Sci-FiTy1972: Blog

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.

Most people imagine recruitment as a moment.

A speech.
A decision.
A dramatic turning point.

In reality, recruitment is rarely loud.

It happens in quiet rooms.
In late-night messages.
In moments where someone realizes that being capable and being chosen are not the same thing.

What defined this early phase was not power.
It was restraint.

Every individual brought into the fold was evaluated for something harder to measure than skill: how they handled weight. Not physical weight. Responsibility weight. The kind that doesn’t show up in metrics, but shows up in hesitation, in second thoughts, in the moments where someone chooses not to act even when they could.

The system did not look for those who wanted control.
It looked for those who understood cost.

That distinction matters.

Because force is easy to teach.
Judgment is not.

Those who entered were not given certainty. They were given proximity. A chance to feel how close power actually sits to failure. How thin the margin is between protecting and becoming something else entirely.

Some people declined.
That was respected.

Some people stepped forward.
That carried weight.

This phase was never about building an army.

It was about discovering who could carry the future without trying to own it.

History often celebrates the battles.
It rarely records the moments when people decided not to become what the universe expected them to be.

Those moments are quieter.

They are also more important.

— End Record

I’m releasing this opening arc close together to let the foundation breathe the way it was written, some arcs will move faster, some slower. This story is growing organically, and I appreciate everyone walking it with me.

When I decided to share early chapters across several of my ongoing stories, it wasn’t about speeding things up. It wasn’t about chasing numbers. And it definitely wasn’t about cutting corners.

It was about something much simpler.

It was about people.

Writing, for me, has always been about connection before completion. Stories don’t begin when the final chapter is posted — they begin the moment someone else feels something because of words you put into the world.

When I released those early chapters, I did it with a little hesitation. Not because I doubted the stories, but because I respect the process. I believe in letting stories breathe. I believe in letting characters grow at their own pace. And I believe that meaning matters more than momentum.

So I took a small risk and invited you into that space early.

What I didn’t expect was the response.

Several of you reached out — not to ask for more, not to rush me, not to critique — but simply to say thank you.

Thank you for sharing.
Thank you for trusting us with early access.
Thank you for letting us be part of the journey.

Those messages meant more than you probably realize.

They reminded me why I write the way I do.

I don’t see stories as products. I see them as conversations. I see them as shared experiences. I see them as something we build together. One chapter, one reaction, one quiet moment of recognition at a time.

Growth is exciting. Momentum is encouraging. But neither of those things matter if they come at the expense of meaning.

I never want to short-change the process.
I never want to rush what deserves time.
And I never want to forget that behind every download, every bookmark, every message, there’s a real person giving me something far more valuable than a click.

They’re giving me their time.

So if you were one of the people who wrote to say thank you, please know this:

I heard you.
I appreciated you.
And you reminded me that I’m not just telling stories, I’m sharing a journey.

The chapters will keep coming. The worlds will keep expanding. The characters will keep growing.

But what matters most to me is that we’re walking that road together, not racing to the end, but actually being present for the story as it unfolds.

Thank you for being part of that.

Not just as readers.

But as fellow travelers.