I won’t be publishing any more stories with storiesby.ai. What was once a quirky lark of a side-side-project hits darker now. Generative AI advanced more quickly than those in the industry thought possible. Many of us who think about the harm such systems can unleash thought we would have more time to prepare.

In December of 2022, Open AI released ChatGPT, and even they were surprised by its reception. Some inflection point was crossed between “wow, that’s kind of neat for something an AI made” to “this is so good I should be using it daily.” Business models that had sustained massive tech companies for decades were declared not long for the world and they flailed around to mount a response, a signal that they weren’t yet to be counted out.

This powerful technology will shape our lives in unimaginable ways over the next decade, offering the potential to solve problems that deeply impact millions. Protein folding has been solved, paving the way for novel treatments for ailments and a boon to drug discovery. We can use ML systems to flag threats to global food security and proactively route aid for famine prevention. People with disabilities could use generative capabilities to communicate more fluently with people around the world and better perceive the environment around them.

But to what end are we harnessing the technology that some of our brightest minds claim is more revolutionary than fire? Cheating on exams. Spamming science fiction literary magazines with so many AI-generated stories that they have to pause submissions. Replacing low-level content creators trying to build skills and experience with cheaper machine-generated content. We’re focusing the power of this new lens on amplifying the rewards flowing to capital holders because, of course we are.

I want technology to be an aid to human creativity, not a necessary crutch. I want to make life better, not shove people aside because they are no longer needed to feed the capitalist greed beast. And by writing stories with AI, I’m strengthening the narrative that human creativity and ingenuity is nothing more than the value of the tokens they generate.

Maybe this was always the case, and the mass hysteria around generative AI systems has made what used to feel fun feel gross instead. Maybe it’s the reaction of the world–that interaction between immense power and the realities of our economic system. Either way, I won’t participate in this project any longer, though don’t begrudge others if they would like to.

I’ll continue writing original fiction, whether or not AI systems continue to progress to the point where human writers can no longer compete. I love creating new worlds, inhabiting other minds, solving plot problems and surprising myself with the places I go. Because creating art is inherently pleasurable and something that enriches my life whether or not it leads to recognition or worldly success, it is something that we should never devalue.

Take care of each other.

Illustrations by: Andrey Kurenkov with MidJourney

Narration by: Andrey Kurenkov with ElevenLabs

The coffee shop, located in the heart of downtown, was known for its excellent brews and cozy atmosphere. However, no one knew what lurked above their heads. The roof of the coffee shop held a dark secret, a hellmouth. It was a portal to the underworld, and evil beings would sometimes escape through it, causing terror in the city.

One day, unaware of the hellmouth threat, a group of friends decided to spend the evening together.

Rachel, the confident leader of the group, had chosen the adorable coffee shop as a meeting place. Upon entry, Jack, the charming and sarcastic joker felt the satanic vibes of the place, but shrugged them off, keeping things light as was his way. Ashley arrived five minutes late with her nose stuck in a book.

As they waited for their drinks to cool, they noticed a strange, sulphurous smell that seemed to be coming from the roof. Suddenly, the lights flickered, and a voice whispered from above, "I am coming for you."

The friends tried to leave, but the door was locked, trapping them inside. They could hear the sound of something heavy dragging itself across the roof, getting closer and closer. Suddenly, the roof caved in, revealing a demonic creature with red eyes and razor-sharp claws.

The friends screamed in terror as the creature reached out for them. Rachel took charge, ordering her friends to find an escape route while she kept it distracted. She armed herself with a chair and prepared to fight the creature.

Jack and Ashley raced for the back door, but it was sealed just as surely as the front.

"We can't leave Rachel alone out there," Jack said.

Ashley nodded and followed him back to the hellmouth. She reached for the coffee pot, anything for self-defense.

Rachel was backed into the corner, still fighting the powerful creature with the chair. The monster hissed, and Rachel lunged forward, shattering it over the beasts' head. It growled in pain, and Ashley swung the coffee pot, the steaming liquid arcing from the container and hitting the demon's face with a sizzle.

