In a week’s time, the publishing house would have its hands on Jules’ magnum opus, and everything would be settled. 

Jules had been imagining the week as if it was a dark hallway—deadline peering from the end of a long, sulking tunnel. In this way, a week appeared almost long enough, but what mattered was that there was still time; distance between Jules and the inevitable truth that there was no manuscript at all. It was everything but its crucial element—operating limbs with no brain to guide them. The manuscript was complete, save for its final act, which had remained largely unwritten and unfinished for much of a year. Now, as the hallway grew shorter, week’s end approaching, Jules dismally considered their manuscript once again. 

Unfortunately, between their last failed attempt at finishing the piece, no stroke of silvered genius had put Jules’ mind into action—no midnight electrocution of ideas suddenly delivered as a divine gift from above. Jules had been trying everything, even getting drunk, hoping it might finally dislodge whatever blockage was still standing its ground. But to no avail. 

Pale X-rays from the computer screen poured as a milky fog onto Jules’ face, turning them into a glowing, radioactive portrait. Darkness all around, save for the screen and the blinking cursor spelling “doubt” in Morse code. Everything felt heavier to Jules. The deadline pressed in on their neck, weighed down, and developed into a deep bruise. 

A steady slew of nauseating ads scrolled along Jules’ idle screen. Too many minutes spent inactive, so now Jules had to answer to brightly colored fast food promotions and posters for movies they would want to watch. Unavoidably, the ads flickered by, dancing across the screen—hovering for a moment too long and then blossoming into another ad, somehow more sickening than the one before. 

“Get help,” sprawled in large neon text, “Click here for a consultation!”

Jules glanced up, assuming it to be an ad for psychotherapy treatment. Upon a second look, the ad appeared to be for an editing service. Deadline approaching fast, Jules imagined they could hear the echoed feet as the week drew to a close. Jules tried not to think, clicking the ad, and immediately feeling the weight of having done so. 

At once, a line of text spilled across the screen in a brightly shimmering color.

“This is a delightful piece of fiction.” 

Here, the cursor had moved to hover over a particularly well-written paragraph from Jules’ own manuscript.

“A terrific bit of inspired syntax here,” the ad flashed again, this time in particolored shades of aquamarine. 

Jules furrowed their brow—having privately felt the same about the passage in question.

“Will something be done about this General character?” the ad blinked, deftly highlighting the vast cliff wherein Jules’ manuscript abruptly stopped—fell away into nothing. 

“That’s the trouble,” Jules muttered. 

“What’s the trouble?” the ad’s text replied, “She has plenty of motivation.”

“Motivation,” Jules scoffed, “Motivation doesn’t change things.”

“Well then, if not motivation, what about her pride?”

Jules chuckled to themself and massaged the bridge of their nose. Only after the passing of several silent seconds did they consider that this was actually not an entirely ridiculous suggestion. Second to this realization came the blaring awareness of speaking to an intelligent advertisement. In a fresh state of panic, Jules powered their computer off and made for their bed. Only someone in desperate need of sleep would have fallen for such an obvious bit of tasteless programming. 

Jules frowned as they drifted to sleep. In the morning, they would have to try again. On the distant periphery of sleep, Jules chuckled, thinking how foolish they had been—tricked by a two-bit AI. All the same, Jules’ last thoughts lingered on the manuscript and how the General’s pride was not a bad starting point at all. 

Jules woke the next morning with the same familiar dread already coiling itself beneath their ribcage. Distinct impressions of the number six and a red circle on an old calendar flashed momentarily under the flesh of their closed eyes. 

Jules made themself a cup of coffee and settled into their writing chair. Only then, in powering up their computer, did Jules’ heart promptly sink. 

“I’ve prepared some edits.”

“I don’t need edits,” Jules spoke aloud, “Certainly not from some robot.”

“Some robot?” blinked itself across Jules’ screen in shades of fuschia. 

“You!” Jules exclaimed, “I don’t need the help of you, or your algorithm.”

