UFO fiction book I’m writing will post for free

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The Prologue:



Here is Chapter 1: The Fringe



Comments and suggestions for making the video/audio book better welcome.

On the audio: I spent 150$ to have the audiobook reader software. It is better than the free ones (which even this brief amount is over the monthly limit), and eleven labs is just too damn expensive. So can't really improve the quality of the audio in the reading. But there are several voices, this one felt right for this book to me, I used a different voice on my previous books I put on Youtube, you can check those and see if you like that voice better. It's thousands of dollars to get a real person audiobook production done, which is even more expensive than eleven labs, and well beyond my limited finances.

On the images. Honestly I'm a good enough artist I could do as good as the ai for paintings, not photo realistic stuff, but paintings. You can check my videos on my YouTube channel and see me painting. But the time it would take would be prohibitive. And emotionally I just can't paint that much. Each of those videos on YouTube are 8 to 12 hours of painting sped up 8x-20x speed. I seem to be able to write consistently, but music and painting are much harder to get the energy. I literally write on my iPad Pro 13 inch that I carry everywhere, so when I'm in a waiting room I'm writing, siting at the drive through waiting, I'm writing. Other than DI and Twitter it's all I do.

Images continued: using AI to make a consistent image style of good quality takes a lot of money on the higher end Image generators, I could do that but I just don't have the money. My YouTube isn't even monetized. Need 1000 subscriber for that. If I ever get to that point and make enough money to afford the good generators I'll do that, but that's a long way away. That is what the people doing those type of videos are using, and they are spending hundreds of dollars on each video they produce.

Publishing these days seems more of a way for publishers to make money off of hopeful authors... i. e. it's a scam. Until you go viral. Then you can get a real publisher. Weird messed up backwards world we live in today... but this is DI everyone here is probably well aware.

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Things that make you go… hmmmm: Twitter

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Here is Chapter 2:




comments and suggestions appreciated and encouraged. Thank you whoever made the like on the video yesterday.

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You all enjoying so far?

Here is chapter 3:

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I redid the Prologue as I made a silly error. I also updated it to follow the format of the rest of the YouTube videos.

If a kindly mod sees this can you please put this in my op:

...

Moved and embedded video in OP -- Encia22

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Thank you kind mod for fixing that yesterday.

Here is chapter 4:

[quintessentone]

Prologue to new book I’m starting, this one is based off conversation in thread here on DI. Think I will make it free on YouTube after I get the whole book written.

 Prologue: The Signal
 
July 20, 1969. The world held its breath, eyes fixed on fuzzy black-and-white screens as Neil Armstrong’s boot touched the moon’s gray dust, a triumph carved in static and static. But in the steaming jungle heart of Puerto Rico, where the Arecibo Observatory’s massive dish lay cradled in a limestone sinkhole, Miguel Rivera didn’t care about mankind’s giant leap. He was twenty-two, a night-shift technician with a high school diploma, a pack-a-day habit, and a chip on his shoulder the size of the island. The observatory’s control room was a concrete bunker, its air thick with the sour tang of burnt wiring, stale coffee, and the faint mildew that clung to everything in the tropics. Rain battered the corrugated roof like machine-gun fire, a tropical storm ripping through the island, turning the jungle outside into a churning sea of green and black. Miguel sat alone, his bloodshot eyes locked on the green flicker of a CRT screen, where waveforms danced—a cryptic language of numbers and pulses he was paid to log, not decipher.
 
Five years into its existence, the Arecibo dish was a marvel, a 1,000-foot-wide ear tuned to the cosmos, drinking in signals from stars and voids. To the scientists in their pressed shirts and horn-rimmed glasses, it was a temple of reason, a tool to map pulsars and probe the universe’s secrets. To Miguel, it was a prison. The dials, switches, and blinking lights mocked him with promises of discovery that never came. He was a cog, not a dreamer, stuck on the graveyard shift because he was too young, too uneducated, too local to matter. His fingers, stained yellow from nicotine, twitched as he adjusted the foam-cushioned headphones biting into his ears. Static hissed, a white-noise wall he’d trained himself to ignore, but tonight it felt heavier, like the air before a scream.
 
His job was to monitor the telescope’s sweep for anomalies—radio bursts, pulsar ticks, or, in the reckless corners of his mind, something alive. The scientists whispered about SETI, the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence, but to them, it was equations on chalkboards, not ghosts in the static. Miguel knew better. His abuela’s stories had rooted deep in his bones, tales told over flickering candles in their clapboard house in Arecibo. Lights in the sky, she’d said, hovering over the jungle, flickering where the sea swallowed the stars. “El luz del abismo,” she called them, the lights of the abyss, her voice trembling as she crossed herself. As a kid, Miguel had laughed, picturing flying saucers from comic books. Now, at 3:14 a.m., alone in the control room with the storm howling and the jungle drowned in rain, those stories felt like knives pressed to his throat.
 
