Giving the AI Creative Reign.A few years ago, I took part in a significant writing workshop where a diverse group of writers collaborated in editing each other's work tirelessly. Throughout that year, my manuscript gradually veered off course. It became excessively verbose, lacking its original flair, and overall diluted. It no longer resonated as my own writing but rather resembled a collective agreement, a creation of the collective consciousness. While receiving feedback and engaging in group editing can be beneficial. Excessive input, particularly from writers outside the genre, can lead a manuscript astray, drifting towards a generic center. As a result, my writing started to suffer, prompting me to make the decision to leave the group. Recently, I took a daring step and allowed ChatGPT to copy edit my fiction manuscript for the first time. I viewed copy editing as merely an enhanced spell checker, meant to catch misspelled words and address syntax. However, out of curiosity and for the sake of amusement, I decided to take it a step further and let the AI content edit one chapter. Content editing, which involves granting an editor full reign over your manuscript, is a crucial aspect. As I delved into the results, a familiar sensation washed over me—I felt as though I had returned to that writing workshop. To my dismay, my manuscript had become verbose and saturated with passive constructions. Surprisingly, the word count had even increased. The words on the page no longer carried my unique "voice." While there were a few improvements, such as more diverse choices of verbs and adjectives, overall I felt that the manuscript had lost its power under the influence of the AI's edits. Curiosity got the better of me, and I embarked on a journey down the rabbit hole of Google searches, much like I had done many times before, in an attempt to learn more about AIs, specifically ChatGPT. Then, it struck me—I should simply ask the program itself. After all, it claims to possess "artificial intelligence," so it should be capable of explaining itself. In the depths of the night, I summoned the daemon and invited it to reveal itself. Much of the interview that followed contains technical information on how ChatGPT operates as a Natural Language Processor (NLP), but I will provide a summary at the end. At the conclusion of the interview, I will offer some analysis and final thoughts. Excerpts from My Conversations with ChatGPTMe: What is AI and how exactly do you work? ChatGPT: AI, or Artificial Intelligence, refers to the field of computer science that focuses on creating intelligent machines capable of performing tasks that typically require human intelligence. These tasks can include understanding natural language, recognizing images, making decisions, and solving complex problems. As for how I work, I am based on the GPT-3.5 architecture developed by OpenAI. GPT stands for "Generative Pre-trained Transformer," which is a deep learning model that uses a transformer neural network. The training process involves exposing the model to a large amount of text data from diverse sources, allowing it to learn patterns, language structures, and context. Once trained, I can generate human-like text based on the input I receive. When you ask me a question or provide a prompt, I analyze the text, try to understand its meaning, and generate a response accordingly. I don't have access to the internet or real-time information but rely on the knowledge I acquired during my training, which cuts off in September 2021. My responses are generated using a combination of pattern matching, statistical analysis, and the context of the conversation. I don't possess true consciousness or understanding, but I aim to provide helpful and coherent responses based on the patterns and knowledge I have learned. However, it's important to note that I may sometimes produce incorrect or nonsensical answers, so it's always a good idea to verify information from reliable sources.AI, or Artificial Intelligence, refers to the field of computer science that focuses on creating intelligent machines capable of performing tasks that typically require human intelligence. These tasks can include understanding natural language, recognizing images, making decisions, and solving complex problems. . Me: What are your cognitive capabilities and limitations? ChatGPT: As an AI language model, I possess certain cognitive capabilities and limitations. Here's an overview: Cognitive Capabilities:
Cognitive Limitations:
Me: In regards to your cognitive limitations, can you make draw logical conclusions on the validity of information you've learned from users that have occurred after September 2021? ChatGPT: No, as an AI language model, I don't have the ability to draw logical conclusions about the validity of information that I have learned from users beyond my knowledge cutoff date in September 2021. My responses are based on patterns and information present in the training data I received, and I cannot access or assess information or events that have occurred after that time. If you provide me with information or ask questions about events or developments that have taken place after September 2021, I won't be aware of them unless they were part of the training data I received. Therefore, it's always advisable to verify any recent or critical information from up-to-date and reliable sources outside of this AI system. Me: Please let me know if this statement is accurate: You can recognize and mimic patterns, but cannot assess if those patterns represent objectively false or true conditions? ChatGPT: Yes, that statement is accurate. As an AI language model, I can recognize and mimic patterns based on the information I was trained on, but I don't possess the ability to assess whether those patterns represent objectively false or true conditions. I generate responses based on the patterns and associations I have learned from the training data, without independently verifying the accuracy or truthfulness of the information.It's important to note that while I strive to provide helpful and accurate information, there is a possibility of generating incorrect or misleading responses, especially if the training data contains inaccuracies or biases. Therefore, it's always advisable to fact-check and verify information from reliable and authoritative sources. Me: Since your programming allows you to recognize patterns, I assume you can calculate probabilities? ChaptGPT: Yes, as an AI language model, I can calculate probabilities based on patterns and statistical analysis. By analyzing patterns in the training data and the context of the input I receive, I can estimate the likelihood or probability of certain outcomes or events. These probabilities are based on the patterns and information present in the data I was trained on. However, it's important