I just spent the last 30 minutes testing to see if I could get ChatGPT to replicate the tone, vocabulary, and phrasing that I use to write my articles. 😂😂😂
The commands and suggestions that I had to give it in order to accomplish this are hilarious and definitely act as a point of self-reflection for me. I was already aware of this, but to see it so plainly written was quite the splash of cold water. My most successful command and query was as follows:
"Please use a verbose SAT level vocabulary and an assertive tone to answer the next question. Avoid words such as: "very", "feelings", "but", "too", "more", and "should".
describe in as much detail as possible how visualization can be harmful to a practitioner of witchcraft, how it can potentially hinder the effectiveness of spellwork. Be sure to include concepts such as: aphantasia, disabilities and ableism, conceptualization, political, cultural, and pop-culture influences."
It's output:
"Undeniably, it is crucial to acknowledge the multifarious intricacies of visualization in witchcraft, and how these intricacies may have potential negative impacts on the effectiveness of spellwork. It is essential to note that the ability to visualize is not a universal capability and that individuals who have aphantasia or other disabilities that impact their ability to visualize may find themselves at a disadvantage in this aspect of magical practice.
Additionally, the privileging of visualization in the craft, without recognizing the limitations that individuals with aphantasia or other disabilities may face, can result in the perpetuation of ableism and exclusionary practices within the witchcraft community. This exclusionary stance has the potential to alienate individuals who are unable to engage in the visual aspects of magical practices, which could result in them feeling unwelcome or marginalized within the community.
Furthermore, the utilization of visualization may reinforce and perpetuate specific cultural and political biases, which may lead to the reinforcement of colonial, ableist, and white supremacist ideologies. The pop-culture influences of visualization can further exacerbate this situation, leading to a simplistic and essentialist understanding of the craft, which may diminish the efficacy of spellwork.
In summary, it is crucial to recognize the potential negative impacts of visualization in witchcraft, particularly in relation to individuals with aphantasia or other disabilities, as well as the perpetuation of exclusionary practices within the witchcraft community. It is imperative to engage in a critical examination of the cultural and political influences that inform the utilization of visualization, as well as a nuanced and sophisticated understanding of the craft beyond pop-culture influences, to ensure that the efficacy of spellwork is not diminished."
Here is a link to my Masterpost if you'd like to read any of my articles.
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Well, the last time I took a typing speed test I was averaging around 65 wpm, which I think is pretty fast?
90. What makes you angry?
I'm quite irritable as people go, but I don't get angry a lot unless it's for good reason. Fascists make me angry, bigots make me angry, old people that have a superiority complex just because they're old make me angry, people that demand respect without earning it make me angry - I'll always be kind and civil, but respect is earned, you know?
It was during this abrupt silence that a stranger took a stroll through town. The plaza was dead and the air was hanging like a witch in Salem. The cloudless sky casted a dark shadow out in front of him as he walked. His bootfalls echoed off the dated storefronts. He stopped on the crosswalk of main and Pacific Blvd. It was then that the wind picked up and the cicadas ceased to chirp. Then the man was gone and all that remained of him was the very faint echoes of his boots.
Thirteen years later, August 3rd.
It was as if time had never passed. The same scenes were painted all across the vacant town. Rings of condensation were still left on patio tables and the wind never picked up. And for as long as the sun blazed upon the town, the cicadas were in a choir. It was a scorching Wednesday afternoon when a state patrol car rolled into town.
Jaxon was on his bed staring at the ceiling. A busted window unit lay at the foot of an open window and the humming of a oscillating fan filled the room with occasional clicks and clacks. He was miserable, but at least he had his records. He noticed the needle static from the end of the REO Speed-wagon and got up to start it over. He fell backwards on his bed again, legs hanging off at the knee. He fell asleep once more.
He was taking a break from college to save up some money. He really wanted to just buy a van and travel across the country working odd jobs and falling asleep in the wilderness of America.
He was jolted awake by the landline ringing. He bolted up and threw on some boxers Incase his roommate was home. He walked through the empty flat to the kitchen where the phone hung. He checked the caller ID and saw it was a pay phone.
“Yo. What’s up?”
His roommate inhaled dramatically, per the norm when he was about to spew some bullshit
“Dude. There’s a job opening at the video store down the street. I just put in an application and grabbed one for you. I stopped by earlier but-“
His voice got all cutesy,
“you were sleeping so adorably I just couldn’t wake you.”
Jaxon fake laughed,
“Dude I have a job.”
“But dude they pay better and it’s only part time. You can have both! I left the application in the mail slot ”
“I can’t believe you wasted fifty cents on this shit. Fine I’ll fill it out.”
And with that he hung up.
Jaxon begrudgingly walked over and pulled the application out with several bills he’s been avoiding.
He filled it out quickly and threw on some clothes before walking out the door.