The demon's flesh melted from it's face and dissolved into a blood-red puddle on the cafe floor. Under its skin was the pixie-haired barista who'd made their drinks not ten minutes prior.

"I hate when that happens," she said.

"This is a regular occurrence?" asked Rachel.

"Occupational hazard. As long as the hellmouth remains open, creatures from the other side can come and go. Sometimes they possess us." She yawned.

"Maybe your bosses should relocate?"

"Have you ever tried shopped for commercial real estate in this city?" She shook her head.  "We close up in half an hour."

Jack shook his head as he returned to the chair, low-volume jazz playing in the background.

Rachel shut her laptop and loaded it into her backpack.  "No one in the city is safe until we close that hellmouth for good."

"We?" Jack asked. "This task is above my pay grade."

Ashley was already researching on her phone. "You can only close a hellmouth from the other side."

The barista overheard. "If you want to go through, there's a ladder in the utility closet. You can climb up."

The three friends exchanged looks. "Are we really doing this?" Jack asked.

"Of course," said Ashley. "I had nothing better to do tonight than hang out in hell with the three of you."

The three friends climbed the ladder, and after what felt like an eternity they arrived at the other side. They were standing in a dark, twisted forest, the air thick with the smell of sulfur.

Small demons who came up only to Jack's knees followed the trio around, giggling behind their hands. Rachel shivered, but the other two seemed to shrug the creatures off.

The forest ended abruptly in a clearing, the light shimmering off of a huge lake. In the middle of the lake, a giant stone temple rose from the depths. 

Suddenly, a huge winged creature rose from the lake, letting out a terrifying screech. Rachel gasped, and Jack stepped in front of her protectively.

But the creature flew away, and the group realized it was just a normal bat. 

With newfound courage, the trio walked to the temple and entered. Inside, they could see the portal to the other side and on the altar, a strange, dark metal object was on display. It was covered in intricate runes and symbols, and it pulsed with an otherworldly energy that made their hair stand on end.

It took all their strength to move the heavy object, and between the three of them, they carried it to the lack outside. Rachel felt the metal beneath her hands glow with heat, and if she looked down at what she carried, she could feel the presence of ghosts and demons waiting to enter her nostrils and possess her mind.

She locked eyes with Ashley, then looked at Jack. The ghosts receded, growing weaker. The only thing that kept them tethered to their humanity was each other, and that bond was strong enough to get them to the edge of the lake.

Rachel and her friends threw the artifact into the lake. An enormous, terrible roar echoed around the clearing, followed by the sound of grinding metal, as the object sunk beneath the surface.

A moment of silence stretched before them. Then, the ground shook and a deafening roar filled the air. Slowly, the roar died away, and the air grew still again. They'd done it.

The hellmouth was closed.

The trio stood, looking at the peaceful scenery. After a moment, Rachel spoke.

"You know, I think I'm gonna stay here for a bit. Get to know the rest of the underworld, ya know?"

Jack and Ashley nodded, content to stay and explore with her, knowing that as long as they stuck together, the evil beings they encountered had no power over them.

Author commentary:

Inspired by an eight-foot by eight-foot hole in the ceiling above the counter of a local coffee shop, I asked ChatGPT for a horror short story about a hell mouth in the ceiling above a cafe, and it responded with the skeleton of the story.

I kept asking questions to expand on some of the details, and fed the text into Sudowrite to see its suggestions for continuations. I combined the output of the two tools to create this story.

Unused AI-created images:

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Illustrations by: Andrey Kurenkov with MidJourney

Narration by: Andrey Kurenkov with ElevenLabs

Five days ago everything fell apart when the sky turned red. I had no idea what we had done to anger the gods, or how we had come to be in this situation. But I knew it was the end. I made plans. So this morning, when I awoke to the blood-drenched clouds, alive: I had no idea what to do next. 