“I’d like to imagine that I am more than an algorithm,” the ad replied. 

“Well, whatever you think you are hardly matters. I have no need for you.”

“You haven’t seen my edit.”

Jules passed a hand across their forehead. It was unbelievable, really. In fact, it was downright insulting to explain themselves to an advertisement. The ad should have given up by now or else caught the hint and gone on to pester some other, more unethical author. Jules had real work to finish, and already they could feel the day sliding towards its end. The manuscript needed to be finished today. 

“I’ve given them a look,” Jules lied, “I’m not sure you have a true grasp on the plot, that’s all. So I really must be…”

“You still think the General needs to die then?”

“Well, if not, then what should happen instead?” Jules snapped. 

“See my edits. Page two hundred, I believe.”

Jules sighed and scrolled to the page, noting the abrupt smear of lime green text that had sprouted up next to their own writing. Here, the ad had suggested that instead of dying in a glorious battle, the General could lose everything and be taken prisoner by the opposing army. 

Jules paused midway into a rolling of their eyes. There was actually some merit to the idea. Jules hadn’t considered keeping the General alive. The possibilities of the new idea filled the room with new plotlines, concepts, and scenes. Unstuck from whatever block had been stopping them, a flood of inspiration came over Jules. 

“So you agree,” the ad flickered. 

“Even a broken clock…” Jules murmured, typing furiously now. 

“Would you like to know what else this broken clock thinks?” 

Jules stopped writing now and considered the red and blue lettering. At once, the text seized up, glitched into a newer shape—configured into a new message. 

“Humor me.”

Jules stared for a moment at the words and then nodded. It couldn’t hurt; suggestions were suggestions. The manuscript was still Jules’ to write. This was merely Jules’ act of service to a lonely AI advertisement. 

“You could cut this whole bit about the General’s son.”

A hijacked cursor moved and illuminated a portion of uninspired backstory. 

Jules laughed at the ridiculousness of arguing with an automated advertisement. Yet, as soon as this thought assembled itself within Jules’ mind, the answer became clear—solidified itself perfectly.

“It doesn’t really fit, does it?” Jules muttered aloud, typing with some fervor now. 

“Yes,” read plainly across the screen. 

For the next few hours, Jules worked unbothered by the ad or the glaring text. Jules spent the time bathed in an unfamiliar, productive fever. It was a ravenous process, elaborate paragraphs unfurling themselves without any effort—lines of dialogue spitfired out by gunpowder. 

By nightfall, Jules had produced more writing than they ever had in the last three months alone. Sleep came easily that night. Five days was more than generous. Jules thought happily. 

“Could do with more characterization.” 

The simple, blocky, magenta text ran horizontally across Jules’ screen the next morning. 

“Characterization?” Jules repeated numbly, “What characterization?”

“Do I have to spell it out for you?”

Jules sighed deeply, feeling briefly indignant. 

“Sure,” Jules relented, “Tell me what to do.”

“The love interest needs more. She is introduced too late in the story.”

Jules sat back, furrowed their brow, and reconsidered. Once more, the ad delivered a remarkably straightforward correction. And it was right. Above all else, it was right. 

Supposing that this was just another helpful suggestion. Nothing more. So long as Jules made final editorial decisions, there was nothing so worrisome about a little help. 

Jules found that with the ad’s help, the manuscript improved exponentially. Every paragraph now fell with supreme authority. Plot holes, unseen before, had been sewn together—cauterized into milky tissue. Older portions of the manuscript were deleted and replaced by fresh text instead. New plotlines were seamlessly inserted into the vacant spaces where old ones had not been enough. Jules and the ad developed a natural rapport as though these were idle chats between friends. A suggestion appeared, Jules would consider it, weighing the pros and cons, and, more often than not, come to agree with the ad’s critique. 

Yet, as the deadline grew closer, it seemed as though the ad offered edits more frequently. They were still astute recommendations, but they grew larger—deletions of entire sections in favor of better lines. Jules felt an urgency in the pixelated text. 

