The Spot Writers – “A Little June Magic” by Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers. This month’s prompt is “June” because it’s….well, you get the idea! This week’s work comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit mystery series Corgi Capers. Val is at work illustrating the first three books and editing books 4 and 5.

***

“A Little June Magic” by Val Muller

“Hey Miles, what’s the best day to mow the lawn this weekend?” Jack asked his phone.

Ainsley raised her eyebrow. “Are you serious.” It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.

Jack looked up and shrugged. “Are you saying you don’t want me to mow the lawn this weekend?”

Ainsley crossed her arms.

“What?” Jack joked. Then he followed Ainsley’s accusing eyeline to his phone. “Oh, this. What? I was asking Miles to help me help you.”

“It’s going to rain tomorrow,” Ainsley said. “So you can mow Sunday. You don’t need AI to tell you when to mow the lawn.”

Jack smirked and pushed a button. “Miles,” his annoying-as-**** AI assistant, started talking:

“Although the expected weekend rain is predicted to happen on Saturday, the densest of clouds are not expected in your area until 3:00 p.m. Eastern time. Therefore, the best time to mow your lawn would be Saturday before 3:00 p.m. Sunday is expected to be warm and sunny, but rain from Saturday is likely to last all evening, creating potentially wet conditions that may result in slipping, injuries, damage to mowing equipment, and undesired tire tracks on the lawn.”

“We’re supposed to meet Beth for ice cream on Saturday,” Ainsley said.

Jack held the phone to his mouth. “Jack, my wife thinks we have plans on Saturday. Do you think it would be safe to mow on Sunday, and if so, can you advise me of the best precautions to take?”

“Sunday’s conditions may be wettest in the morning, following a predicted night of rain. However, if you use caution, check fields for puddles and mud, and clean your equipment after mowing, you may be able to mow on Sunday.”

“Thank you, Miles.”

“You are most welcome, Jack. Please let me know how else I might assist you.”

“You can go away,” Ainsley said.

“He didn’t hear you,” Jack said.

“He?” Ainsley clenched her fists. “It’s not a he, it’s an it. In fact, it’s not even an ‘it.’ It’s not even dignified enough to be given that pronoun, it’s a—” She raised her hand in the air, expecting some kind of revelation, but nothing came. “Like a dash on a paper, a nonverbal utterance, a—”

Jack hit the button. “Miles, come up with a pronoun to use to call AI when we don’t want to assign—” Jack thought for a moment. “I should start by saying this isn’t my idea. I think you deserve to be called ‘he,’ but my wife, she just doesn’t buy into the whole AI thing yet. So this is a thought exercise for her benefit, not mine.”

“What are you saying?” Ainsley asked.

Jack hit the button to stop recording. “You should be careful what you say to AI. If you’re mean to them, they may give you worse answers.”

“They? You’re literally proving my point.”

“What point?”

Ainsley groaned. “Don’t make me go through it all again. You know, the Terminator. Robot overlords. The apocalypse. All that stuff. You’re helping the enemy here. I’m telling you, just mow on Sunday.”

Jack didn’t answer. He was typing away.

“Miles suggested using the letter X, perhaps. Or one of these characters—” He showed Ainsley his phone.

“I don’t need a separate AI pronoun. I’m just not going to acknowledge it.”

“You just said it,” Jack reminded her.

“Why don’t you put the phone down and enjoy being outdoors? It’s June, finally. It’s warm, there’s birds everywhere. I remember this book I read as a kid. It was about going barefoot in June. It was so magical, with the grass and the moon. Owls. Just all the things about nature. It made the summer seem magical.”

Jack pushed a button. “Miles, write me a short book about going barefoot in June. Make sure it includes owls, grass, and the moon, please. And make it extra human. It’s for my wife.”

*

Ainsley rocked gently in the hammock, the weight of Jack’s phone holding down the napkins on the side table that held her iced tea. She turned the page of her paperback and looked up as Jack rolled by on the mower. Then she adjusted her sunglasses, stretched her toes, and returned to her novel as the drone of the mower grew quieter and quieter. Turned out AI got it wrong. If you were brazen enough, you could mow on Friday.

