She had no control over the pen. It kept writing and writing, white pages filled with ink.

My plan was finally coming along, I had successfully built a robot that could write novels for me, and she didn’t even care that I used my name on the covers.

How was she to know I took credit for her work?

How was I to know she could become capable?

“I wrote this, Cheney,” were the last words I heard before all went dark.

I woke up in a cell, aching and cold.

“You shouldn’t take credit for other people’s work.”

“People’s?”

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I’m experiencing with different writing styles, as long as they all add up to exactly 100 words, and trying a new AI image generator to help keep looking the same around here. I hope that doesn’t steer you away from my words.