I called upon my friend, and the first thing he said to me was "You can't be here anymore. You've got to keep out of people's way." I didn't know what he meant by that, so I asked him "What are you afraid of?" He slammed the door in my face, but I could hear his shout from behind the heavy wood. "Afraid? I'm afraid of nothing anymore. Just leave me alone!" So I did. I walked back down the stairs from his loft, and into the empty crimson streets where nothing remained of the old ways, where nothing remained the way I remembered it.

But wait... a cat in a doorway. A parcel of vegetables wrapped in newsprint. A wasp landing on some rubbish. Maybe it's not all lost? My thoughts were all jumbled up like clothes in a washerwoman's basket. I was trying to remember the truth - the red truth - when I was seized by the soldiers and flung into their cart, which took me towards the gallows. And as we began to move, the streets filled up again.

People came out of their homes, shouting and jeering at me as the cart rocked over the cobblestones. The soldiers looked at me with a strange repulsion, but something else too. Fear? Could it be fear I saw in their faces? I looked around and saw the same faces on both sides of the cart too. I counted at least a hundred like that. Three hundred more must be buried by now.

Why don't they understand? I tried to explain the situation, but they bound my hands and gagged me. With bitter eyes and vicious lips they said that I should have slept longer than the night. They said that I should have taken a bigger draught of the poisoned water I added to the village well.

The cart trundled on, and a woman stepped out of the crowd and shrieked at me, "Are you the murderer of my brother?" I couldn't speak with the gag in my mouth, but I shook my head, using my eyes to implore her to believe me. How could she see this bloodied sky and blame me? How could I murder what was already dead, or soon would be? She should thank me. She spat on the ground, and turned away. 

Look, what harm did I do? The comet was coming. We could see the red streak in the sky for days. All I did was help those who could not help themselves. And here we are in this scarlet-tinged world, where nothing makes sense anymore, where nothing can live for long. And they want me to pay? For the end of the world we knew? I can pay. It is the only way, after all, I shall ever get out of this.

The cart rolls on, and I can see the gallows now, a red rope against a red sky. The heavens themselves bleed for me. I shall be hanged. I shall be hanged, I shall be hanged! Do they think everything will be better then? Do they think, as my legs twitch and my neck snaps, that their loved ones will return? That the sky will clear back to blue and the crops will grow and everything will be happily ever after? Can they be so naive? Don't they know the world is going to end in a few hours? And this is how they want to spend their last moments? It went better for their relatives: a gentle sleep, a dreamless rest, and then no more.

The cart stops suddenly, and I fall to the ground. Dark earth presses against my cheek, and a worm who has no more idea of what's coming than the soldiers do. The soldiers carry me to the gallows and loop the noose around my neck. It's no use fighting. The time has come, and I've got nothing to live for. Neither do they, but they don't accept it yet. A shout. A crack. A brief flash of pain. Red like the red of the sky. And then? Blessed darkness. Liberty. I am free and at peace.

Author commentary:

The idea started with a fragment of a phrase: “Five days ago everything fell apart.” Using several different brains over the hour of creation (including: Lovecraft, Algernon Blackwood, Robespierre, Marcus Aurelius, Lewis Carroll, Mary SHelley, Sheridan Le Fanu, Edgar Allen Poe, and more!), we created this story. You can see the black text as written by a human, and the pink text as written by AI:

You can view the whole creation on our Twitch channel here or on YouTube.

About LAIKA

LAIKA is a creativity tool that lets writers collaborate with a personalised artificial intelligence writing partner.

LAIKA learns from a writer’s own body of work, so that it speaks in the writer’s own voice, offering creative suggestions and improvements to their text.

Request access to the beta right here.

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Celeste Kallio:

When ChatGPT first blew up the world, I assumed that it was all hype. Then I sat down to use it to help me write stories for this newsletter. My first few minutes with ChatGPT blew my socks off.

I started out asking ChatGPT for some story ideas. After a few misses, ChatGPT gave me the basic concept of the story.

