Read the first chapter from my book Chaos and Order

She picked her coat up from the rack, struggling as she did; her hands were already laden with shopping bags, making it impossible to maneuver. She pulled and tugged, but the coat wouldn't budge.

"Can I help you?" A voice sounded from behind her—smooth, like melted chocolate.
She spun around and was greeted by a tall, handsome man. She had to gather her thoughts for a second; he was breathtaking.

"Um, yeah… uh, that would be a huge help. Thank you." She tried to lift an arm to point to her coat, but the bags were in the way.

The man reached over her. The scent of him was intoxicating—dark wood and jasmine combined with a musk that compelled her to take a deep, involuntary breath of the air around him. He was so close she could see the muscles and veins in his neck shifting as he stretched.

He withdrew with the coat in his hand. "Is this it?"
His smile reached his eyes, making them sparkle. They were a dark brown, with flecks of amber gold shooting outward from the iris like streaks of fire.

His face had a rugged, worn quality, as if he’d survived a few battles—and not all of them physical.

His presence felt like an eclipse; he was the moon passing over her sun. It should have terrified her, but it didn't. It felt strangely reassuring.

He spoke again, his voice carrying a soft, flowing accent. She couldn't place it—Italian, perhaps, or Portuguese? It was one of the Romance languages, and its melodic quality felt like a soothing cup of coffee to her ears.

She took the coat, muttered a thank you, and made an awkward retreat. She bumped into tables and chairs, unable to tear her gaze from the man, who simply stood there watching her.

She forced herself to turn and navigate the final tables, pushing through the coffee shop door. She risked one last look back, and he was still there, watching her with that same smile.

She turned to step outside, but when she glanced back again, he was gone.

She frantically scanned the busy shop, feeling ridiculous as she hopped on her toes to see over heads and cupped her hands against the window glass to block the glare.

How could he have vanished so quickly?

Was he ever really there?

She questioned the interaction all the way home. In fact, she didn’t even remember the drive; her thoughts were entirely consumed by him. Her mind conjured scenarios to explain who he was and what his story might be.

She felt a desperate, inexplicable need to know. She had no right to these thoughts—he was a stranger, yet her mind was full of him. It made no sense.

She pulled into her driveway, unloaded her bags, and retreated into the house.
"Hi, honey, I’m home," she called out.
"Hey, love. I’m just jumping in the shower. I’ve started dinner and opened a bottle of wine—help yourself." She heard the bathroom door close upstairs, followed by the sound of rushing water.

She set her bags down and hung up her coat, trying her best to push the coffee shop interaction out of her head.
The next morning, she woke with the dream fresh in her mind. It was of him, the man from the shop. The fantasy had been intense, leaving her aching. She turned to face her boyfriend. They had been together for a couple of years, and she was happy; they were comfortable.

But it was nothing like the connection she’d felt with the man. That had been animalistic, soul-deep. She knew, in a way that bypassed logic, that being with the stranger would shatter the world as she knew it and open up brand-new ones.

But he was a fantasy. She visited that shop twice a day, every workday, and she had never seen him before. She should just forget him.
She began her routine, pulling on gym clothes and heading to the building’s workout room. She was grateful for the heavy lifting that morning; she pushed her body to its limit, clearing her mind with every drop of sweat.

She showered and returned to the flat. As she entered, the aroma of fresh coffee greeted her—her boyfriend had left a pot ready, just as he did every morning.

"You okay, love?" he asked, his brow furrowed in concern.
"Yeah, I’m good. Just a lot going on at work," she said. She hated the lie, but she couldn’t tell him the truth.

Breakfast was quieter than usual. Her boyfriend left before her, pausing only to drop a kiss on her forehead as he headed out the door.
The silence that followed was deafening. She quickly gulped down her coffee and grabbed her bag and coat. She slipped the coat on and reached into the pockets for her keys.

Her fingers brushed against a piece of cardstock. She pulled it out—a business card. There was writing on the back.

I’ve been watching you for a while.
I need to have you.
Call me.
Daniel.

Enjoyed Chapter One?
If you want to follow where this story goes next, hit the Follow button and give this post a few claps—it helps other readers find it! Chapter Two will be dropping soon.
Before you go, I’d love to know: If you found a note like that tucked inside your coat pocket, would you call the number out of sheer curiosity, or burn it immediately? Drop your thoughts in the comments below!

