The Wordsmith’s Forge

For the sixteen aspiring writers gathered at The Pines Writing Retreat, the week promised more than crisp mountain air and coffee strong enough to stun a charging bear. They came from New England, New York City, even Canada—drawn by one name:

Professor Philip Leavenworth.

A former science and tech writer for the Seabrook Viking News, Leavenworth had, in his early days, penned exposés on everything from municipal AI experiments gone rogue to defense contractors testing neural implants in soldiers. But he became famous—infamous—when he shifted to fiction. His 2012 novel The Martyr Algorithm became a cult classic, followed by State of Deletion and the Booker-nominated Children of the Censorium. He wrote like Orwell with a microchip in his brain, critics said. And now, for the first time in over a decade, he was hosting a workshop.

Topic:

Writing Thought-Provoking Sci Fi, Dystopian, & Political Thrillers.

Day 1: Arrival

The Pines was less rustic than the name suggested. Hardwood floors. French-pressed coffee. A fireplace that crackled like it belonged to an MFA catalog. The group gathered in the main lodge after check-in. Laptops, legal pads, and nervous smiles.

Among them:

Carmen Liu, a Brooklyn-based software engineer trying her hand at speculative fiction.

Nate Rylance, a thirty-nine-year-old high school civics teacher from Maine who loved Philip’s work so much he once assigned Children of the Censorium alongside 1984.

Yasmin Farouq, a grad student from McGill who wore combat boots and carried around a dog-eared copy of Neuromancer.

Jerome ‘JJ’ Jacobs, a retiree who used to work in Washington and spoke very little.

At precisely 5:00 p.m., the fireplace dimmed. The room hushed.

He entered like a shadow—thin, bespectacled, white hair tucked under a brown tweed cap. Professor Philip Leavenworth.

“I’m not here to coddle you,” he said, placing his canvas messenger bag on the floor. “We’re going to write stories that haunt, unsettle, and ask questions that polite society is too scared to voice.”

He smiled, but it was the smile of a chess master who’s already seen the endgame.

Day 2: Worldbuilding as Political Allegory

Their first session began before dawn. Leavenworth insisted on it.

“If you're going to understand dystopia,” he said, scribbling something on the whiteboard with furious energy, “you need to start while the world is still asleep. That’s when the machines begin to whisper.”

He paced. “A dystopia isn't a bad future. It’s a logical one. Strip away idealism. What happens when today’s trend continues unchecked?”

He asked each writer to share one premise.

Carmen spoke first. “A social network that rates citizens based on their helpfulness. Like Uber ratings—but for humans.”

Leavenworth clapped once. “Good. Now, what happens when the algorithm begins retroactively adjusting scores?”

Nate raised his hand. “What if you’re born into a score inherited from your parents? Generational rating. Like class.”

“Excellent,” the professor said.

By the end of the session, Carmen had retitled her work-in-progress Zero Stars for Humanity.

Day 3: Character and the State

They were asked to write about a character who believes in the system—until it fails them.

Yasmin read from her piece about a border guard who discovers that the country he protects is running memory wipes on detainees.

Nate wrote a senator’s aide who helps push through emergency censorship laws, only to discover his own emails vanish from existence.

Leavenworth didn’t offer praise. He offered questions.

“Why does your character stay even after they know the truth? What does it take to get them to leave?”

“Never forget,” he said, “that Winston Smith wrote in his diary Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four. You want a thriller? Give your character a truth they’re not allowed to speak.”

Night Sessions

Evenings were for wine and argument. In the lodge, in between sips of Pinot or decaf, debates flared like brushfires.

“Science fiction has to warn us,” Yasmin argued, feet tucked beneath her. “Otherwise it’s just lasers and escapism.”

“But thrillers entertain,” said Carmen. “Entertainment is the sugar that makes the message go down.”

“I want both,” JJ muttered, staring into the fire. “Because the people in D.C.? They never read the footnotes. But they remember the story.”

