Story ideas come from everywhere. Sometimes from books, sometimes from overheard conversations, sometimes from the dubious cesspool of internet memes. The meme I saw claimed that male flatworms duel with their penises to determine which one gets saddled with pregnancy. Naturally, I thought: That’s a story seed if ever I’ve seen one. Biomimicry is also a viable source.
Audio: NotebookLM podcast on this topic.
Of course, the meme was wrong. Flatworms aren’t male, or female. They’re simultaneous hermaphrodites – every worm is kitted out with sperm factories and egg sacs, with duelling penises to boot. When two meet, they fence. Whoever lands the stab injects sperm through the other’s skin (hypodermic insemination, to use the clinical term). The “winner” struts away as father, the “loser” absorbs the sperm, becomes mother, and carries the eggs. Sometimes both stab each other, and both walk away victorious fathers and reluctant mothers. Equality at last.
This is not genre fantasy, it’s zoology. No X or Y chromosomes, no fixed roles, just biology as a knife fight.
Writers, take note: this is why you don’t trust memes as science, but you do trust them as inspiration. The error – “male flatworms” – was pedestrian. The truth – all flatworms are both sexes all the time – is far more subversive. It blows up the binary and replaces it with a contest. Parenthood isn’t destiny, it’s a duel.
If I were to anthropomorphise this, I’d have the makings of a gladiator society: wounds as wombs, motherhood as punishment, fatherhood as prize. Not homoerotic vampire tropes, not vagina dentata horror – something stranger, sharper, harder to tame. A kind of Spartacus with gonads.
The point isn’t whether I’ll write it (probably not; worms don’t sell). The point is that even bad science can spark good fiction, provided you bother to check the details before running to press. Let the meme start the fire, let the facts shape the flame.
See Also (for the bookish wormhole explorer):
David Brin, Glory Season: speculative reproductive politics, society structured by cloning and sexual cycles.
Ursula K. Le Guin, The Left Hand of Darkness: androgynous Gethenians shifting between fatherhood and motherhood.
Kij Johnson, Mantis Wives (short story): erotic horror inspired by mantis cannibalism, equal parts Kama Sutra and war crime.
Angela Carter, The Passion of New Eve: grotesque gender-bending satire, bodies rewritten as battlegrounds.
An unsolved literary mystery where language fails first.
I’m thrilled to announce the release of my latest novella, Temporal Babel, now available in paperback and hardcover. It’s a story about a man who arrives with no language the world can understand—and the woman who tries to name him anyway.
Audio: NotebookLM podcast on this topic.
Set in small-town New Mexico, Temporal Babel is not a thriller. It’s not about saving the future or rewriting the past. It’s about the weird middle ground where things don’t quite translate—linguistically, temporally, emotionally.
If you’ve ever wondered what it would feel like to encounter someone truly out of place—where even the word where doesn’t land—you’ll find something resonant in these pages.
What’s it about?
A young woman discovers a man on the roadside. He’s naked. Marked with strange blue scars. And the words coming out of his mouth aren’t quite English. Or anything else.
No memory. No ID. No history that the town of Anika can decipher. But as he begins to recover, the sound of his voice becomes its own riddle.
Some readers may call this speculative fiction. Others might shelve it under linguistic noir. I just call it a contact story—minus the aliens, or is it?
Why read it?
🔹 If you enjoy novels that refuse to explain themselves, this one’s for you.
🔹 If you like language play, phonetic drift, and dialect as plot, this one delivers.
🔹 If you like stories where the weirdness builds slowly, quietly, without fireworks—you’ll feel right at home.
“Dis kē?” he asks. What is this? No one knows. Not even the narrator.
📖 Temporal Babel is available now in paperback and hardcover.
This isn’t a promotional post. I’ve recently discovered the hidden value of audiobooks—and it has nothing to do with selling them.
Back in 2024, when I released Hemo Sapiens: Awakening, I must have read the manuscript a thousand times. I even recorded an audiobook, using an AI voice from ElevenLabs. At the time, Audible wouldn’t accept AI narration. The rules have since changed. It’s now available—though still not on Audible (and therefore not on Amazon).
I’d hired a few proofreaders and beta readers. They helped. The book improved. And yet, even after all that, I still found typos. Those bastards are insidious.