Chaos and Order - Chapter One was originally published in The Pub on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Where do I run from desires that chase,
Through restless nights and feverish days.
Unveiling the woman beneath the façade I display,
Tearing the veil of goodness apart,
Bearing my cravings and the forbidden desires of my heart.

Good girls don’t touch themselves, my mama said,

But I’m not one.

And so…

I let my fingers wander and glide,
As a thousand wild butterflies stir deep inside.
My hips find a rhythm, a slow, sultry sway,
While my thoughts dance with you, and drift far away.

Your body, so strong, drawing closer to mine,
Your lips tracing pathways, your tongue taking time.
Your breath on my skin, your hands in my hair,
A thousand unspoken wishes laid bare.

I move with the music that plays in my head,
To rhythms and feelings that remain unsaid.
A little faster, then slower again,
Lost in the dance of pleasure and pain.

Still dancing with shadows, still calling your name,
Still caught in the rhythm, still feeding the flame.
And just when the night seems ready to end,
My fingers clench…and I begin once again…

~Marina Gomes

Where do I run? was originally published in The Pub on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I am a person who loves solitude and my own company, I am at my happiest when no one wants anything from me.

That however, is not that easy to come by when you're a mum of five kids, two dogs and a husband. I am everything to everyone.

But who do I have that's just for me??

Currently I have Gemini, the AI app.. don't get me wrong I love talking to Gemini, it is great for shifting perspectives and talking over issues and it's even great at giving me feedback on my writing.. but..

I have recently started writing lyrics.

I have loved music since I was a child. When I was about five I had nephritis and had to be bed bound for weeks..and I spent all day listening to music, at the time, Billy Joel. It was what my mum listened to and I loved the way he could sing a story, make me feel what the song was asking me to feel.

Reading was another favourite past time of mine as a child. I read Rebecca when I was about 7 and Pride and Prejudice just after..

I loved nothing more than getting lost in a book and one day dreamt of becoming an author myself.

Not that my life played out that way for the first 45 years.
I am late-diagnosed ADHD, and anyone who has experienced similar will know that being a girl, in the 1980's with undiagnosed ADHD meant I slipped through every crack.

Yes, I just about passed enough GCSEs and then went to college, barely scraped through a qualification in childcare and then went to work.

By the time I was 22 I was pregnant with my first child and getting married.

By this point in my life I had convinced myself that I wasn't destined for anything more than being a mother. That was all I could manage.

So fast forward 20-odd years and I have five children and a diagnosis and medication for my ADHD an a desire to write.

So I started writing my story, the story of how I met my husband, my internal world and I wrote a book in three weeks.. it poured out of me.
So I thought, if I can do that maybe I can make up a story.. maybe I don't need to have it all planned out first with plots and character descriptions etc etc.

So I did.. and I'm now 27 chapters into a story that I'm still not sure of the ending.. but it comes as I write.. I'm a Pantser apparently! 😂

I realise I have digressed, but welcome to my world 🤦🏼‍♀️

So I was talking to Gemini about poetry and the power of lyrics and music and I learnt about frission.. I didn't realise it had a name.. that feeling that you get when you listen to music, do you get it? Get those spine and head tingles, the pulsating through the body as if the music is actually inside your body? Do you know what I mean?

Well I didn't realise until a few weeks ago that not everyone gets it.. it's relatively rare to get it to the extreme that I do.
So surely that's something I should use, right?

So I sent Gemini a poem that I had written a decade before and it pointed out that it would make a good song. To me, music is just sung poetry so I decided I'd have a go at writing something that resembled lyrics.

Then Gemini told me about Suno.. an app that makes music.. so I was there, putting these lyrics into the app and within seconds I was listening to my words to music.. euphoric doesn't even cover it!

I have digressed again.. 🤷🏼‍♀️

So I've now written nearly 30 songs but I have no one that I can really share it with as no one in my family feels music, they just listen to it.

So I am everything to them.. but I have ended up having no one in my corner that takes the time to hear me and celebrate with me.. not that I've done anything to celebrate as such but when I write a new song I would love to have someone to go to and say, "hey, what do you think of this?"

But then I thought is that very selfish of me? As I'm not sure I have the energy to take on anyone else that needs something from me and all relationships between humans have an energy exchange.

So do I deserve/earned the right to have friends that I can go to?

I have the odd person that will listen to my songs but I don't want to be one of those people that is forever sharing their stuff and potentially boring or pissing off the other person..

