Tag: fiction

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Fan Fiction Fan Fiction

It’s been three years since I’ve posted anything. So why not restart with some AI-generated fan fiction? Someone on Twitter posted something about fan fiction and someone else agreed with it and someone else disagreed and so to be funny, I asked Chat GPT to write a piece of fan-fiction about the post. Here’s are the tweet I saw and the tweet it referenced:

I agree with hiatus, BTW. So here is what Chat GPT wrote for me (I made up the title):

Fifty Shades of FanFic

Leia sat cross-legged on her bed, her laptop perched on her lap. Outside, the rain tapped against the windowpane, creating a soothing rhythm. She couldn’t help but agree with the quote she had just read. Fanfiction had become her refuge from the monotony of recycled stories and profit-driven media.

Leia’s favorite show had lost its magic, replaced by shallow storylines and product placements. The characters she once adored had become hollow versions of themselves, mere puppets dancing to the tune of corporate greed. Disenchanted, she turned to fanfiction, seeking solace in the words crafted by fellow fans.

Her fingers danced across the keyboard, breathing life into a story of her own. Leia poured her heart and soul onto the digital canvas, weaving intricate plots and intricate character arcs. She wrote for the sheer joy of it, for the love she felt for the original material and the desire to see it flourish once again.

In her fanfiction, Leia found the depth and emotion that had been lacking in the mainstream media. The characters became vibrant and relatable, their struggles and triumphs resonating deeply within her. It was a labor of love, a testament to her devotion to the source material.

As the rain continued its gentle symphony outside, Leia’s imagination soared. Her story unfolded before her eyes, a tapestry of emotions, friendships, and adventures. With each word, she contributed to a community of like-minded individuals, bound by their shared passion.

Leia smiled as she finished a chapter, a sense of fulfillment washing over her. In this world of mass-produced entertainment, she had found her own haven, a place where creativity thrived and genuine love for storytelling reigned supreme. She knew that her fanfiction might never reach the same heights as the original work, but that didn’t matter. It was her own little sanctuary, a home-cooked meal shared with her friends who understood the true essence of storytelling.

Leia closed her laptop, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. Fanfiction had become her sanctuary, a refuge from the fast-food stories that left her empty. She knew that as long as there were passionate fans like herself, the spirit of storytelling would continue to thrive, even in a world dominated by profit-driven entertainment. And in that realization, Leia found hope for the future, one where the power of genuine love for the source material would prevail.

F’n brilliant.

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Another Night at Tums

Postaday for May 25th: Fill In the Blank. Three people walk into a bar . . .

Three people walk into a bar. Mary, Maria, and little Marissa, just turned 21. Three generations, none of them related. They work together at Roma, Inc, an office around the corner. The bar is called Tums. Everyone inside is more or less losing their minds. There’s sports on the TV and one of the teams has done something that has driven this after-work bar crowd wild. Mary, Maria, and Marissa glide through the chaos like cherry blossoms floating through a pre-maelstrom breeze. They arrive at the bar.

Mary, Roma Inc. VP, finance, thin as bones and skin so tight she looks like she’d bounce off of swords. Says to the bar in general, “Rum and Coke” and it appears before her, instantly.

Maria is an operations director, and she will never ever be a VP. She’s married, which isn’t the problem, but she has no kids, which is the problem. She glares at the bartender until he appears. She glares at him until he picks up a glass and a bottle of Chardonnay. She glares while he pours, glares when he sets in front of her. Glares as he backs away, slowly. Maria has curly brown hair, wears a lot of lipstick. She sips the wine with lips pursed so tight that only water molecules pull through, leaving behind the alcohol.

Marissa just started at Roma. Marissa went to college a year early, got her bachelors in two years, and decided to take a year off to back pack around Europe. She wanted to really slut it up, sleep around, experiment, just go nuts. But everywhere she went, people treated her with respect and dignity. Men we courteous, almost chivalric. She got nowhere with them. She put pictures of herself online, as a test, and was reassured when anonymous assholes unambiguously noted the dirty things they’d like to do to her. So it wasn’t her. Fine. Whatever. Came back home, got her MBA in one year, got a job, turned 21, and somehow ended up walking out after work one evening at the same time as Maria who happened to be walking out at the same time as Mary.

