Inkognito

Straight from the Secret Author forum thread, Detective Inkognito Cheeto presents a noir-flavored poem stitched together from all 23 SA story submissions. Crimes were solved. Rhymes were committed. No titles were left behind.

Solving Word Crimes by Detective Inkognito Cheeto I’ve walked through Liminal spaces where time forgets names, Where truths wear disguises and secrets play games. Where Fledgling liars learn fast how to fly, Then fall just as quick when their alibis die. Been Busted by lovers, framed by a mime, Accused by a cactus, acquitted in rhyme. I once found a clue I was certain I lacked, “Well, This Happened,” I said. The case? Now cracked. Angel Keeps a Secret, so I knew not to trust, With lips like a prayer and morals like dust. The number Thirteen was inked on his chest, I never asked why, only wished him the best. I saw Septima’s Potential deep in the archives of doubt. She offered me truth, then edited out. Said “Carpe Veritas, but redact the excess,” Then handed me notes I used with success. I’ve chased Thetis down through back-alley bars, Had me Four Hours deep and praying to stars. I’ve interrogated a parrot, done What It Takes, No Doubt About It, I knew the real stakes. I’ve danced at The Reunion, faked my own wake, Bit into The Rainbow’s Unicorn cake. I’ve followed Green Lightning through fever-dream skies, While dodging a Family Secret and government spies. I’ve drifted Adrift, with my thoughts running thin, Solved A Chorus Director’s Dilemma: his violin. He begged me to help, I said, “I’m on the case.” His group sang along as I gave the thief chase. I’ve seen saints Unmasked, and villains play fair, And won The Case of the Scallopini-ed Mayor. I once took a call from beyond the pale line, “My Dead Ex Is Haunting Me Through Grindr this time.” And I’ve whispered to shadows, when silence felt thick, "Can I Tell Ya a Secret? Just one, I’ll be quick." Now that you’ve read all that I’ve seen, Exposing My Own Reality shows the dirt that I clean. It ain’t all that pretty, and most of it stinks, But justice has a taste, and I drink what it drinks. See, secrets are currency, Trust is a crime. So I deal in the dark and rhyme every time.

This poll is so thrilling, I nearly blinked and missed absolutely nothing.

Hahaha. Anyone who spends 30 seconds reading Chapter 1 of my satire, Read Me Like One of Your Gay Werewolf Stories, can confirm or deny that.

Also, I love the fact that My Dead Ex is Haunting Me Through Grindr is on every list except your haunting one. 😂

Not me checking for the * disclaimer at the bottom.

Well, "Well, This Happened" happened.

Period.

Before Grithen was the guarded, stoic vampire readers met in What Didn’t Kill Me Became Me, he was Grit. A loud-mouthed, fire-eyed ACT UP activist during the HIV/AIDS crisis in 1980s New York, screaming for the dying and daring the world to listen. This is the story of who he was. What he fought for. The best friend he loved... and lost. The night that turned him into the ash of the man who once burned so bright. This isn’t a happy story. But it is Grit's story.

The protest outside Trinity Church raged like a war declared against heaven itself. Chants ricocheted off skyscrapers and stone columns, fracturing into shards of sound that sliced through traffic noise and the static of police radios. Signs thrust skyward like pitchforks: SILENCE = DEATH END THE SHAME AZT FOR ALL I GOT THE PLACEBO Grit stood at the curb, dark hair plastered to his skull in sweat-soaked curls, his voice shredded raw from hours of screaming defi

A writer.

At some point, every writer stares into the abyss of their manuscript, googles “how to write good,” and ends up ugly-crying through a screenwriting guru’s YouTube ad. And it is in this fragile, emotionally collapsed state that the truth reveals itself: Most writing advice is either painfully obvious or spiritually useless. (“Just write!” Okay, Brenda. Thanks.) So, in the spirit of not helping whatsoever, here are some writing tips I completely made up while avoiding my own stories. Are they fake? Absolutely. Are they worse than real advice? Probably, but at least they're honest about it. Will they help? That depends on your definition of "help" and how low your standards have fallen. Use them literally. Or literarily. Or print them out and eat them for confidence. I’m not your editor. Let’s begin: All plot holes can be explained with amnesia, time travel, or sexuality. Pick two. If you pick all three, you've accidentally written fan fiction. Congratulations. If you can't figure out the ending, simply kill someone. Preferably the dog, so people know you're serious about literature. If your villain isn’t sexy or relatable, they better be both. Every story is a mystery if you just never explain anything. This is called “literary fiction” and people will pretend to understand it at book clubs. If you don’t know what to write next, add a mirror. Someone’s always reflecting on something. Don't research. Just confidently guess how submarines or medieval politics work. Your readers don't know either, and the ones who do will write angry emails you can ignore while eating cereal. If your character’s name doesn’t sound like it belongs in a YA fantasy novel or a Whole Foods candle aisle, start over. You only need three things to write a novel: a plot, a character, and an intense desire to avoid real life. The plot is optional. If the romantic tension could be resolved with a single honest conversation, throw in a bear attack. Stuck? Have someone fall down the stairs. It worked for soap operas for decades. Coincidence? I think not. The difference between a twist ending and a train wreck is whether you planned it or panicked. Own your chaos. Follow me for more unhelpful advice and absolutely no accountability.