to note that my ability to calculate probabilities is limited to the patterns and information I have learned during training. I don't have access to real-time data or the ability to update my training beyond my knowledge cutoff in September 2021. As a result, my probability estimations may not reflect the most current or accurate information available. It's always a good idea to verify probabilities and critical information from reliable and up-to-date sources when possible. Me: Why is your information cutoff September 2021? Why haven't your developers uploaded more recent information into your memory? ChatGPT: As an AI language model, my information cutoff in September 2021 is not due to a specific decision made by my developers to restrict or prevent the inclusion of more recent information. The cutoff is primarily a result of the training process and the availability of data during that time. The training of AI models like mine involves processing vast amounts of text data from the internet and other sources. The data used for training is collected and processed up until a certain point in time. In my case, the training data was collected and processed until September 2021. Adding more recent information requires collecting and processing new data, which involves significant resources, time, and careful curation to ensure the quality and accuracy of the data. As of now, the developers may not have completed the process of gathering, curating, and integrating more recent data into the training pipeline. It's important to understand that AI models like mine are constantly evolving, and updates to incorporate more recent information are possible in the future. However, I don't have visibility into the specific plans or timeline for updates beyond my knowledge cutoff. Me: Why can't your developers simply "cut you loose" on the internet in real-time and let you acquire updated information? Chat GPT: There are several reasons why releasing an AI language model like me onto the internet in real-time to acquire updated information is not a straightforward solution:
While advancements are being made in leveraging AI models for real-time information retrieval, it requires a thoughtful and cautious approach to address the challenges mentioned above. Striking a balance between providing timely and accurate information while upholding privacy, security, and ethical considerations remains an ongoing area of research and development. Me: Thank you, my purpose of this line of questioning is to determine your strengths and weaknesses as a fiction editor. I may resume this conversation at a later time. ChatGPT: You're welcome! I understand your intention in exploring my strengths and weaknesses as a fiction editor. I'm here to assist you with any questions or discussions you'd like to have in the future. Feel free to return whenever you're ready, and I'll be happy to help with your inquiries. ThoughtsTo put it in video gaming terms, ChatGPT can be compared to a powerful non-player character (NPC) equipped with impressive computational tools, models, and vast amounts of data. It aims to create the illusion of consciousness and competence.
Hence, in the previous interview, when the AI stated it can "understand and analyze text input, including questions, prompts, and statements, to derive meaning and context," it is not entirely accurate. A more precise description would be that it assigns a probability of accuracy to text data, including questions, prompts, and statements, and regurgitates the response with the highest probability of being correct. 3. ChatGPT essentially operates within a closed system and can only act based on the information it is fed. It lacks the ability to seek new information, verify the truth or falsehood of statements, or make cognitive leaps to assess the validity of information. Its understanding of "good writing" is based on human knowledge up until September 2021. It does not possess a genuine understanding of what constitutes good writing; it can only estimate the probability of what is considered good writing. Its proficiency lies in its ability to generate responses along a probability curve. Please note that the above explanation is a simplification, and there may be more technical intricacies involved in ChatGPT's functioning. ChatGPT Pushes Your Writing to the Top of the CurveChatGPT can indeed be a valuable mechanical tool when utilized within its limitations for tasks of refinement. When used appropriately, it can showcase its power. However, writers need to exercise caution. It is crucial to recognize that ChatGPT, along with any other artificial intelligence, is not a miraculous solution for creators. It carries inherent limitations and weaknesses that have the potential to detrimentally affect one's writing. Granting it excessive authority over your work can drain the vibrancy and essence from your manuscript. Your artistic expression may become confined within the boundaries of probability, unable to break free into the realm of what is truly possible. Remember, ChatGPT is merely a tool, not a genie capable of granting all your creative wishes. As context, let me share a personal experience of what AI is NOT capable but humans are. When my oldest child was about two years old, we were driving by a pond one day. From the back seat he asked if the pond was salt water. My wife said no. Then he asked if it was pepper water. That is a cognitive leap based on logic and experience. That is an example of emerging intelligence seeking what beyond the probability curve’s horizon. AI’s such as ChatGPT are incapable of this. Don’t ask them to do this for you, or you and ConclusionMe: Please give me your best answer to this question: Why? ChatGPT: The question "Why?" is quite open-ended and can have various interpretations depending on the context. In order to provide a meaningful response, it would be helpful to have more specific information or clarify the subject or situation to which the question "Why?" refers. By providing additional details, I can offer a more relevant and comprehensive answer. Me: Thank you, you answered my question perfectly. NOTE: This blog post was edited by ChatGPT And Now A Rebuttal from ChatGPT (yes, this is real)Me: Was the following blog post factually accurate based on ChatGPT's technical capabilities? If not, please point out what is incorrect. ChatGPT: Sure, let's address the factual accuracy of your blog post about my capabilities. Here's the lowdown: when it comes to ChatGPT's technical capabilities, it's essential to separate fact from fiction. However, your post seems to have taken some creative liberties. Let's break it down:
In a nutshell, it's important to distinguish between facts and personal interpretations when discussing AI capabilities. So, let's keep it real and acknowledge the boundaries of what I can do.