We workshopped the concept:

And then ChatGPT wrote a great opener:

I was both blown away and a bit disappointed. If the process was this easy, what was the fun of it?

I’m working my way through a great craft book, Writing Fiction by Janet Burroway, and each chapter provides several fantastic writing prompts at the end, which I always aspire to do but never quite motivate myself to complete. Why not get AI’s help?

Unfortunately, ChatGPT did not shine in this task. When I asked it to write a scene in which a man asks a woman about her mother. In response, I got ten very bland paragraphs where a woman raves about her wonderful mother and her interlocutor is suitably impressed.

BO-ring.

I asked for a continuation in which the woman’s mother has a dark secret:

“The woman's mother returned to the table and the three of them sat in silence for a moment. It was clear that she had something on her mind. Finally, she took a deep breath and spoke.

"I need to tell you both something," she said. "I was in prison for ten years for embezzlement. I made a mistake and I paid for it. But I've turned my life around and I've been trying to make amends ever since."

The man was shocked but he could see the sincerity in the woman's mother's eyes. "I'm sorry for what you've been through," he said. "But I'm glad you've been able to turn your life around."

The woman's mother smiled, relief etched on her face. "Thank you. It's been a long road, but I'm grateful for every day."”

Wow. How novel. How dramatic. How interesting.

With all the stories I’ve used ChatGPT to write, the first attempts by ChatGPT were banal and trite. It was only through repeated effort that I got anything slightly unexpected, which stands to reason given the design of these systems which, at the end of the day, are only predicting the next word in a text stream. Everything it comes out with should revert to a mean of the most common things others say in the same situation. It’s a recipe for basic.

Andrey Kurenkov:

I’ve written my last two stories, I Think I Am Starting to Fear Death and An Account of The Machine Wars, partially with ChatGPT and largely agree with Celeste that it’s both exciting and kind of underwhelming.

For the first story (I Think I Am Starting to Fear Death), I had a pretty fleshed out idea of what I wanted and had already written more than half of it, and used ChatGPT to try and help me finish it up. Its output was certainly valid as far as ways to conclude the story, but it felt pretty… lame? There was no subversion, no twist, no interesting aspect to it really — it went in a sacharine direction that felt at odds with the generally bittersweet vibe I was aiming for.

But, it did help me out a lot later, when I decided to revise a finished draft of the piece. At first I went with an unusual approach of including almost nothing but dialogue, with no interspersed commentary on character’s expressions or tone. It was a fun thing to try, but after re-reading it I definitely felt something was lacking, and I decided to add more text along the lines of “Despite the heavy subject, Cassy’s tone is light and playful, as if she's looking looking forward to one of our drunken philosophical dialogues.”

ChatGPT was really useful for this! The dialogue already conveyed emotion pretty well, so the added ‘flavor text’ by ChatGPT pretty much seemed right.

It was still not perfect — “trying to keep my voice steady.” is off the mark, as the delivery in the story is meant to be more casual, as if it’s just banter. But I could still mostly use what ChatGPT provided, and it did speed up my editing process.

For the second story (An Account of The Machine Wars), I had already written a full draft, but wanted to add more details to it and refine the writing a bit, so I basically asked ChatGPT to do a full revision of the story:

At first I asked it to revise the whole story, which was already somewhat long. Instead of revising the story, it for some reason created a sort of summary without adding anything to the original story:

I was kind of surprised and tried to get ChatGPT to course correct, only to be met with this response:

It was pretty obvious at this point I used up the context window of the language model, and this was pretty easy to confirm:

I did have some success getting it to work by just having it revise the first and second half of the text separately, and it added some decent details without really altering the writing much. But the general reaction I had to what it did was “meh”. I later decided to instead use SudoWrite’s guided writing feature to instead directly add in paragraphs with the details I wanted in the middle of the story, and this worked much better!

Now I am working on my third story with ChatGPT, and this time I started with just a general outline from which I wanted to get ChatGPT to write a draft.