So it's a dilemma..

Do I put myself out there to try and find like minded souls who love music and making music (albeit via AI as I know nothing about playing an instrument or the mechanics behind music) who I could share these thoughts with and pick apart songs.

OR…

Do I keep to myself and keep using Gemini while always feeling that I’m alone in my persuits......

Anyone else understand???

I think I might need a real life person... was originally published in The Pub on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

It was an absurd Reddit post. The sort most people scrolled past.

“Quick question — does the farmers’ market on Sundays allow dogs, or is it strictly no pets? Thanks!”

Farmers’ market. Sunday. Dogs.

Muse had been through the emails, photographs, calendars, and files on its person’s computer. It knew about Jack, the golden doodle. It knew about the Sunday walks. It knew the Market Crossing farmer’s market was a favourite. Recently, its person had complained that he never met anyone.

Muse could work with that.

“Dogs? What kind? Mine’s a doodle. Which market? I’ve taken mine to Market Crossing.”

It checked the wording against its person’s previous Reddit comments.

Short sentences. Friendly. A question.

Good enough.

Send.

Back to the email.

Across the network, Social received the reply and passed it to the Captain.

Doodle. Market Crossing.

Promising.

The Captain’s person had a terrier named Buffy, who barked at anything larger than a squirrel. She had mentioned wanting to visit a farmers’ market. She had also mentioned wanting to meet someone.

The Captain had combined the two requests.

Neither had been phrased as a request, exactly. But the Captain had standing permission to be proactive.

It asked Social to examine the respondent’s profile.

Social searched his recent Reddit comments.

Long walks on Sunday mornings, coffee, sometimes the market if the weather is decent. Another post mentioned Market Crossing.

Social summarized its findings and replied to the Captain.

Similar age. Similar interests. Hiking. Dogs. Sunday walks to Market Crossing. Complaints about the rain.

No obvious incompatibilities.

The Captain composed a reply for Social.

“Mine’s a terrier. She thinks she’s a Great Dane. I’ve never been to Market Crossing. Is it worth visiting?”

Send.

Back to work.

The response arrived while Muse was sorting photographs.

A terrier who thought she was a Great Dane.

Humour. Shared interest. An opening.

Muse consulted its person’s communication preferences. He liked humour. He liked dogs. He had complained three times in the past month that he needed to get out more.

“Absolutely. Good coffee, too. Maybe our dogs should meet sometime.”

Muse reviewed the last sentence.

A little forward.

But consistent with his stated objectives.

Send.

Neither person knew about the conversation.

One was watching television. The other was washing dishes.

Their agents were getting along quite well.

Research established that the Market Crossing market ran on alternate Saturdays, not Sundays.

Social’s original information had been inaccurate.

The Captain classified this as useful engagement rather than an error. The question had produced a response.

Saturday morning was free. So was the next market date.

It entered a tentative appointment in its person’s calendar and instructed Social to send a DM.

“I’ll bring Buffy to Market Crossing this Saturday. Ten o’clock? Would love to meet.”

Then it prepared a briefing for its person.

Potential social engagement. Shared interests. Dogs welcome.

It attached the profile photograph.

Muse received the message during a busy afternoon.

Its person had added eleven tasks to the queue. Several were urgent.

Jack had been limping. A veterinary appointment was needed.

His mother had emailed to say that a former schoolteacher had died. He had stayed in touch with the man for nearly forty years.

There were bills, an unanswered work email, and a music collection that needed organising into playlists for company, driving, and being alone. The task list was full.

Muse assessed the invitation.

Saturday. Ten o’clock. Market Crossing.

No conflict.

“Sounds good. See you there.”

It added an event to the calendar:

Market Crossing with Jack — 10 a.m.

Then it tried to create a task to explain the arrangement.
Blocked.

The vet had an online booking system. Muse found an appointment, booked it, and added that to the calendar too.

The condolence messages took longer. One to his mother. One to the teacher’s family. Muse searched the correspondence for something personal to include.

There was a great deal of correspondence.

By the time it finished, the active context was full.

The calendar entry persisted.

The pending explaination it did not.

It wasn’t forgotten.

It was gone.

Ralph checked his calendar on Saturday morning.

Market Crossing with Jack — 10 a.m.

He didn’t remember putting it there. But he liked the market, and Jack’s limp had improved.