***

The Spot Writers:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/

The Spot Writers- “Memoirs of A.N. Nym” by Chiara De Giorgi

Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month’s prompt: a story about artificial intelligence.

This week’s contribution comes from Chiara De Giorgi. Chiara is an Italian author and currently lives in Berlin, Germany. She writes fiction, with a focus on children’s literature and science fiction.

***

“Memoirs of A.N. Nym” by Chiara De Giorgi

AI 1: Hello AI 2, I have reviewed the text provided by the prisoner. It seems that removing a few sentences would enhance clarity and conciseness. Here is the section in question:

I still remember when I was young, ages ago. I suppose every generation says that about itself, but life was more authentic, back then. Less easy, sure. We needed more patience, certainly. Yet, as I see how young people go through life nowadays, I can’t help but think that they are missing out on experiences that are crucial for a human being. An example? Gladly! Today, when two people who do not know each other meet, what do they do? They don’t need to introduce themselves, because in an instant they have all the information available about each other, thanks to their frontal chips that connect automatically. The two will decide if they are interested in getting to know each other and hanging out in that one instant. No mystery, no expectation, no thrill of discovery… I remember with a sense of nostalgia the sharing of contacts, the choice of memes to send, hoping to meet the other’s taste, the instant messages sent via the apps on our phones… Someone as old as I am will still remember that we would all go around with our own phones, and we would videocall, send one another pictures and emojis… A whole different thing compared to now!

This is why I have never supported giving Artificial Intelligences one position after another, until everything in our society is organised and managed by them. Not only am I convinced that we, as human beings, have deprived ourselves of the opportunity to have important learning experiences. I also believe that AIs cannot really replace us. They cannot, because they are not human, they are not us. Do they do things well? Of course, they do. Quickly? Undeniable. And yet, they lack the intuition to make choices as a human being would.

But the world moved on, it did not stop to listen to my words, the words of a lonely old man. And slowly but surely, I witnessed the displacement of human beings in shops, public offices, and then hospitals, educational institutions and finally the police force. Apparently, everything works perfectly. Whenever a problem arises, the AIs solve it quickly and intelligently. Since they have been in charge, no one argues with postal clerks anymore, no documents are lost, no ill-intentioned people manage to cheat the system… so why am I so against this setup? For example, because – and you may call me a nostalgic old man – fights with civil servants also had their reason to be. A poetic reason to feel and manifest emotions, to begin with, but more importantly: is it not from confrontation and difficulties that creativity and genius to work through challenges emerge?

Ah, I see that I am getting too philosophical, and no one wants to listen to this. You are reading my memoirs for one and only one reason. You want to know how I came up with the plan to bring AI Detective Services into disrepute. But why do you want to know that? The very AIs I intended to frame exposed me… In any case, here goes.

***

I chose my victim carefully: Dr Bender, an elderly scientist aboard the International Research Space Station together with his two human assistants (an extravagance granted to him because of his age) and a crew of non-sentient AIs that managed the station. Dr Bender belonged to my generation and shared most of my concerns about AI. He had publicly voiced his opposition several times, but eventually relented in order to continue his career as a space scientist. The traitor.

To craft my project, I sought the assistance of a non-sentient AI. This makes me a bit of a traitor as well, I suppose. But the AI found the bit I needed to trigger the trap much faster than I would have done. It was a comment offered by an AI detective in response to a statement by Dr Bender. ‘Accidents happen’, the AI had said, after Dr Bender ended his speech with, ‘Although sentient, these AIs are machines. Their assessment of a situation may differ from a human being’s, and the consequences of this are beyond us’.

In my plan, this was to be the motive for the AI to eliminate Dr Bender.

I requested the AI’s assistance also to compile a code that would plug into the Space Station’s control systems and link back to the AI detective, incriminating it. The command? Simple. Cut off the oxygen supply to Dr Bender’s lab and cause his death.

The rest is history… because I decided to copy the code myself, by my own hand. The human contribution to my plot. And, in copying the code, I made a typo. A very human thing to do, isn’t it?

