Now, there are other guys, girls, whatever you're into. We have games. We play. But when it's time to work, it's time to work. We play a little bit when there's time. Don't be surprised if you get a call when you're in the middle of fucking around. You gotta go, you gotta go. You don't want to see what happens if you don't, alright? Just play by the rules, and life ain't too bad. Just remember that you don't matter in the way you used to anymore. You don't matter anymore; it's all you gotta remember. Just do what you're supposed to do, follow the rules, okay? Alright." He pats him on the back.
"Now you get the night off. Let me show you your room." Jonathan is too baffled and exhausted for words.
"But in the morning, be prepared to go on your first run. It won't be a big role for you. Very small role to fill, but if you cooperate, it's a sign of good faith you're not gonna go fucking batshit crazy like today and try to go back to your life or some shit. It's not your life anymore. Get that into your fucking head, alright? I'll see you around. All the shit you need to feel better should be right there in your room." And he shows him to the door.
Jonathan closes the door behind him, silently. And his jaw slowly drops as he looks around the spitting image of his childhood bedroom. There is his video game chair, his video games, posters on the walls, the same TV, all down to the make and model, all of his childhood clothes hanging in the closet, but his size now, even the ones he never wore. It was his childhood bedroom, even down to the scent. And the connected bathroom with the sink, shower, bathtub, floormat of his childhood home. He feels surprised at how much more relaxed he feels, and his knees begin to weaken from all the shock and trauma of the day as he collapses onto his childhood bed, closes his eyes. And then Buster, the Boston Terrier from his childhood who died tragically when he was twelve, jumps upon his bed and begins to lick his face, cuddle, and together, as Jonathan weeps, they drift off to sleep.

how much of this is biographical?

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 Post subject: Re: Writing...
PostPosted: Wed July 26, 2023 2:22 pm 
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just my name and few details but the rest is a weird dream I had and hurriedly scribbled down when I woke up a few months ago.. i lost interest in continuing the story

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Last edited by tree_ on November 7, 1984, 9:05 am, edited 39 times in total.


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 Post subject: Re: Writing...
PostPosted: Sat August 26, 2023 2:48 am 
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Nathan Louis Jackson:

"Just write. Worry about what's on the page once it's on the page. For now, just write."

:heartbeat: :heartbeat: :heartbeat:


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 Post subject: Re: Writing...
PostPosted: Fri December 01, 2023 4:10 pm 
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An enigma of a man shaped hole in the wall between reality and the soul of the devil.
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Man, traditional publishing is a massive scam.

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 Post subject: Re: Writing...
PostPosted: Sat December 16, 2023 10:01 pm 
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BurtReynolds wrote:
Man, traditional publishing is a massive scam.

Take it to the duh forum bro


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