The real revelation came when I started listening.
Since I’d already created the audiobook, I began proofreading by ear. That’s when it hit me: hearing the story is nothing like reading it. Sentences that looked fine on the page fell flat aloud. So I rewrote passages—not for grammar, but for cadence, clarity, flow.
Then came the second benefit: catching mistakes. Typos. Tense slips. I favour first-person, present-tense, limited point of view—it’s immersive, intimate, synchronised with the protagonist’s thoughts. But sometimes, I slip. Listening helped catch those lapses, especially the subtle ones a skim-reading brain politely ignores.
For Sustenance, the audiobook was an afterthought. I submitted the print files, requested a proof copy, and while I waited, I rendered the audio. When the proof arrived, I listened instead of reading. I found errors. Again. Thanks to that timing, I could fix them before production. Of course, fixing the manuscript meant updating the audiobook. A pain—but worth it.
I hadn’t planned to make an audiobook for Propensity—some of the prose is too stylistic, too internal—but I did anyway, because of what I’d learned from Sustenance. And again, I found too many errors. Maybe I need better proofreaders. Or maybe this is just the fallback system now.
I’ve had Temporal Babel, a novelette, on hold for months. I won’t release it until I do the same: make an audiobook, listen, reconcile with the page.
Lesson learned.
I’ve got several more manuscripts waiting in the wings—some have been loitering there for over a year. Their release has been deprioritised for various reasons, but when they go out, they’ll have audio versions too. Not for the sake of listeners. For me.
Honestly, I should do this for my blog posts as well. But editing on the web is easier. The stakes are lower. Mistakes don’t print themselves in ink.
I just completed a second draft of a novelette I’ve been working on. I had ChatGPT (Dall-E) render a quick sample cover.
A young woman stumbles across an unconscious man on a remote highway outside Anika, New Mexico. He’s naked, tattooed, breathing — and utterly incomprehensible. Medical professionals, police, and a determined psychiatrist try to parse his language, but his words follow rules that don’t exist and reference a world no one knows. As they struggle to decode him, they’re forced to reckon with the limits of their own assumptions, both linguistic and moral.
Temporal Babel explores the failure of language, the fragility of identity, and the quiet panic that sets in when comprehension fails.
The story takes place in New Mexico, and I wanted a minimalist visual style to match the prose. I believe that a beige desert set against a blue sky is perfect. The deserted highway with a single cactus speaks volumes. The footprints in the desert are also evocative. I love the simplicity of the palette.
Though it revered the front and back cover art, it generally followed my instructions. Artificial intelligence (AI) has made significant progress in a year. All of the words are spelt correctly. I could Photoshop this into shape with little effort.
I only plan to release this as an ePUB because I am compiling a triptych. Currently, the body copy stands at 105 pages, so with title pages and the rest, it should reach 112 pages, which is perfect for seven 16-page signatures.
I employ AI editors for copyediting and alpha-reading. They are useful but have limitations.
Some of my writing is ordinary – Acts I, II, and III; Beginning, Middle, and End. This is AI’s sweet spot: assess a piece and compare it to a million similar pieces, sharing plot structures, story and character arcs, heroes’ journeys, and saving cats.
Other stories are experimental. They don’t follow the Western tradition of tidy storylines and neat little bows, evey aspect strongly telegraphed, so as not to lose any readers along the journey.
Mary approaches a doorway. Mary opens the door. She walks through the doorway — the doorway she had approached.
Obviously, this is silly and exaggerated, but the point remains. AI presumes that readers need to be spoonfed, especially American audiences. (No offence.)
But life doesn’t work like this. We often witness events where we have no idea what happens after we experience them. We pass strangers on the street, not knowing anything about their past or future. We overhear something interesting, never to get a resolution. We get passed by for a promotion but never know the reason why.
In science, there are lots of dead ends. Do we want to know the answers? Yes. Is one likely? Maybe; maybe not. Will we make up answers just to satisfy our need for closure? It happens all the time.
In writing, we seem to not accept these loose ends. How many times have you read a review or critique where the complaint is, “What happened to this character?” or “Why didn’t Harry Potter use his invisibility cloak more than once despite it being an obvious solution to many prior and future challenges he faced?”
Sure. I agree that it feels like a plot hole, but the author doesn’t have to tell you that Harry lost it in a poker match, it got lost in the wash, or Ron snatched it.