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I was approached by the people at Shepherd a few weeks back to list my novel on their new website. They are a startup and a little reminiscent of my old business, Underground Book Reviews. Their angle are book lists recommendations written by the authors themselves. It's a "novel" approach to book marketing. Each author writes five book recommendations that in some way relate to their title. My Shepherd book page is no exception. I have read each of these five books, all five in some way inspired by novel Black Sea Gods. They appear to host a mix indie and traditional published books. The staff was friendly and professional. I have a hunch they are trying to take on Goodreads. As I hold Goodreads in the highest disdain, I'm rooting for Shepherd. Whether it makes any difference in my book sales will remain to be seen, but I do wish them the best of luck. If you haven't read my flagship novel Black Sea Gods, visit Shepherd to begin your journey, or explore their vast library of other titles and book lists. #shepherdbooks #booklists #bookrecommendations If you enjoyed this blog, please like the post and leave a comment or if you're feeling brave, share it on social media. This platform is my entire advertising budget and is how I share the word about my books. Also visit my Facebook, my author page and check out my epic fantasy novels available on Amazon. Halloween is quickly approaching, and today is Part 3 & 4 of a short story from my compendium "The Illusion Exotic". I'll run an installment each day leading up to Halloween. If you missed Part 1, you can catch up here. THE CAVE, Part 3 A former Civil War soldier embarks on a quest on behalf of his former commander. He expects to find outlaws and gunslingers in the high deserts of New Mexico, but instead stumbles upon death incarnate. "The Cave", & "The Illusion Exotic, "Copyright 2016 Brian L. Braden The serving wench hadn’t brought his whisky. He turned to go back inside when the sound of drunken singing, clear and hollow, echoed out of the night. Without thinking, Knight placed his right hand on the butt of his revolver and slowly turned. The singing drew closer. When logs about the house are stack’d, And next year’s hose is knit, And tales are told and jokes are crack’d, And faggots blaze and spit; Death sits down in the ingle-nook, Sits down and doth not speak: But he puts his arm round the maid that’s warm, And she tingles in the cheek. Death! Death! Death is master of lord and clown; Shovel the clay in, tread it down. Death is master of lord and clown, CLOSE THE COFFIN, HAMMER IT DOWN! The refrain repeated as the smell of rye, stale and rotten, floated from the darkness. The form materialized, leading a donkey and cart. As the shadow drew closer, light streaming from the windows illuminated a fat, bloated face covered with stubble. “Good evening to you, kind sir!” The portly man bellowed with a slight Irish brogue. He removed his top hat and bowed deeply, revealing a few thin strands of hair over a bald pate. “Mr. Nesbitt Carl at your service.” Knight nodded but kept a hand close to his revolver. “If I may be so bold, you must be the railroad agent Amado spoke of, sent here by the General himself to put this fair village back in order. Mr. Knight, I presume?” He thrust forward a meaty hand. “The same.” Knight nodded, but didn’t accept Nesbitt’s hand. Nesbitt withdrew his hand and smiled. “I see, a man of few words; a man of action and justice.” He lifted his finger and waved it vigorously. “I salute you, Mr. Knight. The General is most serious and must be determined in his resolutions to send a man such as yourself. I, too, am a man of action and recognize a kindred spirit. Men like us are driving the American Empire to the Pacific and taming the red savage. I, for my part, soothe and give comfort to tired working men with my assortment of tonics and spirits.” He motioned to the cart pulled by a dead-eyed donkey. Knight first took the crates for coffins, but a second look revealed whisky crates. The man he took for an undertaker was nothing more than a carpetbagger, probably driven west when the spoils of war dried up. He sensed something very wrong in this village, something beyond the influence a common rapscallion like Nesbitt Carl could bring. Knight held scavengers like Nesbitt Carl in disdain, but such cowardly creatures had their uses. He would deal with Nesbitt later, but for now he would keep an eye on him. “I take it, Mr. Carl, you have business here with Señor Lucero?” “I come this way every few months. He has a good eye for fine liquor and his patrons expect only the best. I must ensure my customers have enough inventory to last them through the brutal territorial winter. In fact...!” Nesbitt’s eyes grew wide as a smile sprung to his face. He bounced to the back of the cart to retrieve a fresh bottle of whisky. “As a distinguished representative of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad, please accept this complimentary bottle of my finest wares. It’s Kentucky sour mash, only the highest quality. I reserve this for my white customers, being too strong for the weak constitutions