The static shattered. A pulse, low and deliberate, tore through the noise—a heartbeat, but wrong, too slow, too heavy, like something massive stirring in its sleep. Miguel’s pen froze over his logbook, the cheap ballpoint leaking ink into the paper, a black stain spreading like a bruise. His breath caught, sharp and shallow, as he twisted a dial, isolating the signal. It wasn’t random noise. It cycled, a pattern of tones that slithered into his chest, cold and slick, like eels coiling around his ribs. He scribbled the frequency—430 MHz, a band no satellite, no military rig, no human tech should touch. His hands, slick with sweat, fumbled across the console’s buttons and switches, redirecting the dish toward the source. The pulse grew louder, filling his headphones with a sound that wasn’t sound—a wet, guttural chant, like voices choking in oil, rising from a throat that wasn’t a throat. Not words, not human, but knowing, curling around his thoughts like fingers probing a wound.
 
“Jesús, María, y José,” he whispered, his voice barely a rasp. The clock’s red digits glared: 3:15 a.m. The other techs—older, smug, with their college degrees and mainland accents—had ditched hours ago, piling into Jeeps to chase moon-landing parties in San Juan, toasting to Armstrong and Aldrin in smoky bars. Miguel was alone, just him, the machines, and the storm’s relentless roar. He jabbed the record button, and the reel-to-reel tape deck groaned to life, its reels spinning, the red light winking like a predator’s eye. The chant poured through the speakers, flooding the room, a tide of sound that seemed to pulse from the southeast, over the Atlantic, where the ocean plunged into a trench no one dared map—a black scar in the earth, deeper than reason, older than fear. Abuela’s warning clawed at his mind: “The sea hides things, Miguel. Things that see you first.”
 
The lights flickered—not just the console’s dials but every bulb in the room. They buzzed, a low, insectile hum, and shadows jerked across the concrete walls, twisting like spider legs skittering in the dark. Miguel’s skin crawled, a cold sweat beading on his neck, his pulse hammering so hard he felt it in his teeth. A prickle ran down his spine, sharp and certain, as if someone stood behind him, breathing. He spun, chair squeaking, heart lurching, but the control room was empty, the steel door locked tight, its bolt rusted from the humidity. Outside, through the rain-smeared window, the jungle was a wall of black, its palms and ferns thrashing in the wind, swallowing the world. Then he saw it: a green glow, faint but razor-sharp, pulsing in time with the chant. It bled through the trees, not lightning, not a flare, but something alive, its light crawling over the wet leaves like a disease, staring back from the dark with a weight that crushed his chest.
 
His heartbeat roared, drowning out the storm. He ripped off the headphones, the foam cups hitting the desk with a thud, but the chant didn’t stop—it was in his head, burrowing like a worm, whispering his name: Miguel, Miguel, Miguel. The tape deck spun, devouring the signal, but keeping it felt like trapping a viper in a jar. His mind flashed with images, unbidden, obscene—spirals twisting into voids, endless and hungry; eyes opening in the dark, too many, too wrong, their pupils spiraling inward like the light outside. He lurched to his feet, his chair scraping the floor, and knocked over his coffee mug. The black liquid spilled, pooling on the concrete, rippling like the sea, its surface catching the green glow from the window and holding it, a mirror to something he couldn’t name. The signal wasn’t sound; it was a thing, alive, ravenous, peeling back his thoughts to show him truths no one should see: a void where stars screamed, their light bleeding into shapes that weren’t shapes; a machine that wasn’t a machine, its metal flesh pulsing, birthing discs that flew and watched and waited, their eyes like the ones in his head.
 
He staggered, his breath hitching, and grabbed the tape from the deck. Its plastic case burned his palm, hot as if it had sat in an oven, the reels inside still spinning faintly, as if alive. He had to hide it, bury it, make it someone else’s curse. His keys jangled in his shaking hands, slipping twice as he stumbled across the room to the row of metal lockers where techs stashed their junk—lunchboxes, raincoats, dog-eared Playboys. The air felt thick, pressing against his lungs, and the chant in his head grew louder, his name now a command, a hook dragging him toward the window, toward the glow. He fumbled the lock open, the key scraping metal, and shoved the tape into the locker’s depths, behind a crumpled denim jacket and a half-empty pack of Marlboros, their paper damp from the humid air. The locker door slammed shut, the clang swallowed by the storm’s howl, but the chant didn’t stop, screaming from the speakers, louder, insistent, a chorus of drowned things calling him to join them. He lunged for the console, fingers clawing at the power cord, and yanked it free. The speakers died, the room plunging into a silence that wasn’t silence—thick, heavy, like the pause before a guillotine falls. The lights steadied, their buzz fading, but the green glow outside sank, slipping below the tree line, leaving a hole in the night that felt like a wound.
 
