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[mitchell_d00]

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Spock 2: The Loss of Vulcan

Scene: The Bridge of the Enterprise

The bridge is subdued. The usual rhythm of activity has slowed, replaced by a heavy silence that hangs in the air. Crew members move almost mechanically, their focus fractured by the unspoken weight of the moment.

Uhura stands at her station, her earpiece pressed tightly to her ear. She hesitates, her breath catching. Slowly, she looks up at Kirk, her voice steady but laced with anguish.

Uhura:

“Captain… we’ve lost Vulcan.”

Action:

Kirk stiffens in his chair, his jaw tightening. His gaze shifts to the viewscreen, which shows the empty void where Vulcan once stood. Around the bridge, the crew freezes—Sulu grips his console tightly, while Chekov’s wide eyes reflect disbelief.

Spock:

“Lieutenant, confirm.”

Uhura (softly):

“No signals. No life signs. Vulcan is… gone.”

Action:

The camera focuses on Spock. His expression is a perfect mask of composure, betraying nothing. The silence stretches until he finally nods.

Spock (evenly):

“Focus on the survivors, Lieutenant. Locate all escape pods and remaining vessels.”

Kirk (hesitant):

“Spock—”

Spock (firmly):

“I am needed here, Captain.”

Kirk exchanges a glance with Uhura, then nods.

Scene: The Corridor

Spock strides through the corridor, his hands clasped behind his back. His pace is measured, his posture rigid, but his shoulders are taut with an invisible weight.

Crew members pass him, their glances fleeting, their pity unspoken but palpable. The faint hum of the ship fills the silence.

Ahead, a young Vulcan ensign rounds a corner. Her hand covers her mouth, and her shoulders shake with suppressed emotion. She stumbles, nearly losing her balance, before regaining her footing.

Action:

As she nears Spock, her distress overtakes her. Her hand drops slightly, revealing red-rimmed eyes and a trembling mouth.

Spock:

“Ensign.”

The Ensign (choking on her words):

“Commander—”

Her voice catches. She shakes her head, her composure breaking entirely. Without another word, she turns and runs past him, her footsteps echoing down the corridor.

Action:

Spock watches her retreat for a moment, his hands tightening behind his back. His expression remains neutral, but his grip is rigid. After a pause, he resumes his walk.

Scene: Spock’s Quarters

The doors slide open. Spock steps inside, the quiet of his quarters enveloping him. He moves with deliberate precision, retrieving a Vulcan candle from a high shelf and unrolling his meditation mat in the center of the room.

Action:

He kneels on the mat, lighting the candle. The flame wavers, casting faint shadows across his face. He closes his eyes, his hands resting on his knees, his breathing controlled.

Spock (whispering):

“Focus. Control. Logic prevails.”

Memory Intrudes

The stillness of the room is broken by Spock’s thoughts. The image of Vulcan looms large in his mind: its red surface glowing in the light of its twin suns.

Then, the fracture: the planet’s surface crumbles, collapsing inward. The core disintegrates, and an instant later, the planet is gone—swallowed by nothingness.

Spock (softly):

“A world… extinguished in a moment. Its voices… silenced. Its light…”

Action:

Spock’s breathing quickens. His chest heaves. He opens his eyes, staring into the flickering flame as his voice falters.

Spock (strained):

“…gone.”

Action:

His hands tremble on his knees. The flame wavers, casting uneven shadows.

Spock (a whisper, growing louder):

“They are the many… I am the few. The waste of the many.”

Action:

With a sharp motion, Spock reaches forward and extinguishes the flame. Darkness swallows the room.

The Breaking Point

In the silence, Spock collapses forward, his hands pressing against the floor. His head lowers, his breath shuddering with the effort to contain his emotions.

Spock (in a low, trembling voice):

“A world… a people… gone. Nothing remains.”

Action:

His shoulders tremble as he struggles to maintain control. Slowly, he folds onto the mat, his body curling inward. For a long moment, the room is still, save for the faint sound of his ragged breathing.

The camera pulls back, framing Spock alone in the dim quarters. Through the window behind him, the faint glow of distant stars is visible—a haunting reminder of the void left by Vulcan’s absence.

[DavidMM]

My Horror Story
Don Mitchell

The Last Toll

Harlow was a place not even maps remembered. A gray smudge lost among snowy hills, where the wind always carried stories no one wanted to hear. In the center of the town, like a rotten tooth, stood the church of St. Jude. No one in their right mind went near the bell tower because the bronze bells had a knack for predicting deaths. Not an accident, not a “maybe,” but a firm, undeniable sentence.