Three men stood at the cliff's edge, surveying the kingdom with the kind of confidence typically reserved for people who've never owned mirrors. Among them was Ellis, who had always believed cartography was a noble profession. Precise. Methodical. Grounded in fact. Which was tragically ironic, considering he'd been appointed Official Fact-Checker solely because he had sneezed right as the king had asked, "Does anyone here know how to read?" His other option was Royal Compost Turne

History is written by the victors. Maps are written by... George.

I’m not a pathological liar... but if I were, I’d tell you that I am. Which means I can’t tell you the truth because then I’d have to lie about it. And if I’m being honest, I’d say that’s classified information. Then again, that could be another lie. Although honestly, I’m too good at lying to ever admit I tell the truth. So, I guess what I’m trying to say is... I can’t even remember what I was saying in the first place.

Detective Inkognito Cheeto back again with more damning evidence. Case: Proving that Fledgling was written by @Dabeagle Fledgling – Dabeagle Evidence: Title: Bird. Author: Beagle. Fledgling means baby bird. Or baby vampire. Either way, both are creatures. And guess what? Beagles are creatures too. A creature wrote a creature-titled feature. It’s elementary. The author’s name is Beagle. What’s a beagle famous for? Sniffing things out. Which is exactly what I did. Fantasy genre. Dabeagle writes fantasy. The logic is sound. No further questions. Also, there’s that age-old saying about the birds and the beagles. You know the one: "When the beagle barks, the bird takes flight." A classic. Case: Closed. Signed: Detective Inkognito Cheeto.

I refuse to read this. I'm concerned about the author and wonder how old they are, and whether this could be a cry for help, because it's hard to imagine who would otherwise write something like this. Also, this story needs HUGE TRIGGER WARNINGS for GROOMING/CHILD SEXUAL ABUSE. These need to go both in the chapter and on the story card.

Detective Inkognito Cheeto returns with more damning evidence, questionable logic, and unwavering confidence. I’m always right because I’m right-handed. If I were wrong, I’d be wrong-handed. That’s math. Or astrology. Either way, I win. Unmasked – Inkognito Wait. That’s me. This isn’t a clue. This is entrapment. A tangled web of deceit. I’ve profiled myself mid-investigation. Classic rookie mistake. Can I be trusted? Unclear. Will I stop? Also unclear. I’m too deep in. And frankly, I’m the only one I don’t suspect. Which is exactly what I’d say if I were guilty. Spider-point intensifies.

Detective Inkognito Cheeto is on the case. Credentials: 1 pair of prescription-outdated glasses. The case? Who wrote what. The method? Unverifiable. The confidence? Astronomical. Evidence collected so far: 1. Busted - Jeff Burton Jeff’s name is right there in the summary. Busted is the title. That’s not subtle. That’s a confession. Vibes don't lie. 2. The Case of the Scallopini-ed Mayor - Jack Poignet He pointed to Celian. Classic impasta move. This man is al dente with intent. Extremely sus. 👀 3. The Rainbow’s Unicorn - RedMoon I thought their profile pic was a unicorn. It’s actually a wolf. Which proves my point: unicorn in the streets, wolf in the profile pic sheets. Case closed. Don’t question the science. 4. Four Hours - Thirdly Four comes after three. That’s math. Math is fact. And facts are truth, because if they weren’t, they’d be lies.

Angel Keeps a Secret - Lee Wilson No Doubt About It - Jeff Burton Four Hours - Also Jeff Burton What It Takes - ... Jeff Burton?

I'm going to take a guess and say that @Lee Wilson wrote "Angel Keeps a Secret."

I wasn’t planning on writing Chapter Four. Chapter Four was supposed to be where I vanished into the abyss, claimed creative burnout, and returned six months later with a dramatic Tumblr post titled “Sometimes We Write to Heal, Sometimes to Hurt.” Instead, I wrote it at 1:42 a.m. with a cold grilled cheese, a browser tab open to “How to fake your own death,” and exactly four fingernails left. Because GAYOOKS would not shut the hell up. “Drop Chapter 4 or I will explode from t