He couldn’t stay. Whatever was out there knew him now, had seen him, had spoken his name. Miguel snatched his raincoat from a hook by the door, the fabric cold and clammy, like skin left too long in water. He fumbled with the door’s bolt, his fingers numb, and burst into the storm. The rain hit like a fist, stinging his face, soaking his clothes in seconds. He slipped on the gravel path, boots sinking into mud, and scrambled toward his motorcycle, a beat-up Yamaha parked under a tarp that flapped like a trapped bird. He didn’t look back, couldn’t, terrified he’d see the glow chasing him, or worse, eyes—those eyes from his visions, spiraling, watching. The bike roared to life, its engine a weak snarl against the storm’s fury, and he tore down the winding road toward Arecibo, tires skidding, headlights cutting through sheets of rain. The chant followed, not in his ears but his bones, a pulse that matched his heartbeat, a promise he’d never unhear. He’d quit, burn his logbook, tell no one, not his mother, not his priest, not the barflies at La Perla who’d laugh and call him loco. But the tape stayed behind, hidden in the locker, a seed of the abyss waiting for the next fool to pluck it.
 
***
 
Twenty miles offshore, where the Atlantic churned like a living beast, old man Vargas clung to the wheel of his fishing boat, La Perla. The storm had driven the other fishermen to shore, their boats tethered in Arecibo’s harbor, but Vargas, fifty-eight and stubborn as rust, chased rumors of snapper schools near the trench—a place no sane captain sailed. His nets hung empty, their ropes frayed as if chewed, and the fuel gauge’s needle kissed red, glowing like a warning in the dim cabin. The waves slammed the hull, each crash a fist trying to crack the boat open, and the air tasted of salt and something older, sharper, like blood. Vargas muttered a prayer to La Virgen, his calloused hands steady despite the ice crawling through his veins, his rosary beads swinging from a nail above the helm, clacking in time with the storm.
 
Then it came. A light, green and wrong, broke the surface a hundred yards off the starboard side. Not a ship, not a buoy—a wound in the water, pulsing like the thing Miguel had heard, its rhythm slow, deliberate, a heartbeat from the deep. Vargas froze, his breath a rasp, his eyes watering as he squinted through the rain-lashed windshield. The light didn’t rise; it sank, spiraling down into the trench, a coil of sick radiance that burned his retinas, leaving afterimages of eyes and spirals that blinked when he closed his lids. It moved with purpose, like it knew he was watching, like it wanted him to see, to carry its mark. The sea swallowed it, black and final, the waves closing like a mouth, leaving salt on his lips and a hum in his skull—a soundless sound, the same chant that had broken Miguel, now lodged in his bones.
 
“El luz del abismo,” Vargas croaked, his voice barely audible over the engine’s whine. He crossed himself, fingers trembling, the rosary beads swinging wildly now, as if trying to flee. His abuela had warned him, her voice cracked with age, telling of lights that called men to their graves, lights that weren’t lights but doorways. He’d been a boy then, cocky, spitting into the sea, thinking it was just deep water. Now, at fifty-eight, he knew better: the trench wasn’t empty. Something lived there, something that didn’t sleep, didn’t die, just waited, its eyes open in the dark, counting the years until the world was ready. He cranked La Perla toward shore, the engine choking, spitting oil, the boat lurching against waves that felt alive, pushing him back toward the trench. He’d tell no one, not his wife, who’d call it a drunk’s dream, not the priest, who’d offer hollow blessings, not his sons, who’d never sail with him again if they knew. But tomorrow, he’d carve a spiral into the boat’s hull, a jagged mark to keep the dark at bay, knowing it was futile, knowing the sea had already claimed him.

You do know that we are the most harshest mistress?

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You do know that we are the most harshest mistress?

I’m a many year ats veteran, used to harsh criticism.

I’m getting better. This one is not my best writing, but I sacrificed clarity for mood and a psychological winding into insanity. 

it’s my first attempt at horror, but I went more Lovecraft and Crichton than King.

[MichSwampbuck]

Into chapter three of my own self published story and I can't get anyone to check it out, not even my close relatives. I keep writing for its own sake, to keep the characters and story alive, and as a writing sample for job applications when I send them out.