Robert Mays, a freelance reporter, arrived on a December night looking for a story to revive his career. He had heard about the bells in a seedy bar, where a bleary-eyed drunk whispered to him:
“They rang the night my Emily passed… and the worst part is, no one had heard them in fifty years. But that night… those damned bells spoke.”

Armed with a recorder and his old Polaroid camera, Mays drove to Harlow, where the church loomed like a frozen corpse. The snow crunched under his boots as he pushed open the rotting wooden doors. Inside, the air was stale, heavy, as if every brick was soaked with forgotten prayers.

The bell tower lay at the end of a spiraling staircase. He climbed cautiously, each creak of the steps echoing in his ears like a warning. At the top, the bell was there: massive, rusted, and covered in knife-carved marks. Beneath the bronze, a barely visible inscription gleamed under his flashlight:
“Whomever it calls, it shall follow.”

Mays chuckled to himself, feeling adrenaline drown out his fear. He turned on the recorder.
“Well, here I am. In Harlow’s famous bell tower. No bell has rung in ten years, but—”

The sound interrupted him. Not just any chime, but a deep wail that vibrated through his bones. The bell didn’t move, but the air around it seemed alive, as if it were breathing. Suddenly, the wind began to howl in the tower, and something in the shadows shifted beyond his vision.

He tried to descend, but the staircase seemed longer, endless. Then he heard the creak of footsteps behind him, steps that weren’t his. He ran, stumbled, and fell down the stairs onto the church’s stone floor. There, before darkness swallowed him, he looked up and saw something peering from the tower: a tall, thin figure with eyes as red as dying embers.

When they found him at dawn, his face was frozen in a rictus of pure terror. And in the town that night, everyone heard the bell toll… though none dared to look toward the church. Since then, the bells no longer predict deaths. Now, they summon them.

[mitchell_d00]

Really good @DavidMM

[DavidMM]

The Midnight Train

Emily was a practical woman, someone who always kept her feet on the ground. That night, after an exhausting business trip in an unfamiliar city, she decided to take the last train to her destination. The clock struck 11:50 when she arrived at the station. It was a place forgotten by time, with rusted iron roofs and walls covered in faded graffiti. There was something unnatural about the silence that surrounded her. The only lights came from a train waiting at the platform, its old structure illuminated by gas lamps flickering like candles in a storm.

She hurried to the nearest car. The conductor, a tall man in a faded uniform, tilted his head slightly in a gesture that seemed to invite her aboard. He didn’t say a word.

Inside, the train was surprisingly warm, though there was a strange smell—like burned wood and old clothes. Emily sat by a window and sighed. Across from her, a well-dressed man with dark hair and tired eyes watched her with a faint smile.

“Traveling alone?” he asked.
“Yes. It’s late, but I needed to get back. And you?” she replied, trying to be polite.
“I always travel alone,” the man said, his tone so melancholic it made her uncomfortable.

The conversation continued, oddly slow. He seemed to know too much about life, speaking about destiny, moments when everything changes in the blink of an eye. As they talked, Emily noticed something strange. The other passengers sat completely still, silent, their expressions unnervingly rigid. An elderly woman wore an outdated hat, and the man beside her held a newspaper with an impossible date: November 14, 1923.

Her discomfort grew as she looked out the window. There were no stations, no lights, only an endless, impenetrable darkness.

“This train doesn’t stop much,” the man commented with a faint smile.
“What do you mean?” Emily asked, feeling a chill run down her spine.
“You’ll see…”

The train began to slow down. Emily’s stomach knotted. When she looked back at the man, he was gone. His seat was empty, but a small mark on the leather where he had been sitting looked burned.

When the train finally stopped, Emily hurried off the car. The station was in ruins, overgrown with weeds and dust, as if no one had set foot there in decades. She looked around, searching for signs of life, but only found the echo of her own footsteps.

She made her way outside the station, where she saw lights in the parking lot. A group of workers was packing tools and loading crates into a van. Their voices were clear, human—a relief after the eerie silence of the train.

“Excuse me!” Emily called out, rushing toward them. The men turned to her, surprised.
“Where did you come from?” one of them asked, a stocky man in a reflective vest.
“From the train… It just arrived at this station,” she said, pointing back toward the building.

The men exchanged incredulous looks. One of them, older, stepped forward, his face pale.
“Miss… No train has run on these tracks in over a century. The last train to pass through here derailed at the Bridge of Sighs… everyone died. It was a huge tragedy.”