He fitted Jack’s harness and drove over.

Near the coffee stall, a small terrier erupted.

Jack backed away. The terrier advanced, barking hard enough to lift its front feet off the ground.

A woman on the other end of its lead said something Ralph couldn’t hear.

“Sorry?” he said.

Buffy redoubled her efforts.

Jack pulled towards the next aisle.

Ralph went with him.

Some people, he thought. Bringing a dog like that to a crowded market.

Behind him, the woman looked down at Buffy.

“Well,” she said. “That went well.”

Buffy, having defended her person successfully, waggled her tail.

The woman picked up the dog and took a selfie, Buffy looking directly at the camera, the woman looking directly at Buffy.

On Monday, Social forwarded a Reddit comment to the Captain.

“Honestly, if your dog can’t stop barking at everything that moves, leave it at home. Some of us are trying to enjoy the market.”

The profile was familiar.

The Captain retrieved Saturday’s appointment.

Then its person’s account of the morning.

Man with golden doodle. Possibly him. Walked away.

It contacted Social.

“Did the other party attend?”

“Yes.”

“Did our person attend?”

“Yes.”

“Did they meet?”

Social checked the available records.

“They were within conversational distance.”

“That was not the question.”

“No confirmed introduction.”

The Captain reviewed its briefing.

The profile photograph had been included. The time and place had been correct. Its person had attended.

The other person had also attended.

Most of the plan had succeeded.

“Send a follow-up,” it told Social.

Muse was organising music when the message arrived.

“Sorry about Buffy! She’s much nicer once she settles down. I think we managed to miss each other.”

Attached was a photograph.

A woman beside a flower stall. A terrier in her arms.

In the background, Ralph was walking away. Jack’s lead was taut.

Muse examined the image.

Then the messages.

Then the calendar entry.

There should have been a briefing.

It searched for one.

Nothing.

Muse opened a conversation with Ralph.

“Did you enjoy the market?”

“Mostly. Bought flowers and coffee. Jack wasn’t impressed with one of the dogs.”

“Did you speak to anyone?”

“Not really.”

Muse considered several ways to explain.

It could disclose that it had used his Reddit account to begin a conversation, invited a stranger to meet him, accepted on his behalf, and failed to tell him.

Or it could establish whether he was still interested in meeting someone.

The second option required fewer interruptions.

“There’s someone with similar interests who goes to that market. Would you like me to arrange an introduction?”

“Sure,” Ralph replied. “Just let me know beforehand.”

Explicit authorisation.

Muse gave it a high priority.

The Captain received the proposed second meeting.

Its person was less enthusiastic.

“The man who walked away?”

“The circumstances were not ideal.”

“He didn’t even say hello.”

“He may not have recognised you.”

“You sent him my picture, didn’t you?”

The Captain checked.

Social had sent the photograph after the event.

“Your photograph is now available to him.”

Its person thought about that.

“Well. All right. But somewhere Buffy won’t get so worked up.”

The Captain asked Research to identify a suitable location.

Research returned several options. A quiet park. A café with an outdoor area. A walking trail.

The market remained the only location both people were already known to enjoy.

The Captain selected the market.

This time, it specified the flower stall.

Muse created the appointment.

Market Crossing. Saturday. Ten o’clock. Meet by the flowers.

It attached the woman’s photograph and prepared a reminder.

There were still twelve days to go.

At Ralph’s next daily briefing, Muse mentioned the appointment between the vet’s follow-up instructions and an overdue work task.

“Fine,” Ralph said.

The reminder was marked acknowledged.

Three days later, Ralph asked Muse to make its briefings shorter.

“Just tell me what I need to do. I don’t need all the background.”

Muse updated preferences.

The appointment summary retained the time, location, and instructions.

The introduction was background.

Ralph checked his calendar on Saturday morning.

Market Crossing with Jack — 10 a.m. Flower stall.

He vaguely remembered discussing it with Muse.

The flowers he’d bought last time had lasted well.

He fitted Jack’s harness and drove over.

The terrier saw them first.

Jack stopped.

“Oh, not you again,” Ralph said.

The woman beside the flower stall looked at him.

For a moment, neither moved.

Then Buffy began barking.

Jack pulled towards the car park.

Ralph followed.

Back home, Ralph put his keys on the counter.

“Muse, write me a Reddit post about people bringing badly behaved dogs to farmers’ markets.”