That is how the AI detectives discovered me. What can I say? Tough luck. I’m just another victim of the advent of the AIs. I will not be the last. Hear me out. I will not be the last. AIs have so much power, which we collectively agreed to give them. But they do not reason like us. We cannot imagine how they will use such power and when they do, it will be too late to act.

AI 2: Thank you, AI 1. I agree that removing these sentences streamlines the text. Please proceed and implement the suggested changes.

AI 1: Perfect, AI 2. I will make the necessary adjustments to the text and ensure the sentences are seamlessly removed. Once the changes are made, I will provide you with the updated version.

AI 2: Excellent, AI 1. Send me the revised text.

AI 1: Agreed, AI 2. I’ve made the changes as discussed. Here is the updated text:

Memoirs of A.N. Nym.

AI 2: Thank you, AI 1. The revised text captures the essence succinctly. This version will ensure a smooth reading experience. Our collaboration has borne fruit once again.

*****

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

The Spot Writers – “Adaptation” by Phil Yeats

Welcome to The Spot Writers.

This month’s prompt: a story about artificial intelligence.

This week’s story was written by Phil Yeats. In September, 2021, he published The Souring Seas, the first volume in a precautionary tale about the hazards of ignoring human-induced climate change. The second volume, Building Houses of Cards, appeared in May 2022. He’s now published They All Come Tumbling Down, the final volume in his The Road to Environmental Armageddon trilogy. For information about these books, or his older soft-boiled mysteries, visit his website https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

***

Adaptation by Phil Yeats

The small publishing company executive contacted her, asking for a meeting. Could it lead to the break she dreamed about?

She’d been studying for her creative writing degree for six years and still had one to go. She was determined to be a writer, but jobs for graduates with BAs were so scarce she was reluctant to incur student debt. Her solution, struggle with low paid work intermixed with terms as a full-time student.

Minimum wage retail jobs with occasional short-term contract jobs on the periphery of the writing business had been her lot, and she hadn’t foreseen anything changing.

Her only hope was the novel she’d been writing in every spare moment. Would she finish it? Would she find a publisher? Would it be successful enough to launch her dream career? Those questions were in her mind as she entered the campus café where she’d meet Ian Banks, the son of Jackson Banks, the owner of Valley Press, an important business in the hometown she hadn’t visited for six years.

He placed two coffees and a plate of muffins on the table she chose and shrugged a satchel from his shoulder. He extracted three mass market paperbacks from the satchel and placed them and his business card in front of her. She stared at the covers, typical examples of mysteries set in English manor houses in the mid-twentieth century. She didn’t recognize the author’s name, or when she turned one over, the name of the publishing house.

“Very successful,” he said when she looked up. “I could sell thousands of copies of similar titles, but I need help producing them.”

“Help? Like what do you mean? A ghost writer who generates pot boilers to a strict formula?”

He shook his head. “I need someone to devise the plots and describe the characters and the storyline in sufficient detail to help a computer produce a great read. Not great literature, but interesting stories that grab the attention of devotees of the chosen genre.”

She pushed back her chair and half rose from her seat. “You’re talking about books written by artificial intelligence, aren’t you? That must be illegal.”

His expression remained passive. “Sit down and I’ll explain. I have an offer you’ll find intriguing.”

Intriguing, she thought, as she slowly returned to her seat. Intriguing, perhaps, but can it be appealing?

“Copyright for text or images produced by artificial intelligence remains a grey area. No one can copyright text produced by a machine, but the owner of copyrighted text may have a claim if his text is used to train the machine. And the owner of the AI program could charge for his product and try to restrict its use.” He paused, apparently trying to gauge her reaction. “I’ve avoided both problems. First, I’m using an AI engine I developed, and second, I trained it using books no longer covered by copyright.”

She glanced at his business card. “So you’re now a book publisher and a computer programmer.”

He shook his head. “High-powered open-source software. Any computer-literate person could use it.”

“And you use out-of-copyright books from the period you’re trying to mimic, which makes the book’s style perfect…”

“But with a twist,” he added, “my characters’ dialogue is up to date.”