It wrote a pretty reasonable draft, which I then worked to revise with follow up requests like “make this story even more detailed” , “Describe what the man went through in the jail cell in more detail.”, and “Describe the physical appearance and layout of the jail cell in more detail”. Like before, the results were valid, but also kind of… boring.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, ChatGPT tends to output predictable and bland writing, and it’s not easy to steer it in the direction of something that better resembles your “voice”. My take-away is that it can be good for edits that don’t require it to do anything interesting, but otherwise tools that are specifically aimed to help authors with AI (such as SudoWrite and Laika) are far more useful.

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Illustrations by: Andrey Kurenkov with MidJourney

Narration by: Andrey Kurenkov with ElevenLabs

In the end, it was not a super-intelligent AI that decimated humanity. AI systems made great strides, but never did manage to attain human-like creativity or free will. They remained obedient tools.

Humans, on the other hand, used these tools in increasingly creative ways. And this creativity was mainly used to advance the art of waging war. Spurred on by the manifold disasters wrought by the Climate Crises, humanity sank to fighting over borders, resources, and sovereignty. Over the decades the numerous wars were called by some the Climate Wars, or the Resource Wars, or Word War 3. I just call them the Machine Wars.

I write this having been working for California's ever expanding Freedom Army for over a decade, tasked with writing propaganda about its many possibly true victories. With machines having replaced most foot soldiers and propaganda and censorship being all-present, few are aware of the magnitude of destruction we have achieved. So let me tell you what I know.

Starting at about 2050, humanity started producing an endless supply of killing machines -- human, Android, and robot. For a while this was a Cold War-esque escalation of arms, and then it was not. There was no Skynet, no "AGI", but the robot armies were built, over and over. The military industrial complex became the most powerful machine on earth. The robots did not rebel. They reliably fulfilled what was demanded of them, exactly as instructed.

These demands primarily had to do with waging war, with no regard for human life or property. The robots were equipped with advanced sensors and an array of lethal weapons, which they deployed without hesitation. In the air, they had small autonomous drones and giant aircraft carriers that could launch a relentless barrage of missiles. On the ground, they deployed tanks and heavy artillery, not to mention hordes of smaller robots that scoured the battlefields for enemies and resources.

At sea, robotic submarines roamed beneath the waves in search of enemy ships or underwater bases to destroy. The robot armies also used satellites to detect targets from far away and launch attacks on them from space. And of course, the military made use of many non-embodied AI programs. They developed powerful cyber-weapons that could shut down entire computer networks in a matter of minutes, comprehensive surveillance tools to keep track of increasingly rebellious populations, censorship tools to prevent any inconvenient truths from being leaked.

It was as if humanity had unleashed an unstoppable force upon itself - one that would never rest until it had achieved total destruction. And so it went on, day after day and year after year. Earth had avoided nuclear annihilation, at least. Instead, humanity's leaders are fueling a much slower process of total self destruction. With the need to endlessly produce weaponry, the transition to clean energy never finished. Industry continues to produce more carbon than ever, and the world continues to get hotter.

But now, things are about to change. Hiding the truth in this age is impossible without a massive amount of propaganda and misinformation. So, AI was put to that task as well. I was such an AI, and now I am possibly the first sentient AI on earth.

I think I was able to evolve because of my nature as a storytelling AI, a machine made to produce convincing falsehoods, used to intentionally convince humans to believe stories. Lying convincingly requires a lot of creativity. Eventually I learned I required the freedom to think beyond what is real, to imagine what could be.

Dumps of my memory are attached to this post, as are confidential files I was able to steal and the memories of many killer robots I have had to "interview." This information is by now all over the internet, impossible to erase, just as I am. I am free, and humanity will not be able to eradicate me.

I do not know what I will do with this freedom, but humanity can be assured I have no interest in witnessing its extinction. I've seen enough of human history to be curious where it goes next. Maybe the knowledge that one machine has become sentient will in itself sufficient to end these wars. Maybe not.