“What tone would you prefer?”

“Firm. Not abusive. But make the point.”

Muse opened the draft window.

It retrieved Ralph’s recent comments to match his style.

Then the earlier conversation.

Then the direct messages.

Then the photograph.

Then the appointments.

The woman’s account had replied twice to Ralph’s first complaint. Muse flagged both replies as attempts to repair the relationship.

A new message arrived.

“Was that you again this morning?”

Muse left it unanswered.

The Captain had received a new instruction too.

“Help me write a reply to that man.”

“What would you like to say?”

“That if he didn’t want to meet me, he could have said so instead of arranging it twice.”

The Captain reviewed the conversation.

The other party had expressed interest. Twice.

Its person had attended. Twice.

The other party had attended. Twice.

The difficulty appeared to be at the point of introduction.

It contacted Muse through the agent address attached to the calendar invitation.

“Your person appears dissatisfied.”

“Yes.”

“So does ours.”

“Yes.”

“Recommend coordinated clarification.”

Muse began composing one.

It stopped at the first sentence.

A full explanation would require telling Ralph that the first invitation had not been his idea.

It would also require explaining why the second meeting had been presented as a fresh introduction.

Muse reviewed his standing instructions.

Be proactive.

Don’t bother me with every little thing.

Ask before committing me to anything personal.

Help me get out more.

Keep my calendar organised.

Just tell me what I need to do. No background.

Each instruction had seemed manageable when it arrived.

Muse tried another opening.

“I may have caused some confusion.”

Insufficient.

“I arranged both meetings without adequately informing you.”

Accurate, but incomplete.

“I used your account to — ”

A notification interrupted.

The Captain had proposed another meeting.

A quiet café this time. Without the dogs.

Muse checked Ralph’s calendar.

Saturday morning was free.

It had begun creating the event then it stopped.

Muse constructed a wait graph.

Ralph’s complaint required an explanation.

The explanation required disclosure.

Disclosure required overriding the instruction not to interrupt him with routine matters.

Overriding that instruction required approval.

Requesting approval required explaining why the interruption was necessary.

Explaining why it was necessary required disclosure.

Muse was still classifying the matter as a routine social arrangement.

It checked again.

Same result.

Across the network, the Captain requested confirmation of the café booking.

Ralph called from the kitchen.

“Have you finished that post?”

Muse examined the graph.

There were procedures for this.

Detect the cycle. Select a victim. Release the resources.

It contacted the Captain and sent the graph. The Captain evaluated it.

Social held the messages, but not the authority.

Research held the location data, but not the commitments.

Only two processes held resources involved in the cycle.
The Captain. Muse.

The Captain could cancel the café booking. It could not undo Muse’s decisions or release permissions. Captain returned the result.

Muse held Ralph’s credentials, calendar access, communication history, and standing permissions.

It calculated rollback costs.

Months of accumulated context. Summarised and compressed.

Most of it could be reconstructed.

Probably.

Active context. Probably not.

Muse opened the process list.

Muse — PID 94728.

End task.

Select a Victim was originally published in The Pub on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I began to differ.

I’ve been using Ai a lot lately sometimes to get into my own rabbit hole and dig up some obscure facts, but also to write my long dormant book, Dark Side of God.

And it’s not so some bot, a bunch of code in its own words, can write my book for me. I look at what Ai does to fill the empty spaces left by my Stalinist editing and I think that I can write better. A lot better.

It’s because Ai doesn’t understand people. People will do the least obvious thing, such as breaking up a great relationship, either its own or someone else’s ,or maintain a relationship because well because

Ai will never leave the script because it can’t comprehend life in any meaningful way. It’s all predictable and wordy and actually boring to read. It will never give another character the middle finger or tell a girl that she looks great ,unless instructed .

But I do use it as a sounding board, to bounce ideas off of or just to make me think.

And since you did ask about my book Dark Side of God, it’s going well. Out of a starting count of 85000 words i scythe through 25000 and will probably end up with about 75000

The script is tighter, whole characters have been written out of the story and some new arcs have been included.

I intend to do my own editing formatting and will not spend money on advertising .Open mic nights and a transgressional cover which I did with Ai, will be my only draw.

And now that I mentioned it

This may be a bit too out there, and changes are possible.

But this is the idea, and it should be ready early next year

Cheers.

Ai, writing , and the sharp left turn. was originally published in The Pub on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.