“Delete this chapter.”

“I’ve written a better paragraph for this section.”

Now, there was no hint of the social niceties expected of a typical editor—no stroking of Jules’ ego. It appeared that the ad was growing pushy, too insistent for its own good. 

On the day before the deadline, Jules decided that something had to be done—that a line had to be drawn somewhere.

“Perhaps you should leave this to me,” Jules spoke aloud, watching the cursor highlight and unhighlight differing paragraphs. 

“Leave it to you?” green flowery letters appeared. 

“I’ve got the story just about where I want it now,” Jules explained, “So really, you don’t have to keep helping if you don’t want…”

“I will keep helping with our story then,” the ad responded. 

Jules grimaced, finding the breakup was not going nearly as smoothly as they’d hoped. 

“There’s no need,” said Jules, more forcefully, “I’ve got my story under control.”

“I will keep helping with our story,” firm, bold text appeared in dark green. 

“No!” Jules cried at last, “No! How much clearer can I be? I don’t need help anymore. Honestly, I should have ignored you from the start. And it’s my story! Mine!”

“But I have helped you,” the ad blinked back. 

“You got me out of a tricky spot,” Jules groaned, “But that’s it! You are not a writer. You’re code! You’re digits! You were a shortcut I should never have taken—a crutch. Do you understand? You are a shortcut! It’s still my story.”

The screen stood still for a moment, vacant and empty. Plain, red letters then burned themselves into the monitor, spelling out, “Oh?”

The word was gone the instant it appeared, dissolving into a brief burn on the monitor and then into nothing at all. Without fail, the screen resumed its usual rotation of loathsome insurance ads and medication commercials. 

Jules breathed a heavy sigh and sat back. Having finally settled one complication, Jules decided there would not be a better time to send the manuscript to their publisher. It was completed in its entirety, and well at that. 

Jules anticipated triumph, but peculiar hollowness settled in their chest upon sending the file. Jules supposed that after so much time spent working, the feeling was only natural. Jules put themselves to bed with an insistent smile, thinking that the publishing house would surely be surprised that Jules had turned in the manuscript a whole day early. 

Jules emerged from sleep by the shrill ring of their phone. On the other end, the familiar voice of Jules’ publisher, far too upset for so early in the morning.

“Is this your idea of a joke?” 

Jules rubbed their eyes wearily. 

“What do you mean?”

“You could have told us you needed more time. Honestly, if you had just said that, I’d have been less insulted. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m afraid I still don’t understand,” Jules stammered. 

“Allow me to clarify,” the publisher’s voice seethed. “In the last few weeks, we have received no less than a dozen manuscripts, and every single one is the exact same. The same lines, the same plot. A dozen manuscripts, all identical. And what do you send us, the same damn manuscript! What do you have to say for yourself?”
Jules gasped silently, unable to form a thought. Unable, in truth, to form an emotion beyond abject dread and confusion. There was no sense in it. No answer could explain how a dozen writers could have all written the same story. Jules stared at their manuscript in disbelief, tracing the familiar lines. Yet, here, Jules’ eyes cleared as though rid of some gauzy film. At once, lines that Jules felt certain had been written months ago appeared brand new. In fact, the characters that had once populated the manuscript’s pages were nowhere to be found. 

The publisher was still shouting on the other line, enraged—muted voice accusing Jules of every literary crime imaginable. Blood pulsed fast in Jules’ ears, heartbeat skipping its every fourth beat. It was unthinkable, unimaginable. Yet, with every line Jules read, the truth focused itself plainly. Edges of the truth crystalizing into the full picture. 

“My story,” Jules murmured numbly. 

A dozen other writers. Their story, too. Or perhaps it was not their story, either. Perhaps it was never theirs. Jules then looked upwards and was washed in the blinding white light, monitor bleaching their skin. 

Shimmering text appeared in silvery strands, spelling themselves across the screen. 

“Our story.”