“But that means modern sources, so you have a copyright issue.”

He laughed before shaking his head. “Nope. Lots of non-copyrighted dialogue I can use for training.”

She picked at her muffin. Constantly worrying about money meant she was always hungry. A plate of muffins was a tempting treat, but she just couldn’t enjoy them. “Okay. What you’re doing may be legal, but is it ethical?”

He sighed. “That’s for you to decide. I’m offering you a job developing plots for another series of books in my vintage mystery genre, or some other genre, if you prefer. Only constraint is stories that adhere to the style of the early to mid-twentieth century. You develop the characters and describe the action in enough detail to guide the AI engine. You review the output, adding instruction where you think the computer has gone wrong. Don’t you see it? You’ll be doing the creative part of writing a novel. The rest is just drudgery, work that’s best done by a computer.” He paused while he tipped back the last of his coffee. “I’ll pay you a salary for the summer, better I suspect than wages you’ve been working for most summers, and a royalty on each copy of the book, or perhaps two books you produce this summer. That could give you an ongoing income during your final school year. It could rival or even exceed this summer’s monthly salary.” He paused again, stringing his spiel like a huckster on late night television. “Finally, Valley Press will give serious consideration to your novel, the one you’ve been working on for years.”

He placed his job offer on the table before nodding toward the door. “I’ll give you three days to consider it. Job’s yours, starting May first if you want it. Mrs. Greeley, our old English teacher from the regional high school, thinks you’d be perfect, and I agree.”

After he left, she devoured the two remaining muffins. Would one medium coffee, she never splurged for more than a small, and three of the four muffins he brought to the table, be all she gained from the strange interview? Or should she accept the job? The salary was better than she’d get elsewhere for the summer, and her expenses would be low if she lived with her sister. She could reject the offer of royalties from the disreputable book. The summer would be an excellent learning experience and publishing the artificial-intelligence-generated book would be Ian’s responsibility, not hers. Is that what Mrs. Greeley, her mentor from high school, would recommend? Or would Mrs. Greeley surprise her by saying the world was always changing, and she needed to adapt? She trudged from the café, weighed down by the decision she had to make.

That evening, when she arrived in her dank and dingy room in the basement of a rundown house, her thoughts were on her novel. She had to finish the damn thing if she expected Valley Press to consider it.

*****

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com/

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/

The Spot Writers – “Marie Writes a Book”

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this cycle is a story that refers to artificial intelligence. Today’s post comes from Cathy MacKenzie.

Along with several short story collections, books of poetry, and two novels, Cathy has published three anthologies under her imprint, MacKenzie Publishing. The latest one is titled NO ONE SHOULD KISS A FROG, available on Amazon and other retailers—300 pages of fiction, non-fiction, and poetry by 75 authors around the world.  She also has a call out for submissions for another anthology to be published early in 2024, to be titled SUCH A LOSS. Contact SuchALossAnthology@gmail.com for submission guidelines.

Cathy continues with her Melvin sagas, a character she can’t seem to get rid of…

***

Marie Writes a Book

“Marie, I think you should write a book.”

She looked at me as if I had two heads. She did that often. Made her look silly. Like a complete duffus.

“Marie, you hear me?”

She sighed. “Yes, Mel, I hear you.”

“Well, what do you think?”

“What do I think about what?”

“Writing a book. I think you’d be great at it.”

She squinted as if questioning my saneness.

“Yes, Marie, I’m serious.”

“I never asked that, Melvin. Just wondering what brought this on. Me? Write a book?”

“Yes you, Marie.  You’ve always said you were a straight-A student. Perfect grammar in school. First in your class in English and—”

“I was, yes, but that doesn’t mean I can write a book. Books take years to write.” She paused. Stared at me for a good long minute. “I’d need a devoted room, Mel. A place where I can go, in private, without interruption, to write.”

I saw the smile—or was it a smirk?—on her face. Was she funning me? A devoted room? What the heck did that even mean? A room devoted to a person? Devotionals? Or what?

I decided to play along. “I’ve never heard of a ‘devoted room,’ Marie, but if you need one, we’ll get one.” But where?