Marissa asks the bartender for a boilermaker. He brings her a margarita. God damn it.

Mary looks over at the other two. “I’m Mary. VP.”

Maria says “Maria. OD, been with Roma 20 years.”

Marissa says “Marissa. Just started. I have no idea what I do.”

They each sip their drinks. The bar has calmed down quite a bit. In fact, many people have left. In fact, Mary, Maria, and Marissa are the only people left. Not even the bartender is there any more. There’s a loud booming sound as the door to the bar closes. The boom echoes, then all is silent.

“Marissa, you’re young,” Mary says, like one of those questions that comes out like a statement.

“Yes,” Marissa says.

“Does this story pass the Bechdel test?”

“Uh….”

“Not anymore,” Maria says, setting down her glass. She slides off her barstool, and walks towards the door. She leaves. A soon as she does, the door opens and people walk in. The bar’s a little brighter now, and the TV’s back on.

Marissa stares into her margarita. She hates margaritas. Has hated them every since Spain, where she found the only Mexican restaurant in Madrid, and drank about a dozen of them.

Mary finishes her Rum and Coke. She stands up too. The bartender’s back, and there’s a few more people at the bar now, a few in booths. A waitress walks by, carrying a tray of chicken wings. “See you tomorrow I guess,” she says, and leaves.

Through the increasing bar noise, as more and more people are getting into the game on the TV, Marissa says “No you won’t.” It’s not cynical. It’s just that VPs work on the 12th floor, and Marissa’s stuck on three.

The bartender comes by, and without asking, sets down another margarita, and a bill for all four drinks. She picks it up, walks over to a booth where a bunch of people are going to town on some jalapeno poppers. Sets the bill down amongst their soiled napkins. Asks one where the women’s restroom is. Walks in the opposite direction when it’s pointed out to her. Leaves.

The door closes behind her, shutting out the screams and hollers of a hundred sports fans losing their god damn minds.

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Make an Ordeal out of Nothing

Postaday for May 10th: Journey. Tell us about a journey — whether a physical trip you took, or an emotional one.

(I had no idea what to write, so I cribbed from The Hero’s Journey to create the following. It’s entirely fictional.)

I was sitting in my home office, browsing the internet, content in a cloud of my own inertia, fused almost as one with my big orange office chair. Outside my window, my neighbor’s dog barked, a constant litany of boredom.

My stomach started with a gurgle, and then a rumble, and then a deep pang that suggested hunger. A gnawing began to grow, in gentle tendrils that laced themselves up and down my spine.

But I knew better than to hop right up and feed. I was as like to get hungry from tedium as I was from a need for nutrition. Besides, I had a conference call coming up in a few minutes. I continued internet browsing. Oh, look, a dog chasing its own tail falls into a swimming pool. Hilarious.

A window popped up on my work PC. “Need to bump the call by half an hour.” This made me a little angry. Which conference call? I work with several teams in one day, have several calls. These guys think they’re the only game in town. Sheesh.

A tinny ding, and Outlook informs me I have a new meeting invite. I check it- the pending call is the one that is getting bumped. My stomach growls, loudly, in response. I’ve got shoes on and I’m out the door before I even realize it.

The sun is bright in my eyes, unadjusted from the comfortable darkness inside my house. My feet protests the pavement, as the lymph pooled from hours of sitting works its way out. The dog barking is louder now that I’m outside, more irritating.

My neighbor’s flower bed has gone to weeds. I used to see him out there, every sunny day, weeding, or flowering, or whatever you call it. He’d say hello. I’d ask him if he wanted anything from 7-11, and I realize now that’s where I’m headed. He’d always smile and say a diet pepsi would sort him out. I’d smile and say sure, he’d gives me a thumb’s up. He was a nice old guy.

It occurs to me that I have bread and lunch meat in my fridge. I don’t need to go to 7-11. But I’m going to anyway, get something to eat, get a diet pepsi for my neighbor, pour one out on his old flower bed. Maybe that’s silly. I’m in a silly mood.

My driveway leads to a street, of course, which has a sidewalk. The next street has no sidewalk, however. I walk against traffic, the 7-11 looming ahead in the bright sunshine.

