Inkognito

Oh deer.

Story of my life, bro. 😭

Aight, just so we're clear. I’m now 100% expecting a story where questionably drunk penguins charge into battle on vampire-unicorns while flanked by tiny helmet-wearing wiener dogs weaponized with bad attitudes, bad decisions, and a deep-seated, ancestral hatred for mailmen, mailmen-kind, and anyone who has the audacity to pass by their home. And if it doesn’t read like a fever dream I had after licking a hallucinogenic Lisa Frank sticker, slap harder than a penguin in a bar fight, and give me the overwhelming urge to touch my wiener (dog), then I will personally be filing a formal complaint and demanding a full refund on my last two functioning brain cells. You’ve been warned.

And that, dear readers, is how My Little Vampire-Pony was born.

Mason didn't hesitate. He flung the backpack off his shoulders and immediately lowered himself onto the windowsill. Rain lashed his face, making it nearly impossible to see as he gripped the window frame and peered inside. “Wyatt!” Unconscious, Wyatt’s head sagged forward as his limp body dangled from a jagged beam of splintered flooring, his shirt the only thing keeping him from disappearing beneath the flood. The water had already reached his waist and was climbing higher by the

A violent crash split the air like a gunshot. Mason jolted upright on the couch as shattering glass echoed through the dark. Another blast followed. Then another. His head snapped toward Wyatt, but before he could even open his mouth, the wall beside them gave a deep, splintering groan. Seconds later, the living room window exploded. Cold wind tore through, whipping the curtains into a frenzy and hurling debris into the walls like fists. “GET TO THE CLOSET, NOW

Holy one-sentence-paragraph-shitballs, Batman! ... Sir. Sir, please step away from the espresso machine.

Confession #002 My central A/C quit a month ago. Full dramatic exit. No warning. No “it’s not you, it’s me.” Just poof. Dead. HVAC Tech #1: “The whole thing needs to be replaced.” Translation: $$$. So, I do what any broke bitch would do. I summon a second opinion. HVAC Tech #2: “Yeah, it’s busted. But I can fix it for slightly less $$$. You’ll just have to wait a month for the part.” Me: “I’ll take the Discount Despair Package for $$, please.” Also me: Buys a portable A/C unit. And for a while? It was good. It hummed. It cooled. It whispered sweet nothings to me in the dead of night. It made me believe in love again. But now? It, too, is dead. Won’t turn on. Won’t blink. Won’t anything. It's August. The peak of hell. I live in Satan’s Armpit (Florida) and now have a full-body heat rash and possibly visions. I’m not saying I’m in a Final Destination sequel, but if a ceiling fan decapitates me, I expect full royalties. — Detective Inkognito Cheeto Currently evaporating. Zero chill left.

Hey y’all, huge thanks! I was going to reply to each of you one by one, but then I remembered blowing up your notifications is probably not cool and possibly a felony in at least three states. So here’s one big thank-you blast instead!

Thank you! And I absolutely love that the lines you always quote are clearly the exact moments I blacked out. Saves me the trouble of remembering what the hell I wrote. 😁

You may or may not have been the only one who knew from the start.

Thanks, ese!

Confession #001 I’m currently being held hostage by Aaven and Isaac, two fictional men of my own creation. They live in a novella I allegedly wrote, and yet they now occupy 86% of my brain activity, 100% of my moral decay, and at least three open tabs on my phone at any given moment. Coincidentally, they’re also starring in several pieces of internal fanfiction that I feel morally, spiritually, and narratively obligated to write before doing anything remotely responsible. Like continuing my actual stories. Or sleeping. Or consuming nutrients that aren’t shaped like a dinosaur. Is this a symptom? Unclear. Is this a diagnosis? Also unclear. Is this self-inflicted Stockholm Syndrome? Don't tell myself I said that. I know it’s wrong. I also know I’ll be doing it again tonight. Yes, I’m fine. Everything’s fine. No further questions. — Detective Inkognito Cheeto Emotionally compromised. Romantically entangled. Narratively unstable. Legally inadmissible.