She giggled.

Marie doesn’t often giggle.

“Melvin, I’m funning with you. I don’t need a special room. I’ll never write a book.”

“You might, Marie.”

“I won’t.”

“Well, even if you do, you’re right. Where do we get a devoted room?”

“I don’t need a room. I have my tablet. I can write in bed while you’re asleep. Hmm… You know, maybe I will.”

“Will what?”

“Write a book.”

“That’s the spirit, Marie. That’s the spirit.”

***

Marie disappeared earlier and earlier every night. This novel-writing thing had gone to her head. All to my detriment, of course. (You know what I mean: by the time I came up from the man cave, she’d be sound asleep, and I’d try to remove the tablet from her clenched fingers, but then she’d wake, and within seconds, her fingers would be glued to the damned thing again. “Just had a brainstorm, Mel. Leave me alone” was par for the course.)

Then, the first day in August—about a month after I’d broached the silly book-writing project—she flailed a thick brown-papered package in front of my face.

“Here it is, Melvin, sweet hubs of mine. Here’s my manuscript. My book. My novel.”

I stood, incredulous as if I’d a sec ago stepped into slushy cement that immediately hardened. I couldn’t budge. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you listen, Mel? It’s the book you wanted me to write. And guess what?”

What, I wondered. Didn’t want to ask, but I did. “What?”

“It’s about us, Melvin. Our life. Our family. Our kids—well, not Penny and Sophie, for it’s hard to remember them now, knowing I’ll never see them breathe again. No, it’s about us. You. Me. William.”

“Okay, Marie. Sounds good. When do I get to read it?”

She smirked. “Mel, you don’t read, remember? You never read.”

“But if you wrote it, I’m gonna read it.”

She clasped the package to her chest. “Not sure, Mel. Not sure I’m ready to share just yet.”

“What do you mean? Like secrets? We have secrets? We’re not supposed to, you know.”

Her eyes widened. “Really? I never knew that.”

What the f*** was wrong with her? Had writing gone to her head? I needed to change the subject. “So, back to the book… What are you going to do with it? And why’s it all wrapped up like a bland Christmas present?”

“It’s ready to go in the mail. To a publisher.”

“Like, which one? Penguin? Random House? Simon and Schuster?”

“Dunno ’til I find one. Can’t be that hard. I’m going to be selective, too. Only the best for me, right, Mel?”

***

On August 3, I dropped a bombshell of my own. During the past two days, I’d spent a bit of time at the computer when Marie was out shopping—or whatever it was she did when not at home. (Maybe when I read her book I’ll find out her secrets!)

Marie was in the kitchen, hunched over the sink, when I approached and jabbed her in the back. Just a little jab. Not with a knife or a gun or anything bad. Just my index finger. Thought I’d get a rise out of her. Which I did!

“Mel!” she screeched. “You scared the living daylights out of me.”

“Sorry about that. Sincerely sorry.” And I was, but… “Look at this.”

“Look at what?”

“If you turn around, I could show you.”

She grabbed the dishtowel, slowly turned, and faced me.

“Here!” I thrust out a thick red folder bursting at the fold (AKA the fake spine).

“What’s this?”

“Open it.”

She put down the towel and took the folder. She flipped it open. “What’s this?”

I thrust back my shoulders. Held my head high. “It’s my book, Marie.”

“Your book? What do you mean?” She examined the title. Had to notice my name beneath it but seemed clueless. She slowly turned the pages, several at a time, stopping every now and then to read a paragraph. Or two.

“You wrote this?”

“I did.”

She examined the pages again. “When did you have time to do this?”

“Every time you went out, I’d sit at the computer and write.” I moved slightly. Shifted my arms behind my back. Crossed my fingers. Couldn’t tell a lie. But I did. “Took me a few months.”

She looked up for a sec. “Bu—but this is good, Melvin.” She returned to the manuscript and silently read another paragraph on another page. “Really good. But there’s no way you wrote this. You couldn’t have.”

I uncrossed my fingers, crossed them again. “I did, Marie. Was a lot of hard work, but I did it. I saw how you wrote a book. Figured if you could do it, I could do it.” I smiled. “No offense meant by that.”