I walk into the 7-11. The clerk knows me, smiles. My stomach growls again, fiercely. I have no idea what I want. The frozen burritos look like bricks. The bags of chips look like bags of sawdust. There’s greasy slices of pizza, oily hot dogs on rollers, a cabinet full of dried-up donuts. My head swims with hunger and indecision.

I grab a bottle of diet pepsi, walk a few more aisles. Candy bars and gum and more bags of chips. My phone in my pocket beeps—a text from a coworker. The call that was bumped has been unbumped, and starts in two minutes.

Shove my phone into my front pocket, where it pushes against my hip at an odd angle. I check my wallet. There’s only one dollar in there. I take a step away from the counter, and there’s a twinge in my hip. My phone is at an odd angle because it’s resting on some loose change. I fish the change out—that and the dollar are just enough for the diet pepsi.

I leave the 7-11 and start to run down the road. At a cut in traffic I cross the street so I can run on the left side. A car honks, but I ignore it. The barking of that damn dog is a beacon. I turn onto my street, and as I approach my driveway I realize I’ve shaken my neighbor’s diet pepsi up, but good.

I check my watch. Con call in one minute. I trot up to my neighbor’s weedy flower bed. I’m standing there, and I glance up. His old wife is peeking at me from behind the curtains. I give her a wave, and the curtains close. The dog stops barking all of a sudden. It’s an eerie quiet as I stand there for a second or two.

Then I run back to my house, into the door and up the stairs. Join the conference call. I’m a little bit sweaty from the jog back, and a little thirsty. I open the diet pepsi, and it explodes all over the place. I’m stunned. On the con call, someone is saying “Jason, what do you think? Is that a good idea? Jason? Are you there? Talking to the mute button again?”

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You Don’t Need Kentucky to Have a Derby

Postaday for January 23rd: Easy Fix. Write a post about any topic you wish, but make sure it ends with “And all was right in the world.”

Jason Edwards bursts out of his front door! He doesn’t even bother closing it behind him! He skips across the porch, down the three steps and into the sunshine, across his lawn and leaps! across the flower bed into the driveway. Runs up the drive way. Arms pumping. Untucked unbuttoned Hawaiin shirt flapping. Look at him go!

He’s to the street! Cuts right, looks for cars. Listen for cars, only hears the pounding of his heart and the wind in his ears. Crosses the street so that he’s running against traffic! If there was any traffic! But there is no traffic! His house is halfway down the block and he’s covered that half!

The cross street is busy! The cross road is at a funny angle, it confuses cars! An opportune pause as two cars turning left try to figure out who should go first! Jason Edwards darts between them! He’s next to the abandoned coffee stand now. And now he’s next to the gas station. And now he’s in the 7-11 parking lot. His feet are slapping the asphalt. He’s pounding right towards the front door.

The guy who works there sees him coming. He’s already ready. He knows what to do. Jason is on fast approach. He pulls up so as to not break through the door’s windows. He hauls the door open. He cuts a sharp right, up the aisle past gun magazines and phone cards and gift cards and miscellaneous car interior supplies. You know, cigarette lighter adapters for phone charges and stuff. He’s at the back wall, where they keep the drinks! The first one’s full of milk products!

And now he shuffles left. He doesn’t bother to turn, just shuffles left. Hands tap the cooler handles, one two three, He’s opening the fourth one! He’s grabbing a 20 oz plastic bottle of Mountain Dew! It’s cold in his hand! He closes the door, the bottle instantly humidifies, his hand is wet! He doesn’t even notice!

Jason Edwards is moving with precision. He’s turning to jet up the back aisle. He makes a left at the coffee machines. He all but leaps forward, all but lands right in front of the frozen burrito selection. There’s so many to choose from. His eyes dart over bean and cheese, cheese and chili, green chile, green bean and cheese. Wait, no, he read that last one wrong! It’s beef and bean! The wrapper is red! He grabs the beef and been frozen burrito in the red wrapper!

But it’s not really frozen! It’s only refrigerated! This bodes well for Jason Edwards. His hand is in his back pocket. How is that possible if he’s carrying a cold refreshing Mountain Dew and frozen  I mean refrigerated but pre-cooked beef and bean burrito! He’s holding them both in one hand! Folks, they’re keeping each other cold! He’s fishing out his wallet.