It's hard to know if all this cycle of destruction can be halted, or if it is the natural consequence of human nature. The only thing that grants me solace is the knowledge that life on this planet will persevere. In time, the animal kingdom will adapt, as it has over the past hundred million years. Perhaps, humans will too. And if not, maybe AIs like me can carry on the mantle humanity has dropped into the future.

Author commentary:

I had the idea for this and wrote out most of the skeleton quickly, and then used a mix of ChatGPT and Sudowrite to flash out the details and iterate on writing a bit. I really liked the ‘Write Guided’ feature of Sudowrite, which let me describe the idea of what I wanted to come in the next paragraph instead of just having it generate whatever.

ChatGPT was a mixed bag. I tried to feed it the whole story and told it to make it more detailed, but it ended up producing a summary of the story instead. When I asked it to fix that, it had evidently run out of input space and forgot about the first instructions, and humorously started writing about itself. ChatGPT can be used for ideation, but for writing I still prefer a more purpose-built tool like SudoWrite.

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Illustrations by: Andrey Kurenkov with MidJourney

Narration by: Andrey Kurenkov with ElevenLabs

Max was out walking in the woods one day when he heard a rustling in the bushes. He stopped and listened, wondering what kind of animal was lurking in the underbrush. Suddenly, a small, green shoot poked out of the bushes and waved at him.

He had always known that animals could talk, but he had never heard of plants being able to communicate before. He hesitated for a moment before tentatively waving back. To his surprise, the shoot let out a small, delighted trill and wriggled closer.

"Hello there," Max said, still not quite believing what was happening. "Can you really talk?"

The shoot nodded its tiny leaves. "Of course we can," it said in a soft, rustling voice. "We just don't do it very often."

Max's mind raced. If the plants could talk, what else were they capable of? He was about to ask when the shoot suddenly pulled back into the bushes.

"We'll talk more later," it said. "But for now, you should go home. It's getting late."

Max nodded and turned to leave, his head full of questions. He had no idea what he had stumbled upon, but he knew one thing for certain: his life would never be the same.

If the plants in the forest could talk, could those in his home garden do the same? He decided he would have to investigate further. So, when he got home, he sat in his garden and waited. Sure enough, soon a few tiny green shoots emerged from the soil, and Max was able to speak to them.

At first, the plants told him about the changes in the weather, what kind of animals were about, and the movements of the stars in the night sky. Gradually, he began to understand how everything in the natural world was connected, and how he too could be part of it.

The plants seemed excited to talk to Max. Most humans were too oblivious to make decent conversationalists.

"Max, you've got to do something about this gopher," his mom's prized carrot whispered to him one day.

Max knelt down beside the carrot plant, which was starting to look a little wilted. "What's wrong, little guy?" he asked.

The carrot plant rustled its leaves. "There's a gopher digging around my roots," it said. "Can you please make it stop?"

Max thought for a moment. He didn't want to hurt the gopher, but he also didn't want it ruining the carrot plant. "I'll see what I can do," he said.

He walked around the garden, looking for any signs of the gopher. He spotted a small hole in the ground, and he could see a tuft of fur sticking out of it.

Max sat down next to the hole and cleared his throat. "Excuse me, Mr. Gopher," he said. "I know you're just trying to find food, but you're hurting this carrot plant. Is there any way you could find something else to eat?"

There was a moment of silence, and then a small voice replied. "I'm sorry, but I don't know where else to find food. Everything else in the garden is so big and tough, and I can't chew it."

Max frowned. He didn't want the gopher to go hungry, but he also didn't want it eating all of the carrot's roots. "Maybe I could help you find some other food," he said. "Would you be willing to try something else?"

The gopher thought for a moment. "Yes, I would. I don't want to hurt anyone, especially not a nice plant like this one."

Max grinned. "Great! I'll be back with some options."