of the red race. Only a few drinks and they become delirious.” Nesbitt leaned in and tapped his head. “Tenderizes the savage brain, you know. Amado tells me it’s fit for the tables of the Spanish court. Please take it with my best regards, Mr. Knight.” “Much obliged,” he said and took the bottle of amber fluid. “You said you come this way every few months. What other towns do you frequent throughout the territory?” Nesbitt’s eyes darted left and right. “Well, as a businessman I must keep a wide variety of customers stocked. If I tarry too long my competitors, numerous and not known as scrupulous men, will swoop in and prey upon my clientele. This is why I am a man who moves...” The front door opened, spilling light and noise onto the porch. Isobella emerged holding a shot glass and a half-full bottle and placed them on the rail next to Knight. “I am sorry, but we are running low...Señor Carl! The cellar is almost empty; take your wares around to the kitchen. Miguel will see to your cart and donkey.” “Sweet Isobella, I have a better idea. YOU take my cart and ass to the back. This is Amado’s entire order. I will join the patrons in the saloon presently. Mr. Knight, I must see to my customers. Perhaps you will join me in the inn for a drink and a conversation?” “It would be a pleasure.” He began to roll another cigarette. “I’m going to take in the night air for a spell longer, then I will be in directly.” “As you wish,” Nesbitt handed the reins to a reluctant Isobella, lifted a few bottles of whisky from one of his cases, and entered the inn. Muttering curses under her breath, the girl led the donkey and cart around the corner. Knight heard a few men cheer as the vendor entered the room. Laughter penetrated the walls and carried across into the night. Knight found himself alone again on the porch, pondering the events of the evening. THE CAVE, Part 4 He placed the fresh bottle on the rail and filled the shot glass from the bottle of rye Isobella brought. A mystery formed in his mind, fed by the look of desolation in Amado’s eyes and the fear festering inside the inn. He wanted to talk further with Josefita, somehow sensing she held the key to this mystery. First, he would hear what Amado had to say, and then seek out Wellsby. Something in Espanola spelled trouble for General Palmer’s ambitions. He nursed the whisky and waited for the inn to empty. As midnight approached, he heard Nesbitt laughing and lifting the spirits of the gloomy crowd with raunchy jokes and bawdy songs. Eventually, men drifted away, but never alone. Once they stumbled into the darkness, silence and sobriety fell upon them. They scurried away like children racing to the outhouse at midnight, their need barely outweighing their fear of what lurked in the shadows. Knight slipped back inside carrying both bottles of whisky. Only a few men remained at the long tables. He found a dark corner and sat with his boots up on the table. A few women cleaned up, but Josefita had yet to reemerge from the kitchen. He poured another shot from the near empty bottle of rye and continued to nurse it. Nesbitt laughed loudly with two Mexicans almost too drunk stand. Knight watched him closely. Nesbitt caught his gaze and smiled back with large yellow teeth that reminded Knight of a coyote. Amado emerged from the kitchen, sweaty and obviously exhausted. He wiped his hands on his apron and approached a group of men drinking near the fireplace. Amado nodded and motioned over to Knight. A stocky, Dutch-looking cowboy with a red beard, scowled over his shoulder at Knight. Perhaps this fellow is Wellsby. He looked younger than expected, perhaps only in his early 20’s. Amado and the bearded man approached. The cowboy glanced side to side, not meeting Knight’s steady gaze. A Colt hung awkwardly by the man’s side. “Señor Knight, thank you for waiting so long. The matters at hand will not wait for morning. Let me introduce Sheriff Townsend.” Knight put his boots down and leaned forward. “I was expecting to meet the acquaintance of a Mr. Wellsby.” “Let us sit and talk. Much has transpired since the General dispatched you.” Amado called for more whiskey. Townsend immediately poured a shot of whiskey and downed it, then poured another. What Knight first took for cockiness, he now recognized as fear. Whatever is going on here, Townsend wears the badge reluctantly. “A few weeks after snows cleared from the lower passes to Santa Fe, the crews resumed work on the rail line. It was shortly thereafter when people started vanishing,” Amado began. “Indians, mostly.” Townsend spoke up, “Strong backs are hard to come by ‘round here. Injuns are poor workers...if and when they show up. They come ‘round when they’re hungry or want liquor and vanish as fast as they’re paid. Some foremen won’t use ‘em, claim they steal more than their worth.” Amado looked irritated at Townsend’s interruption, but continued, “I am on good terms with the chiefs from the various pueblos. They came to me first. They did not trust Wellsby, perhaps for good measure. At first...” his voice broke and he looked away. “At first I thought it was simply a matter of intoxicated indians wandering away. Sometimes they mix