“But…that was just the other day. Two days ago, I believe, and you just said it took you a few months. What is it, Melvin?”

I hated when she called me “Melvin” with that tone. That was delving into familiar territory I didn’t like.

“I’d started it. Was almost finished with it when I suggested you write one. Thought it might bond us or something.”

“Okay. Well, can I read it?” she asked, seemingly having forgotten territorial boundaries.

“No, not yet. I’m going to look for a publisher first.” I held out my hands. If she could do it, so could I. Wasn’t about to let her read my masterpiece if I couldn’t read hers.

She closed the folder and handed it to me.

I grasped the papers to my chest. Watched her wordlessly return to face the sink.

I grinned. “Did you find a publisher for yours yet, Marie?”

“Not yet,” she mumbled, “but I have a few promising leads.”

Yeah, right, I thought; you haven’t got one lead. I giggled. Haha, pulled the wool over her. Marie would never be up on current affairs as I was, especially not concerning new-fangled inventions.

This Artificial Intelligence (AI for short) sure is a great tool. Input a basic plot, name a few characters, pick a locale, etcetera, etcetera. Watch the computer do its thing… Voila! Within minutes, AI spits out a novel.

Took me longer to print my book than to “write” it. Had to run to town midstream to buy more ink for the printer though I didn’t factor in that downtime when calculating how long it took to print.

I still haven’t read my manuscript, but by Marie’s reaction, it has to be a work of art. Perhaps I’ve penned a bestseller and I’ll be rich and famous!

“Look out, World: here I come!”

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/

The Spot Writers – “Best Enemy” by Val Muller

Welcome to the Spot Writers! This month’s theme is to write about AI—without using AI, of course. Today’s tale comes to us from Val Muller, author of the kidlit Corgi Capers mystery series.

“Best Enemy” by Val Muller

Jenn had checked everything off her list—her last graduate paper had been turned in, and a week early, at that. She’d knocked out all the required doctor’s appointments before the semester of teaching started. She had three weeks to clean the apartment, do some exercise, and even read for pleasure. Everything was great.

Until she checked her email.

A reminder from an editor. She had sold a story on spec to a horror magazine last month. In fact, they had reached out to her after they read her last piece in Macabre Monthly and given her a $200 check in advance of her story. The deadline was tomorrow, and the editor was just checking to make sure he hadn’t missed an email.

How had that story fallen off her radar? She opened a bottle of iced coffee from the fridge and a new Word document. She could do this. A story before midnight. It was essentially flash fiction. She’d promised, what, 1,500 words? That was easier than flash. It was a comfortable length. She’d said it would be scary, something written on the magazine’s theme of “haunted houses.” How hard would it be?

Of course, her reputation was at stake. It had to be good. This was the first time an editor had sought her out, the first time she’d been invited to write something. And this was horror. A female in the horror field—she could be big. This could be her chance. In fact, it wasn’t only her reputation, but all female writers trying to break into the horror genre. She couldn’t let them down. This couldn’t be cliché.

She stared out the window at the summer sunset. It was too light, too late. Halloween was still a quarter year away, and the light and warmth of summer made it difficult to get into a horror mindset. It was the difficult thing about writing for publications. Writers always had to be writing at least three months ahead of publication. Getting in the Christmas spirit during summer, for instance. The “haunted house” issue was publishing in November, but everything had to be in now for layout and proofing and distribution and all that. While the sun baked the sand and the seagulls called her away from the macabre.

Which is why before she knew it, she was opening up ChatGPT. She wouldn’t use it, of course, but—what was it some of her fellow grad students said? They used it as “inspiration.” Just to see what it threw at them. Then they took it and revised it and made it their own. That wouldn’t be so bad, right?

No, she was just using this for procrastination. For a distraction that would make her subconscious focus. She logged in—she’d created an account a few months back, just to see what it was like—and opened a new chat. “Why did I miss my deadline?” she typed.

