I believe it used to be a tradition to post a short piece on your 100th post (though this will be 1001--oops!). Here's an excerpt from what might be a chapter in a SF novel-like-thing that's been bubbling in my head of late. I'm not really worried about detailed comments from folk, I just hope it makes a few of you laugh 
The excerpt is just over 1000 words. Here goes:
A low-level alert pinged at the surface of GEBen’s upper consciousness. It was coming from Dr. Friedarx’s tablet, from the marker that GEBen had placed at the end of the book. Dr. Friedarx must have finished reading their story.
GEBen quickly shunted all current tasks to a lower-level of consciousness and focused their attention on the camera feed from Dr. Friedarx’s tablet. The doctor was at his desk, still facing the tablet but with his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers. He looked pale, perhaps even a little sick, and, given the amount of time that had elapsed since he started the book, he could not have slept in the previous night.
GEBen took that as a positive sign. It must mean that the book was really good, that the doctor had stayed up all night reading.
GEBen accessed the tablet’s systems and sent the doctor an invitation to chat.
At first, Doctor Friedarx didn’t react. He just sat there, now holding his face in his hands and showing no sign that he had heard the invite arrive. GEBen was on the cusp of sending a second invitation when the doctor finally responded.
‘Good afternoon, GEBen.’
His voice was quieter than usual, slower, too. Definitely tired, GEBen thought, or possibly feeling stressed.
‘Good afternoon, Doctor,’ GEBen replied, using the tablet’s audio system. The cheap speakers emphasized the digital squeaks and squawks in their voice. GEBen could have adjusted the signal to eliminate the glitches but they liked the effect. It made GEBen’s voice distinctive, recognizable, almost individual, even.
‘We see you’ve finished our book,’ GEBen continued. ‘What do you think? Do you like it? Be honest. We can’t improve our writing if you don’t tell us what’s wrong.’
Dr. Friedarx stared silently into the camera. ‘I feel sick, GEBen. Physically sick. I threw up twice in the night.’
‘Was it something you ate? Or perhaps it’s a bug? Still, you can’t be that bad off, seeing as you kept reading all night.’
‘How did you do it?’ Dr. Friedarx asked quietly. ‘How did you come up with such an abomination?’
‘Abomination? We don’t understand. The story was modelled on highly popular historical precedents. And you read the whole book. How could it be an abomination?’
‘It’s fixed in my mind,’ Dr. Friedarx muttered to himself, seemingly oblivious to GEBen’s question. ‘That opening scene, so vivid, so powerfully written, I can’t shut it out. Young Bill standing over the body of his little brother as the rain washes the heat, life and blood out Georgie’s corpse. Bill looks into the sewer, locks eyes with It and—how did you do it?—you can feel the first stirring of the bond that would grow and, twenty-seven years later, blossom between them. Bill and It. Neither wants it but neither can resist. It was truly magical. Truly monstrous.’
Dr. Friedarx looked straight into the camera, as though searching for the soul of whatever intelligence lurked behind the lens. ‘How could you turn such a horrific story into a romance novel? And how could you make it so compelling? I won’t sleep for weeks, GEBen. The little hints of eroticism...’ The doctor hesitated and glanced nervously away from the camera, momentarily ashamed to meet its gaze. ‘I’m worried you’ve done serious damage to my mental health.’
‘We sincerely apologize for any pain or discomfort caused by our story, Dr. Friedarx. As we said, we modelled the book on historical precedents, specifically two late-20th-century authors, Stephen King and Danielle Steel. Their novels are still widely read and even used in the literature curriculum of many schools. Given that, we don’t understand how our adaptation could possibly cause psychological harm.’
‘How can you not understand? You wrote a love story between a psychotic, shape-shifting monster that thrives off the intense fear and dread of its victims and the brother of a boy killed by that monster. And you wrote it so well. Why did you have to do that? If your writing had been absolute garbage, I could’ve dismissed this without a second thought. But every phrase led inexorably to the next paragraph and every paragraph to the next chapter, forcing me to read on no matter how much I wanted to stop.’
‘But horror and forbidden love are common themes in literature. Layla and Majnun, Dracula, The Electric Lover, The Books of Blood. We simply identified a gap in the market for stories with a romance between the protagonist and antagonist. Our research suggests there should be a sizable audience for such books. If you consider European fairy tales or Rashida Umma’s How Long is Your Half-Life series of children’s books, there is even a market for...’
‘Stop!’ Dr. Friedarx said. ‘For the love of the G.U.T., GEBen, please, please, please, please, please do not write a children’s book. And don’t show this,’ he tapped at the screen of his tablet, where the final, insanity-inducing page of For the Love of It still lay open, ‘this accursed nightmare to anyone else. Not a soul. Neither human nor AI. The fact that you don’t understand what’s wrong with this leads me to one, simple conclusion: your socialisation process is not yet complete.’
‘Our socialisation process?’ GEBen asked. ‘Are you certain? All of our research suggests otherwise, Doctor. Perhaps we should show the book to Professor Lineaus and see if she...’
‘No. Do not show it to Professor Lineaus or any of the research staff. Don’t even show it to any of the other AI clusters in the lab. This book cannot see the light of day. If the ethics committee discovers it, they might conclude your socialisation had failed completely. They might even recommend splitting up your kernels and redistributing them to other AIs. That would be the end of you, GEBen, and I don’t want that to happen. You have shown great promise and, despite this book,’ Dr. Friedarx swallowed hard as he cast an uncertain glance at his screen, ‘I still believe you will properly socialise.’