I’m finishing a story, and various AIs provide similar commentary. Even more humorous are the times it can’t follow a thread, but when a human reviewer reads it, they have no difficulty. In the end, there may be unanswered questions. Some of these leave the universe open for further exploration, but not all questions have answers. AI has difficulty grasping this perspective.
The skies darkened over the Coop of Justice. Inside, Rhoticity Chicken—a rooster of unparalleled enunciation—perched on his golden roost, adjusting his crimson cape. His mission was simple: to defend the final R in English against the insidious forces of vowel decay.
Audio: NotebookLM discusses this topic.
Across the barnyard, his greatest nemesis, Non-Rhotic Chicken, cackled from atop his weathered soapbox. “Togethah, my feathah’d comrades,” he declared, wings outstretched, “we shall ERASE the intrusive ‘R’ from this land. Wintah, summah, law and ordah—it shall all flow smoothly once more!”
A murmur rippled through the coop. Some hens clucked nervously. Others nodded, spellbound by his seamless vowel transitions.
But then, a mighty R echoed through the barn like thunder.
“NEVER!”
Rhoticity Chicken flapped into the air, his chest puffed out with impeccable articulation. “You shall NOT take the final ‘R’! I have defended it from the creeping shadows of elision for YEARS, and I shall not fail now!”
From the shadows emerged The Trilled Chick Henchmen, a gang of feathered mercenaries trained in rolled Rs. They trilled menacingly, their Spanish and Italian inflections rattling the walls of the barn.
“Señor Rhoticity, your time is up,” rasped El Gallito, the leader of the henchmen. “Your crude American Rs will be smoothed away like an old dialect in the sands of time. Trill, my hermanos!”
They rolled their Rs in unison, a sinister wave of phonetic force blasting toward Rhoticity Chicken. He staggered, his own hard R wavering against the onslaught of linguistic variation.
But he clenched his beak and stood firm.
“No,” he declared, eyes blazing. “You can roll your Rs, you can drop them, but you will NEVER take away my right… to pronounce… HARD R’s!”
With a mighty CROW, he unleashed his ultimate attack:
THE RHOTIC RESONANCE
A shockwave of perfectly articulated, non-trilled Rs blasted through the barn. It swept across the land, restoring all lost R’s to their rightful places.
Non-Rhotic Chicken gasped as his vowels stiffened. “No—NOOOO! My beautiful syllabic flow—GONE!” He clutched his throat as a long-forgotten ‘R’ slipped back into his speech.
“I… I… can’t… say cah anymore… I… I just said… car.”
The barn fell silent.
Defeated, Non-Rhotic Chicken collapsed into a pile of feathers, mumbling in fully articulated rhoticity.
The Trilled Chick Henchmen scattered, their rolling Rs faltering into incoherent babbling.
Rhoticity Chicken stood victorious. He fluffed his cape, took a dignified breath, and proclaimed:
“Justice. Honor. Pronunciation.”
And with that, he flew into the night, ready to defend hard R’s wherever they were threatened.
My biggest problem with generative AI is its lack of subtlety and misunderstanding of satire and irony. I am writing a short story, and a character is calling an emergency number. I shared the first scene with Grok, and it suggests that I turn the absurdity up to 11 and replace this segment with the one above:
“Okay, ma’am. Can you stay with him? I’ll dispatch an ambulance to your location.”
It is funny in its way, but I’m only pretty sure that an operator would not be injecting humour into a situation where a woman is reporting an unconscious person. Absurd doesn’t need to be Monty Python funny.
Am I being too critical?
Audio: NotebookLM Podcast discusses this issue.
More to the point, I find that many humans miss subtlety. Many people need every storyline highlighted and retraced with a bold Sharpie. Every detail needs to be explained because they can’t connect the dots. This is reflected in the cinema, television, and books of the past half-century or more, so is it fair to criticise AI for being dull when it’s at least on par with more than half the human population.
I don’t hide the fact that I rely on AI for early editorial feedback. Once a story is complete, I break out AutoCrit. This programme works well for typical stories that follow standard practices with common tropes. It gets quite confused when I feed it intentionally awkward stories, not the least of which is to advise me to eliminate the awkwardness.