1. What is your general timeframe from the start of a project to its conclusion? Truthfully? I don’t have a consistent timeframe, and I don’t hold myself to one either. Most of my work so far has been short stories between 1k and 4k words. Some of those I’ve written and edited in a single day, while others have taken several days or even weeks. My advice? Don’t compare your timeline to anyone else’s. The speed at which you finish a project has zero correlation with your talent, skill, value, or potential as a writer. It’s not a race. It’s not even a sport. There’s no Writer Olympics to win a gold medal in. It’s just storytelling and stress, bro. 2. Do you lack focus sometimes, even (or especially) when you have the time available to you? Absolutely. You can have the same two hours free every day, but that doesn’t mean you’re the same every day. Maybe you’re sick. Maybe something stressful is on your mind. Or maybe you just wanna say “screw it” and watch cat videos. That’s not laziness. It's being human. Brains aren’t vending machines. You don’t insert time and get genius. Sometimes you insert time and get static, existential dread, or a craving for Cheetos. 3. Do you write everything down first and then section it off into chapters, or do you build it up one chapter at a time? Yes. I usually have a loose idea where the chapters might fall, but I don’t treat it like gospel. If I’m on a roll, I’ll write like I’m rafting down Gravy River on Mashed Potato Mountain and worry about chapters later. Other times, I go chapter by chapter. It depends on the story, my mood, and how many snacks I have within reach. Neither way is better. If one method works for you, awesome. If you switch between both depending on the wind and moon phase, also awesome. P.S. Writers always think they’re right, Just because they write. But other writers know, They're the one who's right. Right? Write. 😉

If breaking the site is the goal, we'll need my man @Lee Wilson on the team. He's already done the beta test.

Congrats to the winners: @Valkyrie @CassieQ @Mark Arbour and @Inkognito—Wait. That’s me. I won? And I tied with Cassie for 2nd place? Welp. We’ve officially entered our Enemies to Co-Winners arc. What's next, a collab?! … Actually. That might not be a bad idea. We could call it Prose and Consequences. I'd read it. Also, huge thanks to all the authors who participated, and to everyone who read and voted. Y’all are the real MVPs. I just sort of wandered in here, lost and confused, and stuck around when no one kicked me out.

Doubt it. I don't know anyone who would say that besides me.

I’m fine, I’m just funny. Me, seeing all the heartfelt reactions to my Cheeto-fueled comedy chaos. My intention: “Haha, look at me spiraling in a fun way. Laugh with me, losers.” What I got: “Your words gave me feels, poet-saint of the gays.” ... Bruh.

I have been summoned. Ahem. Aight, fam. First off, lemme just say thank you for the deep-dive critique. Seriously. I haven’t felt that seen since the last time I caught my reflection in a store window, aimed the finger guns, winked, and whispered, “Still got it, baby,” before immediately tripping over absolutely nothing. I gotta hand it to you, I was fully expecting an arms race retort. Maybe something about you being born with a leg up on the competition and how I've been hopping mad about it ever since. But. You're absolutely right about the clipped urgency. It’s not a bug. It’s a feature. Possibly a symptom. Definitely an aesthetic. My writing lives somewhere in the Bermuda Triangle between a panic attack, a punchline, and a caffeinated squirrel on Adderall with Wi-Fi and delusions of literary grandeur. Every sentence? Fire. Is it for the comedy? Yep. Is it because I'm a pyromaniac? Allegedly. Is it because people stop asking you for things when they think you’ll set them on fire? You're goddamn right it is. And your sniper rifle vs. Uzi metaphor? Bullseye, baby. I write like I’m trying to shoot my shot in a carnival game, hoping to win a plush sense of validation, and missing every time. So, in conclusion: I hear you. I respect you. I will change nothing. But rest assured. I will absolutely spiral about this during my regularly scheduled 2 a.m. existential crisis. In a Snuggie. Surrounded by emotional-support Cheetos. And whispering “paragraph structure is a lie” into the dull glow of my laptop like the emotionally well-adjusted writer I clearly am. As is tradition.

Bruh… congrats on winning the arms race, comrade.

Angel Keeps a Secret - Lee Wilson ✓ Thetis - Mark Arbour ✓ The Reunion - Jeff Burton ✓ My Dead Ex Is Haunting Me Through Grindr - Inkognito ✓ Exposing My Own Reality - Gunther Allen ✓ 5 out of 23 correct. ✓ Task failed successfully. ✓✓ As a fully licensed detective in 7.3 states, banned in 4, and wanted for questioning in 2, I pride myself on being consistently inconsistent, thus making me inconsistently consistent, which is the better consistent to consist than no consistency at all. As Confucius probably never said, "To be consistent in one's inconsistency is the highest form of consistency, my dude." ✓ ✓ ✓ Case: Closed Signed Consistently: Detective Inkognito Cheeto

The flashlight hit the floor with a crack that echoed louder than it should have. “Damn it,” Mason said under his breath, his teeth clenched tight enough to make his jaw ache. He dropped to his knees on the hardwood floor, snatching it up before it could roll under the coffee table. His other hand was still loaded with clunky, sealed battery packs and a Ziplock bag of loose AA’s. He stood up quickly and dumped everything onto the table, next to the growing pile of survival gear. Water