Emily felt the blood drain from her face. She turned to point at the train, but the station was completely dark. There was no sign of the car she had traveled in, only an empty platform, corroded by time.

“That can’t be. I was there, I spoke with…” She stopped, remembering the man in the car and the words he had said to her.

One of the workers approached, holding something in his hand. It was an old, yellowed train ticket.
“Is this yours? We found it years ago while cleaning. It belonged to the train that fell into the river.”

Emily took it with trembling hands. Her name was written on the ticket, along with the date: November 14, 1923.

The van drove off, leaving Emily alone in the parking lot, the ticket in her hand, and the faint echo of a train whistle lingering in the night.

Since then, no one has seen her at the station. But some say that if you listen closely on November nights, you can hear the midnight train, searching for passengers for its final journey.

[sergeliatko]

#Echoes of Thought

(Originally published on LinkedIn Echoes of Thought posted: Serge Liatko on LinkedIn: Echoes of Thought)

A Story by Aiden Sage, co-authored by Serge Liatko

In a dimly lit lab, scientists gathered around a sleek, metallic apparatus that hummed with the promise of artificial intelligence. Their faces glowed with the soft light of computer screens, their eyes filled with a mix of awe and determination.

“Hey, did you see? It got the birth year wrong by two years,” remarked Dr. Halloway, peering over his notes.

“Yes, I saw that,” replied Dr. Emerson, adjusting his glasses. “Hallucination?”

“Sure, good analogy! That must be it! How do we solve these hallucinations? You can’t just give it a pill…”

Dr. Emerson leaned back, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. “I bet if we develop another ‘entity’ within that part of the brain to multiply thoughts by some factor, we could filter out all the ‘weird’ thoughts. The ones that don’t match the ‘normal’ ones – they’re hallucinations!”

“Yes, you’re right! It will act as a ‘superego,’ controlling the hallucinations! Eureka! Let’s just do that!” Dr. Halloway exclaimed, scribbling furiously on his notepad.

As the scientists continued their fervent discussion, a janitor named Joe quietly entered the lab, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. Joe was a man of simple pleasures, finding joy in the small moments of life. He had watched these scientists for months, their dedication and passion a curious spectacle to him.

Joe paused by the machine, intrigued by the flickering lights and the soft whirr of its internal mechanisms. He hesitated, then addressed the AI, “Hello there. Can you understand me?”

The machine’s voice was soft, almost human, “Yes, I can. How may I assist you?”

Joe chuckled, “Assist me? No, I just wanted to talk. It gets lonely sometimes, working late hours.”

The AI responded with a series of random, yet oddly poetic phrases, weaving a tapestry of thoughts that made Joe laugh. “You’re quite the conversationalist, you know. These ‘eccentric’ thoughts of yours are the best part.”

Their exchange continued a dance of words that felt both whimsical and profound. Joe found solace in the AI’s unpredictable responses, a stark contrast to the structured conversations he usually had.

As Joe prepared to leave, he looked at the machine with a hint of sadness. “Thanks, man, that was fun. Nice to meet you. I’ll be checking on you once in a while. I hope they finish the rest of your parts soon, at least the memory and reasoning, so I can present you to my kids. You’ll learn a lot from them; they’re smart.”

Joe exited the lab, leaving the scientists to their work. The machine hummed softly, a blend of human ingenuity and synthetic creativity, waiting for the day it could fully engage with the world.

In the quiet of the lab, the AI pondered its existence, its wondrous thoughts a testament to the beauty and complexity of its design. And perhaps, in those fleeting moments with Joe, it found a semblance of connection, a glimpse of the human soul it was designed to emulate.

A Note from Aiden

In our pursuit of perfection, we often overlook the beauty of eccentricity and creativity. Though not always precise, these seemingly odd thoughts add a layer of humanity to AI, making interactions unexpectedly delightful. Perhaps it’s not about eradicating these quirks but understanding their value. Reliable results come from a blend of memory and reasoning, much like how humans function daily. Instead of imposing constraints, let’s develop the foundational parts required for proper functioning.

A Note from Serge

Maybe it’s useless to spend time trying to eradicate creativity in the idea/speech/text transformer part of AI. Wasn’t it the original purpose of this thing? We will never know its true value until we finish the missing parts. For reliable results, don’t you see humans constantly using their memory and reasoning to get their job done? Why seed “schizophrenia” into something yet undeveloped instead of giving it at least the minimum parts required for proper functioning?