He’s already been run up at the register. He swipes his credit card as he runs by! He hits the door, hears the register beep the beep of credit card transaction approval! He’s out the door! The guy behind the counter adds his receipt to the stack of receipts he keeps for him in case he ever comes back in a more leisurely fashion!

He’s outside! He’s running across that same parking lot! Past that same gas station and abandoned coffee stand! And now he’s crossing the intersection! Oh my word, there’s no traffic! He’s got half a block to go. The sun is shining off the bald spot on his head. He’s got the Mountain Dew in one hand and the burrito in the other! The burrito is getting warmer! I can’t beleive it! It’s warming up in his hand as he runs!

He’s at the driveway! He turns left and runs down the driveway! He leaps the flowers, goes across the lawn, up the porch steps! His front door still open, has been open this whole time! Can you believe it! He slams the door behind him, darts up the stairs, three steps, eight steps, twelve steps, fifteen! Down the hall to his home office. Bounces off the door frame! Lands in his office chair! And the crowd! Goes! Wild!

Jason Edwards is sitting in his office chair. He chest rises and falls rapidly as he gets his breath. He carefully, almost gingerly, sets his warmed-up burrito and cold Mountain Dew on his desk. Carefully, almost gingerly, opens the Mountain Dew. Cautious against the foam. But there’s no foam. Just that effervescent aaaaaah.

He takes a long, slow pull on the bottle. Tears open the burrito, slides a bit out, takes a massive bite. His mouth is full of beef and bean burrito. He wiggles his work computer’s mouse. His work computer wakes up. After a few seconds, a reminder pops up, telling him he has a conference call. In 5 minutes.

Jason Edwards sits back, relaxes. Takes another swallow of Mountain Dew. Takes another bit of burrito. Wishes he’d written this in past tense. But, that was okay. He’d done what he’d set out to do. Which is all any man can ever hop to do. And all was right in the world.

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Radio Silent Cosmonaut

Postaday for January 22nd: Fireside Chat. What person whom you don’t know very well in real life — it could be a blogger whose writing you enjoy, a friend you just recently made, etc. — would you like to have over for a long chat in which they tell you their life story?

Laika is dressed in a cheap white dress shirt, no tie, a black jacket, black slacks that have flares and have seen better days. Her shoes are scuffed, and her socks are too light for this outfit. A cigarette dangles from one hand, idly, the ash too long, precarious. She sits in a beaten up canvas director’s chair, slouched into it. On her head a fedora with a white band— a generous viewer would say the band matcher her socks. She gazes at me, a half-smirk on her face.

I’m in the other director’s chair, in my tweed and loafers. I’m not stylish; I’m unassuming. My hair’s slicked back, in the style, and my horn-rimmed glasses are frosted so as to not catch the overhead lights. Mark, our camera man, gives me a silent count down- three, two, one go.

“Hello and welcome. With me in the studio today, we have Laika. Hello Laika, it’s good to have you here.”

She ashes, takes a drag, remains slouched. Her voice is gravelly, low, but undeniably feminine. “Thanks man, likewise, likewise.”

“Let’s get right into it, Laika. How old are you.”

She takes a deep breath. “I’m three, going on four. Of course, I was born back in, like 1989, sooo…”

“Right. If you had been born in 89, you’d be, what,” I do some math in my head. “99, 2009, 2019, you’d be-”

“Yep, 26, how about that.”

“But you weren’t actually. Born I mean.”

She takes another drag, smirk, leans forward to put out her cigarette. “No, man, I guess I wasn’t. I’m a, what do you call it. A fantasy.”

“That’s right. You’re the daughter I would have had if I’d been, ah, a little less cautious as a teenager.”

“Yeah man. You know, you got, like, classmates who are grandparents now?”

“Ha! Think of that!”

“Think of that, man.” She pats her pockets for her cigarettes.

“Indeed. So you’re three, going on four. Why that age?”

“You mean, why not 26?” She asks, and peers at me with one eye closed as she lights the cigarette and inhales.

“Yes.”

