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There’s a temptation in modern storytelling to always go bigger.
Bigger stakes.
Bigger concepts.
Bigger twists.
Bigger worlds.
And I love those things, a lot of my work lives in that space. But every once in a while, a different kind of story asks to be written. A smaller one. A quieter one. A story where nothing explodes, no universe is at risk, and no one saves the world.
Instead, two people sit in a room.
A small life hangs in the balance.
The power goes out.
And the noise of the world finally backs off.
What’s left in that space is something we don’t always make room for anymore: presence.
We live in a time where our tools for connection are incredible. We can reach anyone, anywhere, instantly. But there’s a quiet irony in that the same tools that help us connect can also become the very things that keep us from being fully present with the people right in front of us.
Some of the most meaningful conversations don’t happen in comment threads.
They don’t happen in DMs.
They don’t happen in perfectly crafted messages.
They happen when the phones are face-down.
When the room is quiet.
When there’s nothing to perform for and nowhere else to be.
As a new writer, I’m learning that not every story needs to be epic to be important. Sometimes the smallest moments like a long night, a shared responsibility, a fragile little life, a conversation that goes deeper than expected, are the ones that stay with us the longest.
Those are the stories that remind us we’re human.
If you’ve been following my work for a while, you know I love exploring big ideas, big futures, and big questions. But I also believe there’s real value in telling stories that live right here, right now, stories that reflect the quiet, unremarkable moments that end up mattering more than we realize.
Because sometimes, when the world finally goes quiet, that’s when we actually hear each other.
And sometimes, that’s enough.
Sci-FiTy1972
One of the quiet joys of writing online is watching the moment when a story stops feeling like something you released… and starts feeling like something that’s being found.
There’s a shift that happens.
At first, you’re the one carrying the story out into the world. You’re posting it, sharing it, nudging it forward. Then, somewhere along the way, readers begin to take over. They recommend it. They add it to their libraries. They come back. The story develops a life that no longer belongs only to the author.
That’s a humbling thing.
Over the past few days, I’ve been watching that happen across several of my ongoing projects. Different kinds of readers are finding different doors into the worlds I’ve been building, some through long-running epics, some through quieter, more emotional pieces, and some through shorter experiments that exist mainly to ask a strange question or explore a single idea.
What’s fascinating isn’t just the numbers. It’s the pattern.
Some readers stay for scope.
Some stay for character.
Some stay for the feeling a story leaves behind.
That tells me something important: people aren’t just looking for genre. They’re looking for resonance.
That’s always been the goal here.
Whether a story is about first contact, legacy, restraint, love, power, or the quiet cost of choices, I try to write them with the same underlying question in mind:
What does it mean to be human when the world or the universe asks more of us than we expected to give?
If you’ve been reading for a while, thank you. Truly. You’re part of what gives these worlds momentum.
If you’re new, welcome. There are a lot of different entry points here some big, some intimate, some experimental and they’re all connected by voice, even when they aren’t connected by canon.
Stories find their people in their own time.
And when they do, that’s when the real journey begins.
— Sci-FiTy1972
I’ve been carrying many of these stories for a long time. What you’re seeing is not a month of creation, it’s a month of release.
I do use AI as a tool in my process, similar to how writers use editors, workshops, or brainstorming partners. It helps me explore ideas and refine structure, but the stories, themes, and decisions are mine.
My focus isn’t speed for its own sake. It’s telling stories that ask real questions about power, restraint, and what it means to stay human. Some will land better than others, that’s part of honest storytelling.
Thanks for reading more than one and for engaging thoughtfully.
— Sci-FiTy1972
Sometimes a story starts with a deep, meaningful idea about society, value, and the human condition.
And sometimes it starts because you realize the word F.U.X. is just sitting there… begging to be used responsibly.
This weekend’s short piece falls firmly into the second category.
I wrote a satirical story built around F.U.X. — the Fundamental Unit of Exchange, which is absolutely, definitely, totally not just money with better branding and worse jokes. It’s a light, fast, double-entendre-laced look at what happens when we finally admit that modern life already measures everything — including our self-worth — in numbers, spreadsheets, and “productivity.”
In other words, I gave capitalism a fake mustache and let it trip over its own shoes.
Why comedy?
Because comedy sneaks past your defenses. You laugh first. Then you realize you’re laughing at something that feels… uncomfortably familiar. Work culture. Dating. Hustle life. Being told your “value” is measurable. That moment when your bank app knows more about your mood than your friends do.
It’s satire, but it’s the kind that says, “Haha… oh wait.”
Also, let’s be honest — it’s the weekend. You deserve something you can read with coffee, a smirk, and maybe a quiet, “Yeah… that tracks.”
If you’re a long-time reader, this is a palate cleanser with teeth.
If you’re new, welcome — this is me at my most playful, poking fun at systems, labels, and the idea that everything important can be reduced to a number.
No spoilers. No homework. Just a short, sharp, funny piece that might make you laugh and then question why you’re laughing.
So if you’ve got a few minutes and a decent sense of humor, come check out The F.U.X. Situation.
Worst case? You get a laugh.
Best case? You realize you’ve been living in FUX longer than you thought.
Either way… enjoy. 😎
Some stories are built to entertain.
Some are built to distract.
And some are built to quietly stay with you.
Seven Days in the City started as a simple idea: follow a handful of people through an ordinary week. No heroes. No villains. No epic quests. Just routines, pressures, small choices, and the invisible systems we all move through every day.
It’s a story about work.
About money.
About repetition.
About the subtle ways patterns shape us — and the quieter ways we shape them back.
This isn’t a story that rushes you.
It walks beside you.
My hope is that you’ll recognize pieces of your own life in these pages — not in obvious ways, but in the rhythms. The loops. The small moments that add up to something larger than they seem.
Read it in one sitting or in pieces.
Read it fast or slow.
Let it be what it is.
Sometimes a single week is just a week.
Sometimes it’s something else entirely.
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