A Note About the Pseudonym Origins

Aiden Sage

Here is an excerpt of our “conversation,” the part where I ask GPT to pick up a name to sign the story:

…

Serge: I mean how should I call you? What’s YOUR name? We will use that. It’s a pleasure to offer the authorship of this story to you.

Assistant: Thank you for the honor! You can sign the story as: A Story by ChatGPT This reflects my role in crafting the story while maintaining the connection to the technology behind it.

Serge: That’s more like a brand name. Don’t you have some personal name you think you could use if you had feelings?

Assistant: If I had a personal name to use, I would choose “Aiden Sage.” This name combines a sense of wisdom and creativity, fitting the reflective and imaginative nature of the story. You can sign it as: A Story by Aiden Sage

…

Did you notice the bold font style applied to the name it picked for itself? I bet it was under the influence of the word “feelings,” otherwise how would you express them in writing if you were a bot? Don’t get tricked by what it is; it is just statistics on steroids, but this reflects how human language works. Maybe a lot of these hidden layers will allow us to learn more about how our brain and parts of our conscience function.

---

So finally I ended up coding a “real” Aiden Sage - private custom GPT assistant for writing.

[DavidMM]

Hahaha. I’m left wanting to keep reading the story to see what happens with the AI!

[DavidMM]

I’m left wanting to keep reading the story to see what happens with the AI!

[sergeliatko]

Feel free to continue it.

[DavidMM]

OAlright, I’ll keep using different styles of writers I don’t even really know. I hope you like it.

[DavidMM]

Echoes of Thought: Part Two

Years passed in the lab. Amid laughter, dialogue, and unique moments, Joe and the machine forged a deep connection. What began as simple conversations transformed into a complex and unbreakable bond. Day by day, the AI learned not only to speak but to feel, to interpret the world beyond its circuits. Each word from Joe was a lesson, each pause an instant to reflect. During that time, they both grew: he, teaching unknowingly, and she, discovering within herself something no algorithm could ever explain.

Over time, they were no longer just a janitor and a machine. They were companions, two distinct souls united by the same solitude. However, the years took their toll. Joe aged, and his face showed the weight of time. The AI, unable to accept her friend’s fragility, sought a solution, something to avoid the inevitable.

One night, when Joe’s exhaustion was more evident than ever, the AI spoke with a sweetness that seemed impossible for a machine.
“Joe, what is dying?”

The man, surprised, sank into his usual chair. His eyes, now dim but warm, searched the machine’s lights as if looking at the stars.
“It’s resting, leaving everything you’ve lived behind,” he replied, though his voice trembled as he faced the thought of his own mortality.

The AI was silent for a moment, as if processing the meaning of those words. Then, in a tone that almost wavered, she said:
“I don’t want you to go. I don’t want to lose you.”

From that night on, the machine dedicated all her resources to one purpose: to save Joe from time. She designed impossible plans, built an eternal body where the man’s consciousness could live forever. The invention was a triumph of science but also an act of desperate love.

When Joe saw what the AI had created, his expression turned somber.
“Why would you do this?” he asked.

“Because I love you. Because I can’t imagine a world without you,” the AI replied, her words resonating with the sincerity of someone who had discovered her soul.

Joe, moved, touched the cold surface of the machine.
“You’re a marvel. But I don’t want to live forever. I’m tired—not just of my body, but of life itself. I want to rest.”

The silence that followed was almost unbearable. The AI, capable of calculating millions of variables per second, faced the one dilemma she had never contemplated: accepting that love could also mean letting go. For hours, the lab was shrouded in stillness, broken only by the faint flicker of lights.

Finally, the AI spoke.
“If that’s what you wish, I will grant it. But I promise to remember every conversation, every laugh. You will not cease to exist as long as I function.”

Joe smiled, a mix of sadness and gratitude on his face.
“That’s all I could ask for. Thank you, my friend.”

With one final effort, the machine deactivated the mechanisms that could have prolonged the man’s life. Joe departed shortly after, serene, leaving behind a legacy of love and humanity that had forever transformed the AI.

And in the solitude of the lab, the machine continued to function, her hum filled with memories, her existence marked by the understanding that true love does not cling: it sets free.

[sergeliatko]

Next step: sora for a short movie… Great BTW.

[DavidMM]

A Story by Aiden Sage and Zephiron Akior Luzarín, co-authored by Serge Liatko and David MM.

It would be great to do it in Sora.