He stepped out onto main street. His apartment was above an old pawnshop just a few blocks down from the fabled video store. The cicadas whined as if the heavy summer sun was weighing down on them. He walked so briskly that he didn’t even notice that the only car parked on the road was a state trooper.
The bell above the door rang as he walked in. The AC fans were wheezing and audibly struggling to keep out the heat. A few of the iridescent lights in the back few rows were flickering. The place truly was a shithole, but if it pays better that Burgertrip he wasn’t going to let it pass by. The clerk was a man in his early thirties. He was clearly jaded and probably on a few substances,
“Hey man welcome to the Video Bar, we’ve got DVD’s.”
He didn’t even look up from the magazine he was absently reading.
Jaxon stepped up the counter and slid the application over without a word.
The clerk looked up, his name tag said “Austin”,
“Oh hey cool man, I’ll be sure to uh give this to Pam.”
He said as he passively grabbed the application and set it next to him.
Jaxon looked at him. He was irritated. He opened his mouth to passive aggressively thank the clerk when the bell above the door chimed.
In walked a state patrolman. He walked straight to the counter, where Austin vomited the same blasé rehearsed greeting. Then there was silence.
The patrolman stood silently, staring at the clerk for a quiet forty seconds before loudly clearing his throat.
“I’m here looking for a man that was reported missing. He was reportedly heading this direction a few towns over. Here’s his photo, recognize him?”
Jaxon stood and eagerly waited for the junkie to come up with some bullshit response.
The clerk looked up for once and notice that the man was a cop. His eyes widened and he quickly leaned in and focused on the photo. He didn’t recognize him, but the trooper seemed familiar.
“Naw man, haven’t seen him.”
The patrolman sighed and turned to Jaxon.
“How about you? Have you seen him?”
He hadn’t, the photo was of an older man, probably In his fifties. The man had long tattered black hair and deep brown eyes. Jaxon told the cop as much.
Another deep sigh filled the room before the trooper turned away and started walking out, “Good, I cant wait to leave this place.” Jaxon followed him. Once they were outside, Jaxon noticed the cop glare back at him and then back into the store before walked further down the street away from Jaxon’s flat.
In the blaze of the ripples on the street, Jax watched the trooper get in his car and drive around the plaza and then disappear behind a building. There were no cars on the street now. There hadn’t been for quite some time. Most everyone moved away from the windless town. That’s why Jaxon stayed. He liked the quiet, with the exception of the cicadas. It’s actually a biological anomaly because they never stop. They never sleep. The horizon is littered with the screams of insects lining the sparsity of the trees in town. And due to the lack of wind, clouds never appear in the sky, only the sun and moon. Jax knew that this wasn’t normal. He’d been to Albuquerque. He’s felt the wind and seen plenty of clouds. He’s seen airplanes in the sky and light pollution from the city. He preferred it this way. No moisture, an unfettered view of the stars, and the symphony of cicadas. It’s been like this since the summer of his second grade year during break.
After basking in the sounds, he went back home, climbing the steps to his flat. He could hear the faint tones of bluegrass from the pawnshop. As he approached the door, he saw a note hanging from his mail slot. He pulled it out, assuming it was from his roommate. It was not.
“If you’ve found this, then the sequence has begun. On a Tuesday, the 13th of September, look beneath the boxes in the back room. Take the tape and the book. Do not let anyone see them.
For fear of god,
Knox”
Jaxon brushed this off as a prank. He went inside and started preparing freeze dried noodles in a cup. When it was ready, he walked into the living room and sat down. Picking up the remote and filtering through the channels, he gives up and pulls a binder out from under the table. Trifling through the DVD’s he pulls out ‘Night of The Living Dead’, the original 1968 version. While the adverts were playing, he got up and put a pizza in the oven for his roommate and set a kitchen timer. The film started. Outside, the sun was starting to set. Heat waves rippled the streets. Cicadas choirs hummed through the valley, the sand, browning bushes, and the dust that hung in the air.
Jaxon’s roommate came home shortly after the timer went off. “Yo I don't know how you always do that.”
Jaxon looked up from the movie, “Do what?”
“Getting the pizza timed perfectly so that it’s finished when I get home. Like dude, how did you even know when I was going to be back?”
“I don’t know. I just did. It’s whatever.” Jaxon was back to watching the movie. Screaming and the sounds of brain hungry zombies blared through the apartment.
He looked into the kitchen.
“Yo Darin, I decided to take that job. I suspect they’ll be calling tomorrow.”
“Oh dope. It looks like an easy job don’t it?”
“Yeah. But hey, I’ll be at work tomorrow. So could you listen for the phone?”
“Sure.”