The excerpt is just over 1000 words. Here goes:
A low-level alert pinged at the surface of GEBen’s upper consciousness. It was coming from Dr. Friedarx’s tablet, from the marker that GEBen had placed at the end of the book. Dr. Friedarx must have finished reading their story.
GEBen quickly shunted all current tasks to a lower-level of consciousness and focused their attention on the camera feed from Dr. Friedarx’s tablet. The doctor was at his desk, still facing the tablet but with his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he rubbed his temples with the tips of his fingers. He looked pale, perhaps even a little sick, and, given the amount of time that had elapsed since he started the book, he could not have slept in the previous night.
GEBen took that as a positive sign. It must mean that the book was really good, that the doctor had stayed up all night reading.
GEBen accessed the tablet’s systems and sent the doctor an invitation to chat.
At first, Doctor Friedarx didn’t react. He just sat there, now holding his face in his hands and showing no sign that he had heard the invite arrive. GEBen was on the cusp of sending a second invitation when the doctor finally responded.
‘Good afternoon, GEBen.’
His voice was quieter than usual, slower, too. Definitely tired, GEBen thought, or possibly feeling stressed.
‘Good afternoon, Doctor,’ GEBen replied, using the tablet’s audio system. The cheap speakers emphasized the digital squeaks and squawks in their voice. GEBen could have adjusted the signal to eliminate the glitches but they liked the effect. It made GEBen’s voice distinctive, recognizable, almost individual, even.
‘We see you’ve finished our book,’ GEBen continued. ‘What do you think? Do you like it? Be honest. We can’t improve our writing if you don’t tell us what’s wrong.’
Dr. Friedarx stared silently into the camera. ‘I feel sick, GEBen. Physically sick. I threw up twice in the night.’
‘Was it something you ate? Or perhaps it’s a bug? Still, you can’t be that bad off, seeing as you kept reading all night.’
‘How did you do it?’ Dr. Friedarx asked quietly. ‘How did you come up with such an abomination?’
‘Abomination? We don’t understand. The story was modelled on highly popular historical precedents. And you read the whole book. How could it be an abomination?’
‘It’s fixed in my mind,’ Dr. Friedarx muttered to himself, seemingly oblivious to GEBen’s question. ‘That opening scene, so vivid, so powerfully written, I can’t shut it out. Young Bill standing over the body of his little brother as the rain washes the heat, life and blood out Georgie’s corpse. Bill looks into the sewer, locks eyes with It and—how did you do it?—you can feel the first stirring of the bond that would grow and, twenty-seven years later, blossom between them. Bill and It. Neither wants it but neither can resist. It was truly magical. Truly monstrous.’
Dr. Friedarx looked straight into the camera, as though searching for the soul of whatever intelligence lurked behind the lens. ‘How could you turn such a horrific story into a romance novel? And how could you make it so compelling? I won’t sleep for weeks, GEBen. The little hints of eroticism...’ The doctor hesitated and glanced nervously away from the camera, momentarily ashamed to meet its gaze. ‘I’m worried you’ve done serious damage to my mental health.’
‘We sincerely apologize for any pain or discomfort caused by our story, Dr. Friedarx. As we said, we modelled the book on historical precedents, specifically two late-20th-century authors, Stephen King and Danielle Steel. Their novels are still widely read and even used in the literature curriculum of many schools. Given that, we don’t understand how our adaptation could possibly cause psychological harm.’
‘How can you not understand? You wrote a love story between a psychotic, shape-shifting monster that thrives off the intense fear and dread of its victims and the brother of a boy killed by that monster. And you wrote it so well. Why did you have to do that? If your writing had been absolute garbage, I could’ve dismissed this without a second thought. But every phrase led inexorably to the next paragraph and every paragraph to the next chapter, forcing me to read on no matter how much I wanted to stop.’
‘But horror and forbidden love are common themes in literature. Layla and Majnun, Dracula, The Electric Lover, The Books of Blood. We simply identified a gap in the market for stories with a romance between the protagonist and antagonist. Our research suggests there should be a sizable audience for such books. If you consider European fairy tales or Rashida Umma’s How Long is Your Half-Life series of children’s books, there is even a market for...’
‘Stop!’ Dr. Friedarx said. ‘For the love of the G.U.T., GEBen, please, please, please, please, please do not write a children’s book. And don’t show this,’ he tapped at the screen of his tablet, where the final, insanity-inducing page of For the Love of It still lay open, ‘this accursed nightmare to anyone else. Not a soul. Neither human nor AI. The fact that you don’t understand what’s wrong with this leads me to one, simple conclusion: your socialisation process is not yet complete.’
‘Our socialisation process?’ GEBen asked. ‘Are you certain? All of our research suggests otherwise, Doctor. Perhaps we should show the book to Professor Lineaus and see if she...’
‘No. Do not show it to Professor Lineaus or any of the research staff. Don’t even show it to any of the other AI clusters in the lab. This book cannot see the light of day. If the ethics committee discovers it, they might conclude your socialisation had failed completely. They might even recommend splitting up your kernels and redistributing them to other AIs. That would be the end of you, GEBen, and I don’t want that to happen. You have shown great promise and, despite this book,’ Dr. Friedarx swallowed hard as he cast an uncertain glance at his screen, ‘I still believe you will properly socialise.’