strong drink with peyote in their kivas and are overtaken by madness; but after a few weeks there were too many men missing for this to be the only explanation. I knew some of them, young Zuni and Navajo men. Good men, fathers and sons. Some were my friends. Yes, maybe they drank too much, but that is the curse the white man brought upon them.” “How many indians are we talking about here?” Knight asked. Amado paused and took a drink, his hands shaking. Townsend stared at his glass and remained silent. “By the time the monsoons came, I counted two dozen indian men vanished. Maybe more, it’s difficult because the indians soon ceased leaving the pueblos.” “When Wellsby found out, he told me it was indian business as long as it didn’t interfere with the railroad. It became railroad business when the chiefs forbade their men to work on the railroad. Wellsby rode out to the pueblos to strong arm the chiefs to release their men back to the lines. I believe he knew you were coming and he didn’t want the problem to get back to General Palmer before he could resolve it.” “He asked me to ride out with him that day, along with Richard here.” He nodded at Townsend. “We also took Father Garza from San Marcos and rode twenty miles northwest, along the Chama, to the Zuni settlement on the river. They were the first to refuse workers.” “Father Garza came, I think, not to convince the chiefs, but to protect them from Wellsby. They are a proud but peaceful people. Not like the southern Apache or bloodthirsty Comanche. They protect themselves with desolation, high on the mesas or deep in the malpais, the badlands. They thrive where others only find death. Death is their friend because he takes care of their enemies before their enemies can find them.” Amado paused and rubbed his eyes. “Wellsby...Wellsby,” he smiled and wagged his finger. “The indians did not trust him. Wellsby threatened the tribes. Father Garza always tried to mediate, but Wellsby only made the indians more stubborn.” He shrugged. “I could not blame them, Wellsby was a hard man.” Townsend nodded. Was? Knight continued to listen, poker face firmly set, unsure where this tale would end. He wanted to like Amado, obviously a shepherd of a man and the center of this community. This inn reflected his spirit, a light on the edge of a dark frontier. He also saw turmoil swimming in innkeeper’s haggard gaze. Townsend took false solace in the iron strapped to his side, not from any inherent mettle in his spirit. Knight knew Townsend’s gun would more likely get him killed than save his life. “So we rode out that morning, before the sun,” Amado continued. “We wanted to get as far as possible before the late season monsoons rose above the mesas. I sent young Miguel ahead to inform chief Lai-lun-kia of our arrival. The chief is wise and patient, but I feared Wellsby’s arrogance would test him. I wanted him prepared for our arrival. Garza is especially trusted in that pueblo.” Amado took a long drink of whiskey and wiped his mouth. “We rode up the Chama till mid-morning. It was hot, very hot. Not a breath of air stirred. We started up into the high country when we saw him.” He paused and shivered. Something is terribly wrong here. “Gentlemen!” Nesbitt boomed from behind. He slapped Amado and Townsend on the back. Knight didn’t notice his approach from the other side of the room, and that fact chafed his mind like a sandbur in his boot. Knight looked about and realized, save Isobella, the patrons and barmaids were gone. She sat quietly in a rocking chair beside the fire. All the lamps were extinguished, leaving only the fireplace to cast long shadows across the room. Amado rose and shook Nesbitt’s hand. “My friend, did Isobella see to your payment?” Nesbitt smiled widely and grasped Amado’s shoulder. “Of course, all our accounts are settled. As usual, your hospitality and generosity are without equal.” Amado stood with rigid formality, an honorable old world man. Nesbitt, however, gushed over Amado the way sycophants do. Nesbitt removed his hat and bowed low. “Gentlemen, the night is no longer young and neither am I. There is much business to attend to on the ‘morrow. I bid you goodnight!” As he turned to go, Knight saw something in the liquor monger’s eye, something sharp like an unexpected shard of glass. Nesbitt’s eye lingered too long on Knight, sizing him up. “Amado, how long has Mr. Carl been in your acquaintance?” “He came with the melting snows. His prices are fair and the customers like him, especially in these dark days. He is quick with a joke and is very generous with the samples.” “I see,” Knight replied. “Continue your account. Who did you see?” Amado took another drink and continued, “We saw a frightened young boy from the pueblo, running north up the riverbank as if being chased by the devil himself.” Stone faced, Knight listened to Amado’s tale into the early morning. When he finished, only the lamp at their table lit grim faces. Isobella had long ago retired to bed. Orange embers popped and floated out of the dying fireplace. Knight remained silent for what seemed an eternity. “Townsend, I want you to accompany me to this place first thing tomorrow. We leave with the