This is a challenge with AI more generally. In this particular story, I leave a lot of loose ends and misdirects, as it’s a commentary on the conspiracy-driven culture we inhabit. The advice, is along the lines of, “You forget to close this lopp. What happened to so and so.”
But this is life. We don’t always know the full story. We drive past an multi-car accident where cares are overturned and in flames, but we never find out what happens – even if we scour the newspapers and internet. Who was that? What happened? What caused it?
We often never find out. In most books and movies, we find out everythung, and it all comes packaged with a nice bow. This is what AI expects. It’s the diet it’s been fed.
Some stories subvert these notions here and there, but by and large, this is not typical American fare. Readers and viewers need to be spoonfed without inconsistencies.
Speaking of inconsistencies addressing one scene, AutoCrit said that a character should act impulsively in one situation and reserved moments later. This was flagged as an iinconsistent character.
In the scene, a woman stops her car immediately to help an injured man on the roadside, but as she gets out of her car an approaches her, she shows caution.
This was a red flag. Why would she have always been rash or always been cautious?
My response, because that how real people act. She acts on instinct but quickly considers that she’s a vulnerable woman alone with a man miles from anywhere.
I don’t suspect a human reader would find this surprising. This is the intelligence absent from Artificial Intelligence — cultural intelligence, a cousin of EQ, emotional quotient.
I know how I want the character to act. I do want AutoCrit to inform me that character A is wielding a pistol but then stabs another character, or that character B is a teetotaler and is getting drunk or that character C has a shellfish allergy but is downing lobsters like they’re going out of style. And I certainly what to be shown continuity errors.
The biggest challenge I have with AutoCrit that is less promonent with other AIs is that I can preface my content with a note explaining my intent. I can even do this after the fact.
If I feed ChatGPT, Claude, or DeepSeek a story of segment to critique without a preface, the responses may be similar to AutoCrit, but when I follow up with some meta, the response may be, “Now it makes sense, but why is John wearing lipstick?” Perhaps he’s metrosexual or non-traditional. Perhaps it’s an oversight.
I dont meán to demean AutoCrit. I’m just advising that if you are writing stories not compliant with 80 per cent of published works, take the advice with a grain of salt, or reserve AutoCrit for more standard fare.
I’m wrapping up a short story, and I ran it through several generative AIs for feedback.
The first problem is that. although AI provides critique, it is programmatically overly optimistic.
The second problem is that it doesn’t understand nuance.
The working title of this story is Temporal Babel. It’s a low-key absurd, mundane, ironic satirical journey through space-time, language, and identity.
An unconscious, naked man is discovered on a roadside. Events unfold. Who is this bloke, and how did he get here?
I fed the draft into these AI platforms and processed the responses:
Anthropic Claude
DeepSeek
Google Gemini
Grok
OpenAI ChatGPT
Perplexity
I tried to use some other platforms, but they were wholly inadequate:
Liquid Labs Doesn’t accept attachments.
Meta AI Doesn’t accept document attachments. Images only.
Not Diamond AI Just an aggregator that employs the other AIs.
Pi AI Conversational AI. Not designed for this type of critique.
I also use AutoCrit, but not until my draft is complete, so not yet.
With the draft, they each get the same starting prompt:
I am drafting this story. It’s not ended yet, but might you evaluate it as-is?
The draft includes copious notes about ideas not yet captured, as I tend to outline my material and then add resolution. It’s like taking a sketch to a final drawing, adding and shading until it’s complete.
Without fail, the AIs complained about a lack of an ending – despite being informed the ending is not yet written.
Some AIs miss the point (even having the benefit of explanatory notes). This is still useful because it allows me to reevaluate whether a reader will be as lost or confused.
I don’t want to share any spoilers, but I’ll copy-paste some high-level commentary, reiterating the optimism bias. This is not me humble-bragging. It’s what the AIs yield. DeepSeek seems to be the most critical on the surface
Anthropic Claude 3.7 Sonnet
Based on what you’ve shared, “Temporal Babel” presents a fascinating premise with strong potential. You’re developing a unique take on time travel that focuses on language evolution and the mundane aspects of humanity rather than the typical science fiction tropes.