The creative writing method I use could be plugged into an AI and get similar output, so I never mention what I'm doing to generate stories and characters. It seem so useless when AI could do the same thing given the parameters. I'll keep plugging along, just at an ever slowing pace. I have the whole thing outlined with extensive notes, it almost writes itself now when I employ my methods while at it.

[pianopraze]

Into chapter three of my own self published story and I can't get anyone to check it out, not even my close relatives. I keep writing for its own sake, to keep the characters and story alive, and as a writing sample for job applications when I send them out.

The creative writing method I use could be plugged into an AI and get similar output, so I never mention what I'm doing to generate stories and characters. It seem so useless when AI could do the same thing given the parameters. I'll keep plugging along, just at an ever slowing pace. I have the whole thing outlined with extensive notes, it almost writes itself now when I employ my methods while at it.

The more books I write the easier it becomes.

two big steps:
1. brainstorm, write down everything, all ideas. Save document for reference. (Brainstorm doc)
2. toss it in outline - loosely based on hero model, save the cat etc. (outline doc)

Then it’s easy with four small repetitive steps:
1. write each chapter of outline. (Writing doc)
2. Toss into grok for a polish.
3. post into scratch page, edit it - longest step (scratch doc)
4. post into book. (Book doc)

so I have at least 5 documents for every book. constantly bouncing between them expanding them.

story will wonder, has a will and way of its own, don’t fight it. (Optional step if goes too far, revise outline)

ai is stupid, can not write books, but it’s great for polishing. If you write whole thing and throw it in for grammar spelling and punctuation you will get gem. You try to get it to write you get a turd. I’m about 90/10 on a 2000 page chapter I write 1800-2100 words on average and get 2100-2200 from polish(telling ai to output 2000), then edit that up or down for a final of 1700-2500 words. Hard to explain unless you try then it will be crystal clear.

example from chapter I just wrote in my newest book:

"God, who am I that you do this to me?" He prayed one evening under the old apple tree the crows had adopted as their new home. Zeke, in his lap, snuggled into his Chevy t-shirt demanding petting. No voice came in reply. No vision. Nothing. It made Eli angry. "First you won’t shut up, then thrust this vision in my head, perform these miracles but give me no direction other than ‘speak for me’? I’m nothing, nobody. You have devout preachers, world famous ones even, who know Your Word inside and out and would love nothing more than to perform the miracles and say the words you speak. I’m just a good for nothing porn addicted country boy who never did anything for you. I’m no good in a crowd, don’t even like to be around people, don’t want no fame. Why choose me?" But no answer came.

final (after ai Imput and my re-writing):

Anger surged, a hot coal in his chest. “First you wouldn’t shut up, thrusting that vision in my head, performing these miracles, but giving me no direction but ‘speak for me’? I’m nothing, nobody!” His voice rose, cracking, the crows rustling in the branches above, their caws sharp in the dusk. “You’ve got devout preachers, world-famous ones, who know Your Word, who’d kill to work miracles and speak your truth. I’m a porn-addicted country boy who never did a damn thing for you. I hate crowds, don’t want fame, can’t even stand people!” His fists clenched, nails biting his palms, the guilt of his wasted life a noose tightening. I’ve never been good. Never helped the poor, never preached, barely cracked a Bible. Just chased women, beer, and wrestling, drowning in self-indulgence. He thought, but no answer came, the sky darkening, stars pricking through like cold, distant eyes.

Note, the added details were arranged from surrounding paragraphs, in this example the ai actually cut down the number of words I wrote as a whole for the chapter. It put the details about the snuggling crow and tshirt in the paragraph above and pulled the self indulgent line from the paragraph below. It added the coals and cold distant eyes snippets which I liked and left in, but it often adds tons of tedious obvious ai snippets I cut out. I was surprised it left in the porn snippet as I almost always have to add those back in when it almost always leaves such details out.

ai is also good for brainstorming and helping you sus out ideas. I’m writing now and added crows. I asked ai to give me info about crows and it’s like interviewing expert on subject: ex. What sounds do crows make… how intelligent are crows…like 7 year old intelligences,  what are personalities owners of pet crows assign to them (very interestingly most don’t own as pets just befriend and leave wild) take that info and use in book.

It’s like a lawn mower, no one cuts grass with a scythe anymore, no one writes on a typewriter (yeah there will be a tiny tiny handful) all authors will use it going forward. It saves time amplifies your abilities. If you’re writing 90 percent it comes out awesome if you deeply edit the output. If you write a few sentences then toss it in it will be a sloppy mess. I encourage all to try. Grok is only ai I use for writing and it is free. I use copilot also for free to sus out the ideas like the crow example, but never writing or editing as it truly sucks.

maybe one day they will be able to write books, but that day is not now. Anyone that uses it understands just how limited it is now.