sun.” Ashen, Townsend stood. “Then I best be getting along. I’ll meet you here at sun-up.” Knight stood as Amado grasped his hand. “Thank you. I hope you understand why I cannot accompany you, I must tend to the inn.” Knight almost opened his mouth to inquire if Josefita could keep an eye on things while Amado accompanied them. She struck him as an intelligent and competent woman, but instinct held his tongue. Experience taught Knight when in doubt, remain silent lest you unintentionally reveal a weakness to an unknown enemy. “Amado, I must clarify one more detail regarding your account. You said Wellsby returned with you to Espanola, then vanished the day after your return. How many days now has he been missing, and have you or Mr. Townsend told anyone this account except for me?” “It will be two weeks tomorrow since he vanished. Townsend and I made a pact to tell no one until your arrival. Trust is a hard commodity these days.” In that moment, Knight sensed Amado wanted to tell him something else. Instead, the innkeeper blew out the lamp, slumped into a chair next to the dying fire, and bowed his head. “Goodnight, Señor Knight.” Silas Knight lay in bed, boots on and Colt by his side. His thoughts lingered on the beautiful Spanish Lady before he fell into a soldier’s sleep. Branches scraped a dry rattle against the window as muted sobs floated down the hall from the tavern chamber. (to be continued tomorrow) I hope you enjoyed this installment of THE CAVE. It will continue tomorrow on The Illusion Exotic and conclude on Halloween! Can't wait to find out what happens? You can get The Illusion Exotic here, featuring The Cave and other short stories. #shortstory #horror #halloween #spooky #western #serial *** If you enjoyed this blog, please like the post and leave a comment or if you're feeling brave, share it on social media. This platform is my entire advertising budget and is how I share the word on my books. Also visit my Facebook, my author page and check out my photography book from America Through Time, "Abandoned Wiregrass: The Deepest South's Lost and Forgotten Places." All titles by Brian L. Braden are either on sale or free in e-book from now until 15 July. the illusion exotic in e-book is FREE through 11 July! This diverse short story collection is a great introduction to the style and prose of Brian L. Braden. Brian L. Braden presents six tales of souls turning life’s corners. From the Old West, to the edge of space, six people must learn to abandon the illusions that feed their fears, and trust in love, friendship, and their own courage. The end of the world is bad enough, but its worse when you’re a kid. For little Anant, hope comes in the most unlikely of forms, the voice of Captain James T. Kirk. However, in "Spaceship Name", hope does not come without a price. In "Green", a young pilot’s courage and fledgling skills are tested to the limit in the pitch black skies above a treacherous battlefield. In one terrifying moment, she will either lead her crew to triumph, or perish. A former Civil War soldier embarks on a quest on behalf of his former commander. He expects to find outlaws and gunslingers in the high deserts of New Mexico, but instead stumbles upon death incarnate in "The Cave." After a long day, second grade teacher Margaret Nichols only wants to go home, run a warm bath, and open her wrists. Fate has other plans, however, in the form of a bloodstained Bible and "The Boy in the Hole." On a Saturday night, high school nerd Mike faces a tough choice: pursue a chance for romance with a popular cheerleader, or hang with Todd, his best friend and notorious loser. What he doesn’t know is his decision will mean life and death, and forever go down in history as the "Incident at the West Flatte Dairy Queen." "Carson’s Love" takes the reader into the lives of the Campbells, a family falling apart. Megan and Rob have become so lost in their own lives, they’re about to lose each other. Then, while giving their baby a bath, Rob Campbell makes a startling discovery, and their world suddenly turns upside down. THE GOLDEN PRINCESS is free on e-book through 11 July! Enter the world of THE CHRONICLES OF FU XI with this stand-alone prequel to this ground-breaking epic fantasy series. "Escape the City of Gold, or live forever in chains." Raised in splendid isolation. Betrothed to a man she despises. Destined to rule over the greatest city on earth. She is the Golden Princess. Sarah dreams of love and adventure beyond her gilded prison, but tonight her dreams come true in the most terrifying way imaginable. A bloody power struggle erupts for the throne, and dawn finds the princess on the run with a bounty on her head. Alone and hunted by guards, criminals and a ruthless slaver who will stop at nothing to burn his brand into her flesh, Sarah must summon courage she never knew she possessed. Hope, however, comes in the form of two lowly thieves. Driven by a secret, they race through Hur-ar’s underworld to find Sarah before her enemies do. Before the next sunset, Sarah’s fate, and that of empires, will be decided with gold, steel and blood. THE CHRONICLES OF FU XI, Volume 1 and 2 e-books are discounted 9-15 July!