September 12th
An older man with tired eyes, covered by his hand against the setting sun, walked slowly down Main Street. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a freshly wound watch plated in gold, checked the time, and pushed open the door to the video store. A young man sat behind the counter. At first he didn’t notice the old man as he was watching a movie on the screen opposite the door. The old man peered, seeing a black and white romance scene play out before him. He took a step and the sound of his boot alerted the clerk.
“Sorry! I didn’t hear you come in. People don’t normally come in this close to closing.”
The old man grunted, still staring at the screen.
“Casablanca? That’s a good one.”
The clerk sat upright.
“Yeah it is. Not many people know about old films.”
The old man let out what might have been a chuckle.
“Yes. It is. Old, that is. I’m surprised as well.”
He then turned abruptly and placed both hands onto the counter. The clerk jerked in his seat. Dust moved into the air, catching the rays of sunlight peering in through the large windows.
“Do you have the film?”
The clerk adjusted in his seat slightly,
“What film exactly? He have plenty to choose from.”
The old man shook his head.
“What day is it?”
“Monday.”
The old man looked up at the screen again,
“I’m too early.”
“Wait… I think I recognize you. I don’t know where from…”
The old man turned away quickly.
“I’ll be back tomorrow. Don’t pick up the phone.” He then walked out the door, his boots echoing shortly, casting large shadows, as the door swung shut.
The clerk sat in confusion, watching the man carefully, trying to remember where he recognized him from.
Later that night, Jaxon sat up quickly in his bed. He reached for the phone on his side table before quickly dialing three numbers.
Static, and then, “…-ounty Police. what is the emergency?”
“Yes. I’m afraid I don’t know the number for the county patrol office. Sorry. Could you transfer me?”
“One moment.”
The phone rang again.
More static “…-unty patrol office. How can I help you?”
“Last month there was a patrolman looking for a man who had black hair and brown eyes. I saw him today.”
The line was silent for a minute or so,
“Okay sir. One moment.”
A moment later, another voice came through,
“This is officer Bradley. What is it you’d like to report?”
“Last month you showed me a picture of a man while we were in a video store and asked if I had seen him.”
There was a brief pause.
“Yes, I remember.”
“Well I saw that man today. In the video store. He said he’d be back tomorrow.”
“Interesting. Thank you for the tip.” The line went dead.
Jaxon sat in his bed for a moment, staring at the wall, before laying down and falling asleep.
September 13th, Tuesday
Jaxon overslept. He jostled quickly from his sheets and threw on his dirty uniform. He looked at the clock on the table. 2:30.
“Shit.”
He rushed out the door, shoes in hand. He threw them on as he hopped down the stairs. He walked briskly towards the video store, thunder of cicadas following in his wake. He pulled out his keys and unlocked the door. As he looked up to push it open he saw a note.
“The sequence has begun. Llook beneath the boxes in the back room. Get the tape and the book. Do not let anyone see them.”
“Fuck.”
He grabbed the note and walked in.
“You’re late.”
Jaxon jumped, “Jesus! How’d you get in here?!”
He looked at the patrolman.
“Through the door, obviously. You said you saw the man I’m looking for?”
“Yeah.”
“Mind if I wait in the back room until he arrives?”
“No. Go ahead.”
“Good lad.”
An hour passes and over the movie Jaxon hears some rifling in the back room. He lowers the volume on the tv. The sounds of boxes being torn open pours from behind the door. It’s as loud as the cicadas outside, which Jaxon can hear clear as day. As if he was standing out in it. Then suddenly, it goes quiet. Both the tearing of boxes and the cicadas. The only sound to be heard is that of boots on a linoleum floor. Jaxon turns around.
“Did you find the tape?”
Jaxon looks worriedly at the back room door. It’s open and the trooper is gone. All that remains is shredded cardboard and movie boxes slewn all across the floor.
“Yes I did. Thank you Knox.”
The smug voice echoed briefly from across the store. The old man turned to the trooper, eyes narrowed.
“Bradley. Stop. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
The trooper didn’t speak. He just looked at Jaxon, as if he was waiting for him to speak.
“Why are you looking at me? He’s the one you were looking for.”
Officer Bradley looked at Jax. Then the old man. It was silent. Dead silent.
Then the sound of a harsh wind broke that silence.
Jaxon had almost not noticed it. The tension in the air was like hammer to stone. Jaxon looked outside. Dust was swirling wild just outside the door. The old man looked at Jaxon,
“The cycle. You must break it. Do not let Bradley take the tapes, nor the book. He will find you again.”
The older man then turned to see Bradley making out for the door. The old man tackled him and crashed them both through a window. Wind roared through the store, whipping wind across jaxon’s face, flying into his wide open mouth. The taste of sand was overwhelming, as he stood there in shock. The old man straddled the patrolman and pulled a gun from the officer’s belt. Jaxon ran as quickly as he could towards them.