Leavenworth, who mostly stayed silent at night, finally said:

“You’re all right. The trick is balancing the idea with the pulse. Without tension, it’s a pamphlet. Without meaning, it’s a chase scene.”

Day 4: Writing With Consequence

“You must understand what power fears,” Leavenworth said, opening the day with a photograph of Tiananmen Square on the screen.

“They don’t fear riots. They fear witnesses. Artists. Writers. People with pens and memories.”

He pulled out a copy of The Martyr Algorithm. “This book got me blacklisted from two defense contractors. Good. That meant it was working.”

He handed them each an index card.

“Write down a secret you think your government doesn’t want told. Then hide it in your story. Bury it like a mine.”

Carmen’s card read: Tech companies are already building private militaries.

Nate’s: We track students from kindergarten to adulthood. The illusion of choice is manufactured.

Yasmin’s: Corporations own more water than governments.

JJ’s: There’s always been more than one president.

Day 5: Midweek Reading

They read aloud to each other around the fire. The professor sat at the edge of the circle, head bowed, listening.

Carmen’s protagonist, Mina, hacked the social rating mainframe—but the twist: she only changed one person’s score. Her own.

Nate’s story had a schoolteacher who learned her history curriculum had been altered by AI. When she protested, the bot began replacing her speech in real time during classes.

Yasmin’s character discovered that when migrants crossed the border, they were uploaded into digital holding cells—no food, no water, just a grid of avatars suspended forever.

JJ said nothing. But the next morning, a three-page story appeared in the lodge printer tray.

Title: “The Second Cabinet.”

No name. No signature. Just a tale about a secret council that had overridden the U.S. Constitution in 1972 and continued running foreign policy from an undisclosed location. The final line: “We never vote them in. We never vote them out. But they run the world just the same.”

Day 6: The Breakdown

The day began with rain.

Not gentle poetic drizzle—but pounding, sideways rain, like the sky was falling apart.

“Perfect weather for paranoia,” Leavenworth muttered, sipping black coffee.

He gave them an impossible task: write a scene in which the villain wins—and the reader is glad they did.

Carmen tried: a rebel leader executes a corrupt governor, only to install martial law herself. “Order is better than chaos,” she wrote.

Nate’s villain destroyed all government records, claiming it was the only path to freedom. “Blank slates mean no more chains.”

Yasmin’s A.I. dictator implanted all citizens with emotional dampeners. No more war. No more rage. Just equilibrium.

But JJ didn’t turn anything in.

He walked to Leavenworth and handed him a sealed envelope. “Not for the class. For you.”

The professor opened it. His hands trembled slightly.

Then he looked up. “You were never just a bureaucrat, were you?”

JJ said, “Let’s just say I read your work in real time, back when it was still dangerous.”

Final Day: The Forge

The last day was part reading, part farewell.

Leavenworth stood before them, his voice soft. “You came to learn how to write dystopian, political, science-fiction thrillers. But I hope you learned something else: Why we write them.”

He pointed to his heart. “Not from the head. From here. Your story must be smarter than your reader—but it must also believe that they’re worth saving.”

He gestured to the fireplace. “The world is on fire. What you write may not stop the flames. But it can teach someone how to build something better after the smoke clears.”

Epilogue: One Year Later

Carmen Liu’s debut novel, Zero Stars for Humanity, hit The New York Times Best Seller list. The film rights were acquired by a major studio.

Nate Rylance published The Algorithmic Curriculum through an indie press. It became required reading at four universities.

Yasmin Farouq won the Aurora Award for her short story Gridsoul. She started teaching at McGill.

No one heard from JJ again.

But a year after the retreat, Carmen received a package. Inside: a first edition of The Martyr Algorithm. Signed. And tucked inside the dust jacket—a note in Leavenworth’s handwriting.

“When the story ends, the real work begins. Stay dangerous. – P.L.”

Attached with a paperclip: a news clipping.

Headline: “Mysterious Hack Leaks Secret Dossiers from Alleged ‘Shadow Cabinet’”

Below it, scrawled in black ink, three words:

“We told you.”

The End.