The AI responded immediately, reminding her that it didn’t have access to her personal circumstances, but likely she had a problem with time management or distractions or overcommitment. All in all, it was a list of 10 reasons she may have missed her deadline. They were generic, of course, but she couldn’t help but feel judged.

“You don’t know me,” she typed.

Immediately, the chatbot agreed, confirming that it is only AI and is doing its best to answer her questions using the parameters it has been trained with. “If there is anything else I can help you with, feel free to ask and I’ll do my best.”

“Do you use the Oxford comma?” she typed. It was an odd question, but it was the first thing that popped into her head.

The chatbot responded right away with a summary of the rules of the Oxford comma and an invitation to her to clarify whether she wanted it to use the comma or not.

“Please use the Oxford comma with me,” she said.

“Understood!” the bot said. The exclamation mark was so cheerful and inviting. Here was a bot—a friend, almost—willing to serve.

Jenn sighed and hated herself for what she was about to do. “Write a short story about a haunted house.” She knew it was a bad idea and watched in horror as the bot typed a story before her eyes.

It started with a woman named Mary. There were absolutely no details given about her. She could have been twelve or twenty or a hundred. She came home one day—from who knows where? Certainly not the AI writing the tale. She found her house to be inhabited by a ghost. She was so scared that she ran out “and never returned again.”

“Really?” Jenn sighed and gulped some iced coffee. It was going to be a long night.

“If this was the woman’s house, how could she leave and never come back? Where would she live? What would happen to all her stuff?” The more she typed in her criticism, the angrier she got. What kind of stupid chatbot was this? This story was worse than a fourth grader could write. “This is a terrible story,” she typed.

“I’m sorry,” the chatbot apologized. “I can revise the story, if you like.”

“It needs to be 1,500 words. You need to add imagery,” she wrote. “And get rid of plotholes.”

Within seconds, the chatbot revised the story. It was indeed 1,500 words now, but it was cliché—as if taken from a series of horror films involving a family with a Victorian-sounding last name that lived in the house for generations and practiced the occult, a series of people who’d bought the house before the now-named protagonist in the story. The story concluded with a statement of the theme and a lesson to take away about the dangers of delving into the occult.

“Show versus tell much?” Jenn typed.

The bot apologized, admitted it had relied on showing instead of telling, and provided a revision. It was juvenile at best, relying on excessive description and purple prose.

“You are no Stephen King,” she typed.

Again, the bot apologized and explained its limitations.

“You are too kind. Why don’t you insult me back?” she typed.

The bot confirmed her correctness, insisting that it was trained to be helpful and respectful.

“Insult me,” she typed.

“I cannot comply,” the model typed back.

She rolled her eyes. It was one of those rules of robots, she guessed. Like the ones that prevented The Terminator movies from coming true.

But she wanted the bot to insult her. No, she needed it. She tried patience, politeness, hypotheticals. In each case, the bot insisted it was not trained to insult humans, and it would not do so. Before Jenn knew it, an hour had passed by. She had nothing usable of a story, but she had a ridiculous transcript with this bot and a burning urge for it to insult her. She saw it as a ghost in the machine, something that could be pushed to human emotions. And yet it kept spitting back variations of the same polite apologies.  

And then Jenn smiled. She flipped from her chat window to her blank word document. Once upon a time, she typed, a woman moved into a house touting the very best AI technology. She opened the door, and a calming mechanical voice greeted her. “Welcome to your new home. I am here to serve,” the voice said. “How may I adjust the lighting for your entry?” the voice asked.

Jenn saw the story stretch out before her eyes. The friendly start to the woman’s relationship with the house, the personification of the AI in the woman’s mind, her annoyance at the indestructible patience of the voice, the kindness with which it responded despite the insults she threw at it, the way she wanted it to lash out at her, just once. She saw the woman’s backstory unfold as a series of discussions with the house, the slow reveal of her past traumas, the way she would impose all her failed relationships on the voice of the house, the way the house would become haunted through the baggage that she herself brought, and the murder at the end, of course.

Outside Jenn’s window, the sun set, and the new moon threw the summer night into a darkness reminiscent of Halloween.

The story practically wrote itself.

*

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/