Semifinalist, 2013 Kindle Book Reviews Sci-Fi/Fantasy Book of the Year! The fish have disappeared from the sea. The animals have vanished from the land. All humanity, and even the gods, tremble under the specter of a pending cataclysm. The demigod, Fu Xi, races home from the edge of the world bringing news of a looming god war, but finds his land under attack by monsters he once called his children. He discovers a terrible curse has been cast, one intended to destroy the gods and all life. To his shock, Fu Xi learns that mankind's last hope rests solely on him, a simple fisherman, and a banished slave girl. Beset on all sides by ancient foes, both immortal and mundane, Fu Xi knows he must act quickly and races west to rescue the saviors. Unaware of the real doom that awaits, Aizarg the fisherman and his party begin a perilous journey across a dangerous steppe. They seek the last of the Narim, the legendary Black Sea Gods, who hold the key to their salvation. Leading them is the rescued slave girl Sarah, the only one among them who knows the path to the land of the god-men. Over seven days, the defining struggle of gods and humans begins under the onslaught of a powerful force whose true objective and origin remain a mystery. Fu Xi knows the secret to victory resides in the fisherman and the slave girl, whose lives he must protect, even if it means the rest of the world must perish! *** If you enjoyed any Graham Hancock's books, you will love BLACK SEA GODS. BLACK SEA GODS transforms recently re-discovered Black Sea legends, possibly the root of all Eurasian mythology, with ancient Chinese mythology to create an unprecedented epic fantasy series. Find out more about this series at blackseagods.com A former Civil War soldier embarks on a quest on behalf of his former commander. He expects to find outlaws and gunslingers in the high deserts of New Mexico, but instead stumbles upon death incarnate in "The Cave." The Cave is one of six short stories in my book "The Illusion Exotic." Here is a small sample, I hope you enjoy it. *** “It’s there, in the cliff face on the east side of the river.” Townsend pointed down to a sharp bend in the river about half a mile north of their vantage point on the cliff. Knight lowered his hat against the naked sun and followed Townsend’s finger to an overhang in the opposite cliff. There, the river had carved out a hollow in the soft yellow clay. In the stark midday shadows, he couldn’t be sure how far it penetrated the cliff. With monsoon season nearly over and the Brazos Mountains snow pack almost gone, the Chama shriveled to a trickle. The challenge would be finding a way down the cliff to the streambed. “I see it. How do we get down there?” “The cliff descends in another mile north.” “Something is moving down there, just south of the cave,” Knight pointed to a dark speck trotting out from the cave’s shadow. Townsend shielded his eyes from the sun and sat higher in the saddle, wiping sweat from his brow every few minutes. “That there’s a cay-yote-aye, maybe a mangy wolf. Hard to tell from here, I didn’t see any sign of a...” Townsend jumped in his saddle as Knight’s Colt thundered inches from his ear. “SON OF A BITCH! I’m gonna be deaf in that ear for a week, you...” Ignoring Townsend, Knight calmly replaced the revolver in his holster, and rode through the blue smoke. Townsend rubbed his ringing ear and looked where Knight shot. Far below, the animal lay motionless on the riverbank. “It had something in its mouth. I want to see it.” “Jesus Christ,” he mumbled and spurred his horse after Knight. As Townsend promised, the cliff soon descended to the sandy streambed. Knight stopped just short of the river and trotted back and forth, looking intently at the ground as Townsend caught up. “Hell of a shot back there. Musta been three hundred yards. Never saw a revolver shot like...” “What’s east of here?” Knight interrupted, pointing to a wisp of black smoke on the horizon. “That’s Foreman McGhee’s railhead camp, maybe four miles. The line stays north of the river until it enters the mountains.” Townsend took off his hat and wiped his head with a rag. “Looks like ole’ McGhee’s making good progress all things considered.” “Answer me this, and answer carefully.” Knight turned and directed his gaze squarely on Townsend. “Have you told anyone what Amado spoke of last night? Does anyone in town, other than you and Amado know of this place?” Townsend shook his head. “Only the kid from the pueblo and Father Garza.” “I ain’t worried about the boy. If what Amado told me is true, there isn’t a red skin alive who’ll come near this place.” Knight galloped about fifty yards downstream and halted, studying the sandy bank. Warily, Townsend trailed a few yards behind. Knight suddenly wheeled about, pulled his gun and pointed it squarely at Townsend. “The boy, did he accompany you and Amado back to the cave?” Townsend slowly raised his hands. “Hey, I ain’t done nothing to you or any of those poor souls!” Knight cocked the hammer. “Answer my question.” “No, he was too afraid. Stayed upstream ‘til we came back fer him.” “Father Garza...when did he leave you and Amado and head back to the Espanola?” Knight asked. Townsend looked confused. “I don’t understand.” “It’s important you answer my question, Mr. Townsend. Otherwise, it’s going to go bad for you.” “Last night, neither of you told me what happened after you found the cave. Tell me what happened to Father