The Writer had tried to sleep on the floor, but the cold in his cell was unbearable. He regretted not choosing the blanket over the booze multiple times. Sometimes he thought about opening the bottle, but he wondered how long the effects would last. Looking around, he noticed various writings. Some seemed like attempts at different prompts. Etched on the wall were three sentences about walking apple trees.

“There was a tree named Twiggy who could walk. One night, Twiggy took a walk under the shiny moon. Twiggy’s walks were fun.”

He wondered how long it would take to carve those sentences into the concrete block walls. His mind began to wander, filling with unanswered questions.

How many people had sat in this cell before? Where are they now? Did they win?

Suddenly, a ham & cheese sandwich materialized alongside a bottle of water. The sandwich was made with perfect precision. The ham, delicately sliced, draped over the edges of the bread, while the cheese nestled perfectly within its confines. The bun was a flawless square, not a single crumb out of place. It bore an uncanny resemblance to a plastic model, yet when he picked it up, the texture was undeniably real.

As he held the sandwich, a holographic display flickered into existence, notifying him of his new balance: -2 tokens. As swiftly as it appeared, the display vanished, leaving him alone with the sandwich. He took a bite; it tasted real.

In no time at all, the sandwich was gone. He quenched his thirst with the water, and as the last drop slid down his throat, the bottle vanished, leaving no trace.

As the timer dropped below an hour, he watched it obsessively.

00:59:56

The hour seemed to drag. The Writer thought about the dog, the tired dog. What would he write this time? It needed to be better. The dog would be red. People liked red. It would be a Lab and go to the park with kids.

He thought and watched until the timer hit 00:00:00.

Then the timer and the transparent blue dome disappeared. He rushed over to the typewriter, ready to write a wonderful story about a Lab named Red going to the park to play with kids.

The voice returned, "Objective: Write a story about a sad clown."

“What?” the Writer screamed, his hands trembling over the typewriter. What happened to the dog!

The Writer rubbed his hands over his face, struggling to think. It was as if his creativity had vanished. Then he saw the bottle of booze, a brown whiskey without a label, sitting unopened in the corner.

14:45

He ran over, opened the bottle, and drank. Instantly, the liquid was gone, and the bottle shattered, leaving glass shards on the cell floor. He felt warm, happy, and drunk.

It was as if a block had been lifted from his mind. He could think clearly and knew exactly what to type.

He lifted his index fingers, which now felt more natural hovering over the keys. He still couldn’t use his other fingers, but this would work.

“Bozo was the best clown in the tank.”

He took a breath. A red ring formed around his vision, but it quickly disappeared.

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“The other clownfish did little to live up to their names. They were a rather unfunny bunch.”

The fog grew denser, but it was manageable.

“But Bozo wanted more. He wanted to make the anemones laugh.”

The room began to rock, moving from side to side, the keys in front of him began to spin. But even as everything seemed to shift around him, his story was clear.

“The anemones never reacted to the other clownfish. Bozo believed it was because they never made them laugh. They were clownfish, after all.”

The Writer checked the clock: 7:30. He was making good time.

“So, Bozo thought long and hard, but eventually he found the perfect joke. He swam to the nearest anemone and said with a firm voice, ‘I wish we could be friends, but I guess you are an-emone.’”

The Writer’s laughter filled the room. The Writer was drunk, and even if no one else liked his dad joke, he did. He was having fun writing again, though it was slow writing with just two fingers and pausing after each break.

2:33

He noticed the clock was getting lower and realized he had to finish his story. The clown hadn’t become sad yet. The red ring was still there, but he started writing again anyway.

“However, the anemone did not laugh, chuckle, or giggle. It just sat there like all the other anemones.”

0:45

The Writer knew he had to hurry. He had to finish.

“This saddened Bozo, and he guessed that a fish could not befriend an anemone. They must be an-enemy after all.”

As he typed the last words, the timer hit 0:00.

Just as before, the desk and typewriter disappeared, leaving his paper hanging in the air.

Before him appeared the words:

+35 XP

Then the laptop reappeared, and the voice returned, “Opponent: Basic AI. Objective: Write a story about a sad clown.”

The AI system began to type with a pace the Writer could never hope to match. But the Writer knew his story was unique. He felt flush with confidence or at least he felt drunk.

“Once, there was a clown named Bobo who always felt sad. He tried to juggle balls, but they kept falling. One day, a little girl gave him a big, bright smile. Suddenly, Bobo didn’t feel so sad anymore.”

The Writer burst out laughing, filling the room with joyous sound. He knew his story was better. Not even a moron would prefer Bobo over Bozo.

Once again, the display appeared with each story placed beside each other. The Writer watched as a flurry of users began to comment on the stories. Last time, he was overwhelmed with just one response. But today was different. He wasn’t looking so much at what people said but at the numbers. He was happy to see the floating thumbs and hearts, but he was disappointed to see the AI getting responses too. Who would like a stupid story about a dumb clown? Are these readers even real?

He watched the comments pour in. One of the comments under the AI story stuck out to him.

“Get stories like this from stories-you.com/free” – Freestories4you

The Writer shook his fist at the sky and shouted, “Hey, that doesn’t count!”

But the voice didn’t listen. He watched as more and more interactions took place with both his story and the AI’s, and the Writer wondered if any of these people were real? What was the point of all this: was a bot writing words only to have other bots read them?

The Writer laid flat on the cold floor, staring no longer at the display but instead at the ceiling. He felt what little of his life he had was wasted. It was all for nothing. He would die here.

Then the voice returned, “11 Followers: Success.”

The green-tinted display returned:

+50 XP

LEVEL UP:

FOLLOWERS: 11

STATS

* Writing: 2

* Speed: 2

* Endurance: 2

* Creativity: 2

* Lives: 2

He released a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and the display disappeared. Four items hovered where the display had been.

* Thesaurus: Permanent – Writing +1

* Jacket: Permanent – Endurance +2, Speed -1

* Cigarettes: Temporary – Creativity +2, Endurance -1

* Gold: Tokens + 200

This choice felt weightier than the last. He assumed the door would open, and he would go somewhere outside. But he had no idea what that would be like or what it was that he would need. He stared at the items before him for minutes, thinking they might disappear or the voice might return. But it didn’t. He just stared, with the world around him seemingly paused, waiting for his motion.

Finally, he reached up and grabbed the gold. Then all the items disappeared, and before him was a new display.

(+200) Current Balance: 198 Tokens

Then the heavy metal door swung open, letting in a rush of cold wind. The Writer looked down for the first time and saw the clothes he had on: light khaki pants and a khaki button-down, embroidered on the right side of each was a patch with the number 8946362.

He looked out the door, but the light was almost unbearable. It was too bright after spending a day locked in that dark, damp cell. He covered his eyes and took his first step out.