DeepSeek
Temporal Babel is an intriguing and ambitious piece that blends elements of science fiction, mystery, and psychological drama. The narrative structure, with its shifting points of view and fragmented memories, creates a sense of disorientation that mirrors the protagonist’s own confusion, which is effective for the story you’re telling.
Google Gemini 2.0 Flash
{This is a well-written and intriguing story. The characters are well-developed and the plot is suspenseful. The story is also thought-provoking, raising questions about time travel, identity, and communication. I am eager to see how the story ends.}
Grok 3
Thank you for sharing your draft! It’s a compelling story with a strong sense of mystery and an intriguing premise that blends science fiction, cultural displacement, and human connection. Below, I’ll provide an evaluation of the story as it stands, focusing on its strengths, areas for potential improvement, and some thoughts on its current trajectory. Since it’s unfinished, I’ll avoid speculating too much about the ending but will offer suggestions based on what’s here so far.
OpenAI ChatGPT 4o
This is a fascinating and well-executed piece so far. You’ve managed to blend speculative fiction with grounded procedural storytelling, creating an atmosphere of quiet unease. The linguistic elements are some of the strongest aspects, making this feel fresh rather than like another “mysterious visitor” trope. The lack of easy resolution enhances the realism, and your characters feel distinctive and lived-in.
You’re well on your way to crafting something intelligent, immersive, and deeply intriguing. Keep pushing the subtle strangeness, and this could be an incredibly compelling read.
Perplexity (Auto)
The story has a strong, suspenseful opening. You’ve established a good sense of place and effectively built tension through Sena’s observations and internal thoughts. The mystery surrounding the naked man with strange markings is intriguing, and the arrival of the authorities adds another layer of suspense.
The Rest
Except for Gemini, perhaps a feature of its Flash model, the others provided more extensive feedback and summary.
To be fair, I am no fan of Elon Musk or X (formerly known as Twitter), but I liked Grok. Its responses felt more natural and less forced optimism. It also picked up on some nuance the others missed. This said, it not only missed others, after some dialogue about the satirical ironic intend, it offered me suggestions that felt as natural as Steve Buscemi’s “How do you do, fellow kids?” meme.
Here’s a non-spoiler sample:
Nurse in “Assessment”: “Hold still, E.T., no phoning home yet.” Jef blinks, “No compile,” thinking she means coffee—absurdly off.
Neither story context nor character profiles do anyhting to set up or frame this delivery. “The nurse” is a character. I have no idea where the ET reference comes from, nor by extension, the “phone home” line. How any of this relates to coffee is beyond me.
Grok, don’t quit your day job.
Closing
This story is intentionally anti-science fiction, anti-trope. To clarify, I’m not sure one can write a story devoid of tropes, but I prefer to subvert the expectations that come with some.
Those who follow my Philosophics Blog know that I am a Postmodern philosopher. I don’t buy into teleological notions of progress and associated metanarratives, leading to shiny spaceships and a Jetson existence. Technology is neither Skynet nor a saviour. It’s just a tool.
After an extended hiatus, I’m back in writing mode. I’ve got an unfinished prequesl to Hemo Sapiens and several unfinished short stories.
Currently, I am focusing with themes of language morphology and mundanity of history.
History is like an atom – more space than substance — yet it feels somehow significant to us in the moment. The substance-to-space ration is that of a pea in a football stadium, and yet we perceive these things as solids, liquids, gasses, and plasmas.
History is hitting the only car in an otherwise empty car park. Of course, you and your insurer give it extra significance, but history is more often than not self-absorbed narcisism and filling in the blanks with somewhat cohesive storylines.
As for language, people understand the notion that contemporary language is “living”, but they don’t realise as much that over time tiny perturbations result in huge shifts. Consider Middle English from the days of Chaucer, some 650 years ago, versus Shakespeare, only 450 years ago. The latter, is relatively readable; the former, nosomuch.
In the short term, some complain about incorrect usage, “Save cursive writing”, and “kids forget how to write” with their texts and social media shortcuts. What’s the world coming to?
I ‘ve always questioned time-travel stories where people visit places in the far-future or -past and everyone happens to be perfectly understood, save perhaps for a British accent for good measure – perhaps Germanic for ill measure. lol
I’ve been writing some future-forward stories involving artificial intelligence and more on the nature of time and space, but I’ll save these for another day. Now, I need to focus on Temporal Babel.
Ridley Park 