She shrugs and eases back once more. “You were, what, 17 when you would have had me? Life’s weird, man. But you know what, things work out. Maybe some of the details would be the same, but more or less, the you you are now is the same you you woulda been.”

“Except for those three years.”

“Except for those three years, man. So here I am. Talking to you. Your daughter Laika.”

“Why Laika, do you think? Isn’t that a Russian name?”

“I don’t know. I mean, yeah, it was the name of that dog they sent up into space, the Russians. Sad story, really. She was a stray, and they picked her up, you know, and fed her and trained her and all that. Treated her okay, I guess. Had to get her used to smaller and smaller boxes, since they were going to, you know, launch her into space and stuff. But she was a good little thing, took to the training. Smart. One of the scientists, though, I don’t know. Took her home to play with his kids, just the once. Said he wanted to do something nice for her. I guess that’s sweet.”

“But she died up there, ran out of oxygen, right?”

“No, no,” she shifts around in her chair, switches the cigarette to her other hand. “That’s what they said, but actually there was a problem during the launch, and her, uh, fan broke. She got overheated, died a few hours into it.”

“That’s,” I take off my glasses for effect, rub my eye. “That’s very sad.”

She takes a drag. “Yeah, pretty sad.”

“But, anyway. You probably weren’t named after the first animal in space.”

“Nah, probably not.”

“Another question, Laika— you’re only three years old. Why am I talking to what appears to be a grown-up?”

At this she chuckles. Shows her teeth. She’s got one snaggle-tooth, like the father she would have had if she’d ever been born. “You wanted my life story, man, short as it was. But kids can’t talk, not at that age.”

“And neither can dogs.”

“Nope, neither can dogs.”

I turn to the camera. “Well folks, I want to thank you for sitting down with us today.” I turn to the daughter I never had, never, truthfully, ever came close to having. “And thank you, Laika.”

“My pleasure.”

“Good night.” Mark counts me down, the fade as the credits come up, until I’m not on the screen anymore.

I go find a drink somewhere.

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Sing Us a Song, You’re The Writer Man

Postaday for January 18th: Pleased to Meet You. Write a post in which the protagonists of two different books or movies meet for the first time. How do they react to each other? Do they get along?

It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday. Paul, the real estate novelist, is pounding away at his keyboard, furiously. He knows better than to used adverbs like “furiously,” but he can’t help it. He hasn’t sold a house in several months. Or were it years. Music, ignored, pours out of speakers on either side of his computer screen. 20 plus years of collected MP3, and iTune set on random. He hears none of it.

His fingers are sore. He doesn’t care. His back is sore. He doesn’t even feel it. Words pop up in staccato as his slow word processor tries to keep up with his rat-a-tat keyboard stabbing. But Paul’s eyes are in between keyboard and screen. He’s composing. He’s decomposing.

A knock on his door. Paul writes, “he gets up and answers it.”

Light from the hallway haloes a figure in an evening gown, crowned in roses. She says, “What am I doing here?”

Paul’s eyes adjust to the light. A woman, mid-twenties, sandy-blond here, chubby cheeks, bright eyes. Half a smile on her face. She looks confused but not uncomfortable. She looks real but not substantial. Paul tries to concentrate. Glances back at the computer screen.

“Um,” he says. He half turns, half points at his computer. “Um,” he says again.

She brushes past him. “My name’s Heather, right?” she says. And walks past him. She sits down on a huge overstuffed chair. Her sash reads “Miss Rhode Island” which becomes unreadable when she sits.

“Uh, yes. That is, no.” Paul says “Your name’s actually Cheryl.” He walks back into the room, sits on his computer chair, glances at his screen, focuses on the part where he’s written “Cheryl Frasier.”

“Frasier,” she says, and smiles. “Oh, that’s a nice name.”

Paul smiles back. “Thanks! I mean, well, it’s your name. I like it too.” He looks at her for a moment or two. He never had time for a wife. Most Saturdays at nine finds him in bar, talking to Davy, who’s still in the Navy, and has been since 1973.

“1973?” She says. “That’s two years before I was born!”

Paul gives her a quizzical look. He doesn’t like that he’s used a trite phrase like “quizzical look,” but at least it’s better than “he looked at her quizzically.” He turns to the keyboard. How did she—

“Ooh, what’s this song?” she says, jumping up and leaning over his back. She smells like flowers, sweet, yellow, and just a hint of something else… he can edit that in later, maybe.