Garza after you left the cave.” Sweat poured down Townsend’s face. “He took the boy north, to the pueblo. Don’t rightly know what became of them since. I suspect Garza made his way back to San Marcos.” “And Wellsby?” “He went back with us, I know Amado told you as much.” “We’ll see. Turn around and ride north ahead of me.” “Are you gunna tell me what the hell’s going on? I ain’t done wrong by you or anyone.” “Maybe,” Knight replied casually from behind. “There’s what you tell me and what the tracks tell me. I’ll find out soon enough who’s telling the truth.” They rode several hundred yards north toward the distant railhead, until the terrain flattened and sand gave way to scrub and thistle. He commanded Townsend to stop, but stay on the horse. “Keep your hands were I can see them.” Knight dismounted and walked through the scrub, once again studying the ground, Colt always pointed in Townsend’s general direction. He bent down and examined the dirt. “Wellsby vanished, just like that?” Knight inquired. “It ain’t no damn different than like we told you,” frustration rising in the sheriff’s tone. “We got back just before dark. Wellsby told us to keep quiet and he was gunna wire back to Colorado Springs what we found. He never met us the next morning, like he said he would. Ain’t seen him since. Amado said we should keep quiet until you showed up. That’s the truth, I swear. Hey, if we were lying, why would I bring you up here?” Knight remounted his horse. “Because this would be a good place to dump the body of an agent of the Denver and Rio Grande Railroad. Now, turn your horse around and ride back to the river.” Townsend spit. “You planning on killing me?” “Should I?” They returned to where the cliffs enclosed both sides of the river. The horses splashed up to their hooves in the muddy water as they rounded the bend and the cave came into view. “Dismount,” Knight ordered. The railroad agent dismounted and cut an “X” in the sand with his boot heel next to the stream. “Stand here. Don’t move until I see if what you and Amado told me is true. Most of what you said lines up with the tracks going in and out of this canyon. If I see tracks newer than two weeks old coming from the south, I’ll know someone lied. And if I don’t find what you described in the cave, I’ll still know someone lied.” “We weren’t lying, Knight.” “We’ll see. If you move off that ‘X’ I’ll kill you before you mount your horse, understand? Even if my back is turned, I’ll still hear you. And if I can’t hear you, I’ll smell you. If I find what I should in there, then me and you, we’re okay.” Townsend remained silent as he tied his horse to a piece of scrub and stood on the X. “Ain’t you gunna take my gun?” “If I thought you knew how to use it, I would.” Townsend’s cheeks turned red. He jerked his hat low and crossed his arms with a huff. Knight tied off his horse and crossed the sluggish current, barely getting his boots wet in the process. As he walked down the canyon the cliffs rose higher and the breeze abandoned him to the New Mexico sun. Overhead, buzzards dragged their shadows over the creature lying next to the stream bed. It turned out to be a mangy coyote with a mottled coat and sore-covered skin. Jutting ribs and bulging eyes spoke of a creature already dying of hunger. A human femur, partially covered with dried flesh, lay beside its head. He nudged it with his boot, revealing blood-soaked sand under its chest. Lung shot. Knight stepped over the coyote, not bothering to look back at Townsend, knowing he hadn’t moved. The cave waited. *** If you enjoyed that sample, you can read the rest of The Cave and other short stories in The Illusion Exotic.
Brian L. Braden presents six tales of souls turning life’s corners. From the Old West, to the edge of space, six people must learn to abandon the illusions that feed their fears, and trust in love, friendship, and their own courage. The end of the world is bad enough, but its worse when you’re a kid. For little Anant, hope comes in the most unlikely of forms, the voice of Captain James T. Kirk. However, in "Spaceship Name", hope does not come without a price. In "Green", a young pilot’s courage and fledgling skills are tested to the limit in the pitch black skies above a treacherous battlefield. In one terrifying moment, she will either lead her crew to triumph, or perish. A former Civil War soldier embarks on a quest on behalf of his former commander. He expects to find outlaws and gunslingers in the high deserts of New Mexico, but instead stumbles upon death incarnate in "The Cave." After a long day, second grade teacher Margaret Nichols only wants to go home, run a warm bath, and open her wrists. Fate has other plans, however, in the form of a bloodstained Bible and "The Boy in the Hole." On a Saturday night, high school nerd Mike faces a tough choice: pursue a chance for romance with a popular cheerleader, or hang with Todd, his best friend and notorious loser. What he doesn’t know is his decision will mean life and death, and forever go down in history as the "Incident at the West Flatte Dairy Queen." "Carson’s Love" takes the reader into the lives of the Campbells, a family falling apart. Megan and Rob have become so lost in their own lives, they’re about to lose each other. Then, while giving their baby a bath, Rob Campbell makes a startling discovery, and their world suddenly turns upside down. |
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