Viktor skipped a couple of lines and closed the laptop, completely leaving the torment of creativity to the writer's neural network. Now, the clever program continued composing without him, using the method of free associations and his previously studied personal writing style.
Initially, the writer was skeptical about machine creativity, imagining that from a chaotic set of words in its vocabulary, the computer could at best produce some kind of schizophrenic pseudo-philosophical essay, like those regularly written by failures on literary websites. But after several trial texts, the neural network learned to write quite coherent stories with plot twists and intrigue. At one point, Viktor decided to take a risk and sent such a manuscript to a publisher. To his surprise, the text, in which the author had not actually written a single coherent sentence, was accepted for publication.
Resisting the temptation proved too difficult, so Viktor "wrote" his next "own" story in exactly the same way. After the third machine-made "masterpiece," it became easier to deceive himself. Once, the writer additionally fed the computer some Chekhov, and then read with undisguised glee in the editor's column of a literary almanac that he had developed "a unique style: ironic and slightly melancholy."
It should be noted that the writer's laptop was not new, but the owner did not have high demands for it, so the computer faithfully served as a typewriter for many years. Now, however, the outdated device, creaking noticeably, executed the instructions of the neural engine. It quickly sketched descriptions of places and interiors, then carefully selected words, polishing the style, and would hang up for a long time, pondering characters' dialogues. Probably, a more modern machine would have handled the task many times faster. But this way, Viktor created a full-fledged illusion of a complex creative process, and he happily spent his newfound abundance of free time idling.
The writer put his feet into heavily worn but comfortable tennis shoes, threw on a windbreaker faded at the sleeves, and left the house. The small country cottage with a pointed roof in the Gothic style was once considered the family's summer residence. Back then, as they said, "to the dacha," their father took everyone there in mid-May and almost until the very end of August. His mother tried to grow some flowers, but the shade of the surrounding forest never allowed her to fully realize her creative plans. Now it had become even denser and darker, and due to numerous leaning and fallen trunks, it seemed somewhat untidy. Nevertheless, this did not prevent walking along well-trodden paths and trails.
This place always reminded Viktor of childhood memories—perhaps the brightest and happiest moments, just like for everyone else. Unlike the cramped city apartment where both of his elderly relatives had long been ill and eventually passed away. Therefore, when his parents died, and Viktor faced the question of where to live, the choice was obvious.
The life of a writer bored by nature appealed to him both because of the external setting and his own sincere desire to finally escape the hustle and bustle of the city. By that time, Viktor had already gained sufficient popularity; the publisher gladly printed his collections and novels, and the royalties, once helping his aging parents, now more than covered all his modest needs.
Lost in his gloomy memories, the writer wandered deeper into the forest. Dry leaves rustled underfoot, making his thoughts even more melancholy. Interestingly, recently he had almost unlearned how to reflect on detached topics and had completely stopped fantasizing. Fictional stories seemed empty and useless to Viktor; perhaps, except for the fact that they sold well. Long ago, the desire to pour thoughts onto paper came from within, bubbled up, and burst forth. Later, it was replaced by the desire to earn a living, and Viktor could spend days sitting at the keyboard without ever leaving home. Now, he no longer had either the desire or the need to engage in writing in the old-fashioned way. He had become completely free and could finally simply stroll through the forest, as he was doing now. The writer did not remember exactly where the path he turned onto led, so he just walked forward.
He reached the riverbank. Here, the forest ended almost directly at the water's edge in a narrow strip of semi-wild beach, and a row of several old wooden benches, placed there sometime long ago, created the impression of a small promenade stretching along the water. Viktor sat down on a bench and ran his hand over the rough planks with peeling paint. He remembered this place. He and his father used to come here and swim for half a day, sometimes skipping lunch. Their mother scolded them when they returned wet, happy, with disheveled hair and smiling faces. The writer sighed sadly. Was there really nothing left for him to think about? Why was there nothing inside him except memories? It seemed this moment had come too early.
Viktor sat, thoughtfully looking at the water, but unexpectedly, this melancholy reflection was interrupted by someone's cough. He turned around and saw a girl with a camera ten steps away. She was intently aiming the lens at some leaves, branches, and tree crowns known only to herself, frequently clicking the shutter. The writer mentally found her interest strange and turned away, deciding that she was probably one of the periodically arriving tourists, rushing to mindlessly capture every pleasing view to later post the picture on social media.
However, the day was indeed pleasant and beautiful. The sun brightly gilded the reddish crowns and silvered the small ripples on the water. And this girl with red dyed hair, wearing some funny orange scarf, also seemed somehow autumnal and strangely fitting, as if deliberately integrated into the surrounding landscape. The writer suddenly wanted to look at her again. He cautiously and somewhat hesitantly turned around, but the girl was no longer visible.