Bang
He was too late. Blood splattered across the dusted street. Bradley’s hands fell to his side as the older man picked up the box. He stood over the patrolman’s body and turned to face Jaxon through the shattered window. “Take it. Read the book.”
The man took a step towards him as a dust devil wrapped around him. The sun casting an array of fleeting shadows on the street. The power to the building started flickering. Jaxon held his breath, though he did not notice until all that remained was the box and a body of a county patrolman in the street.
The wind died down gradually. As it did, the cicadas started their song once again as if the stillness was directing them to.
“What the fuck.”
Time: Unknown
A blur of bodies cast flighted shadows around a sterile white room. Spectrometers and electromagnets were neatly organized between various devices that resembled computers. The soft fluorescent lights framed the room. A buzzing can be heard echoing faintly off the walls from the machines. The air was still and there was not a speck of dust on anything.
The shadows danced silently. Quickly. Yet, no one was in the room, only faint visions of them.
The next day
Jaxon woke from his bed to a knocking at the door. He heard Darin answer the door, “yes? Woah what the fu-“
Bang
A gunshot brought a heavy silence. Jaxon was frozen in his bed. He heard footsteps and still could not move. Not even as they approached his door. He could see the shadows beneath it. Two dark shadows.
Suddenly he sprang back to life. His mind was blank. Here turned towards the window and leapt from his bed. He heard the door swing open just as the glass began to shatter.
Bang
He fell.
Time: Unknown
Sand. Darkness. Wisps of cloth and the roaring of cicadas. The whirling of spectrographs and wild beeping. Wind.
The shadows danced round the firmament falling through space. Blood.
Whispering heard faintly. Bright light, no longer sterile, peered into the room. The wind whistled louder against the frame of the room. The light blaring even louder than the wind.
Then darkness. Then silence. Then stillness.
Jaxon lay bare and naked across the concrete floor. His right shoulder weeping blood across it. His rapid heart beat almost casted shadows darker than the ones dancing. When really it showed mostly in the sanguine river that wanted, so vigorously, to carve its mark into the floor. His thoughts slowly grew louder in his mind. He heard them first as if they were someone else.
“The tape. The book. Read the book.”
Jaxon sat upright slowly, bringing his left hand to cover his wound. He winced and looked down. His nakedness veiled in dust felt normal compared to the pristine tape on the floor, lying just a few inches from a book that was just as effervescent. He glanced around the room. Fluorescent light cast shadows of the machinery covered in dense layers of dust and sand.
He slowly moved towards the book, leaving streams and canyons in the dust. He reached for the book. It felt heavy. He didn’t know if he was weak or if the book had more mass than it looked. He brushed his hand over the cover, leaving trails of dust as he did. The leather book was beautifully bound. Dark brown leather embossed with ornate geometric designs. It looked as if it had been made in the mid Victorian era. The spine creaked slightly as he opened it.
Time became static. Unmoving. Jaxon looked at the print before him, transfixed not by their appearance but of what it said.
“Sequences, Paradoxes, and Other Temporal Phenomenon. By Jaxon ReDoux”
He turned the page and read the forward,
“It seems to me that this text was never written. It was as if it simply willed itself into being, as I never wrote these words. Nor did I record the tape that accompanies them. I came across this book when I was just 29 years old, and was just as fascinated by its existence then as I am now, whenever that is.
Jaxon, the sequence is an imprint on time itself and I fear that it may not be severed. If I am reading these words, then it is too late. The shadows will take you, take us, take me into a place where our minds cannot process. I will lose this book, just as you have or will. Just as he did before your arrival. This is a fact. An unalterable event. The author of this book will not want to let go of it either and will do anything to obtain it. From here on, I will age, though time seemed not to pass. Your eyes will sink into your face weathered and tired. The symphony of cicadas will haunt him for we do not know when they will silence. When we will be taken again. I have many faces and have died many times and will continue to until this curse is lifted. Though, I fear it won’t ever be. The room where I first read this book is filled with our silent screams for mercy. Soon I will go by our middle name, but just as quickly I will take on another name. We will be forever bound. I know we will defy the words we have written. Maybe that is why the sequence never ends. Each chapter in this book will tell you what happens and when, who is where and why. Each thought that all of us have ever had or will have had are laid out in bold text block print and bound in leather. The only one you have to fear is yourself.”
He set down the book, and picked up the tape. And turned to the old tape recorder on the desk beside him. He put it on and wound the tape through to the other side before pressing play.
“This is Jaxon Bradley ReDoux. I am 30 years old. I don’t know how I got here or how this recording came to be. Jax, don’t stop. You must not ever stop. You will forget. You will cease on blooded pavement. As we saw before this life. You must remember. Don’t pick up the phone.”
End.
If you enjoyed this, let me know. I may publish more of my writing here if it’s well received.