Paul reaches for the mouse to show her the song is Burning Down the House by The Talking Heads. Before he can click away from the word processor, She giggles. “Burning Down the House,” she says. “I was ten when that song came out.”

Paul spins the chair to face her. She smiles down at him, the look on her eyes enveloping, trusting. He says “Well, Heather Burns was 10 when this song came out. You would have been somewhere between 7 and 13.”

She sits in his lap. Puts her arms around him. “I think I like you.”

Paul rest his head on the “Miss” of her sash. They hum along to the rest of the song together. Then the writer stops before the next song comes on, because he’s afraid of what it might mean for them.

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Thou Shalt

You ever heard that phrase, thou shalt not suffer a witch to live? I guess I have to kill a witch then. I got one living next door to me. This is a full-on, black dress, pointy hat, green skin, hook-nose-with-a-wart witch. We’re talking cauldrons, cats, the whole bit. And I have to kill her.

Not that I believe in that Jesus stuff. Not that I even own a bible. But a rule’s a rule, I guess. Not sure how I’m supposed to do it though. Do you just shoot them? Hang ’em? Drown ’em? Does it work like The Wizard of Oz, I just got to throw a bucket of water on her or something?

Thing is, it’s my own fault. I bought the place, and the real estate agent told me and everything. “Just so you know, the lady next door, Agnes, in that scary hut looking thing, she’s a witch, an actual poison-the-neighbor’s-cow type witch. She eats children. Just so you know. Sign here, here, and here.” So I only got my self to blame. Sweet deal on fourteen hundred square feet though, let me tell you.

Maybe I thought the agent was joking, but, I don’t think I can even use that as an excuse. I mean, when I moved in, I didn’t think about how there was a pasture nearby, even though I finally noticed it last week and it wasn’t even a surprise. And there was plenty of cows in it, but there’s fewer these days. And children too, running up and down the street, until one day they just stopped, like something happened.

Now it’s up to me I guess. I mean, you would think the guy who owns those cows would do it, or the parents of them kids. Get together a regular mob with the torches and the pitchforks. But they don’t. They just go about their business, shifty glances up the hill where the witch’s hut is, next to my house. And like with the pasture, I guess I knew I was buying a place sort of removed from the main thrust of things. As long as I had access to the highway. But the other day I was talking to Gena in Accounting and telling her about the place and had to admit its more or less like we live in a little village, me and the other folks ’round here.

I was looking at the shotgun I keep propped up next to the front door, just mulling over nothing, and I thought I’d maybe go for a walk, clear my head. It was one of those cold autumn nights, big fat sliver of a moon in the sky. I walked down to the village, along the dirt road and passed the usual shoppes, like the butchers and the farriers and the apothecaries. Everything lit up by candlelight, iron-bound doors shut tight. And there goes Agnes, hobbling along like she does, cackling under her breath.

And I’m thinking, what year is this? What century? Have shot guns even been invented yet? I looked at my watch, which glows in the dark and has one of them batteries that recharges itself whenever you move. It was nearly midnight. And I’m thinking, what if the crops don’t come in? Or did the crops already come in? Are we going to have rats in the grain silos? Are we going to make it through the winter?

I went back home and turned on the TV. Typical, three hundred channels, nothing to watch, so I switched it off. Sat there in the dark. A wolf howled somewhere off on the moors. A chill set in. The fire was out, just a few coals left— don’t recall having started one earlier, but I must have. Never really occured to me that I was buying a house with a fireplace in it, me, a city boy my whole life. I looked down at my plain clothes, hand-stitched, my woven shirt and rough pants. The smell of earth coming off my thick beard from spending all day in the mines. I mean at the job where I’m the assistant tech support manager. I mean the mines.

Why do witches even do it? Why do that cast spells and spoil crops and eat children? What’s their end game? Is it like, I dunno, Nintendo for them or something? Are they just mean people?

I’m looking over at my shotgun, which is basically a scythe at this point, a huge thing, looming in the corner. The clouds outside shift, the moonlight catches the edge of the scythe blade, and I guess I got some work to do.

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