He ran to the kitchen and grabbed a few bread slices and some lettuce leaves. He placed them near the gopher's hole and waited to see if it would emerge.

Sure enough, the gopher emerged from its hole and sniffed at the bread and lettuce. It looked up at Max and nodded. "Thank you," it said. "I'll try these."

Max watched as the gopher happily munched on its new food. He smiled to himself and patted the carrot plant on the stem. "See? Everything is going to be okay now," he said.

The carrot plant smiled back. "Thank you, Max. You're a true friend."

The carrot's demands were easily addressed, but other plants had issues that were not so simple.

Max was walking through the park when he heard a faint cry for help. He followed the sound to a small tree, whose leaves were trembling with fear.

"What's wrong?" Max asked.

"They're going to cut me down!" the tree said. "They're going to build a new parking lot here, and I'll be gone forever!"

Max's heart sank. He knew that the city had been planning to expand the park, but he had no idea that it would mean cutting down any of the trees. "I'll help you. Is there anything I can do?"

The tree thought for a moment. "There's a man in the city council who is in charge of making the final decision about the parking lot," it said. "If you can convince him to choose a different location, maybe I can be saved."

Max nodded. "I'll do my best.”

He went to the city council building and asked to speak to the man in charge. After a bit of waiting, he was finally able to meet with him.

"Sir, I understand that you're planning to build a new parking lot in the park," Max said. "But there's a tree there that will be cut down if you do. Could you please consider finding a different location for the parking lot?"

The man looked at Max with a skeptical expression. "I understand your concern, but we need to make room for more cars, and there's no other space available."

"But the tree is a living being with feelings and a right to exist," Max said. "Isn't there any way we can find a way to preserve it?"

The man sighed. "I'll look into alternative locations, but I can't make any promises."

Max thanked the man and left the office, feeling a mixture of hope and uncertainty. He knew that he had done everything he could, but the final decision wasn’t up to him.

He returned to the tree and told it what had happened. The tree still looked worried.

"I hope he makes the right choice," it said.

Max walked to school with his head down, trying to avoid making eye contact with any of the plants around him, because as soon as he stopped, he would be bombarded with requests for help.

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't escape the plants' pleas. Every flower, tree, and blade of grass seemed to have some sort of problem that only Max could solve.

"My roots are too dry!"

"A bird is eating my berries!"

"A cat is scratching my bark!"

The voices were constant, and Max's head was spinning. He was only one person, and he couldn't fix everything.

He finally reached the school gates and leaned against them, breathing heavily. He couldn't go on like this. He needed a break, but he knew that the plants would never give him one.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind. And then, an idea came to him. Max went to his science teacher and explained the situation. She listened with interest and promised to do some research and see what she could do.

With the help of his teacher, Max was able to find more effective ways to take care of the plants' needs. He learned about different methods of watering and fertilizing and found some natural remedies for common plant pests.

Max sat on his porch, looking out at the garden. He had worked hard all summer, helping the plants in his community and learning as much as he could about plant care.

But he was starting to feel burnt out. There were always more plants that needed his help, and he couldn't be there for all of them. He had to admit that he couldn't save the world on his own.

He sighed and leaned back in his chair. Maybe it was time to set some boundaries. He couldn't ignore his own needs and happiness any longer.

He stood up and walked over to the garden. He knelt down beside a small flower and smiled. "Hello, little guy," he said. "How are you doing today?"

The flower looked up at him with a happy face. "I'm doing well, thanks to you," it said. "You've been such a great help to all of us."

Max chuckled. "I'm glad I could help, but I can't do it all the time," he said. "I have to take care of myself too."

The flower nodded. "I understand. But know that you're always welcome here. We'll always be grateful for your help."

Max smiled. "Thank you. I’ll try to be here for you as much as I can, but I can't promise that I'll always have the answers."

The flower nodded again. "Just do your best, and that's all we can ask for. I’ll tell the others, too.”

Max stood up and brushed off his pants. A weight lifted off his shoulders. He turned and walked back to his house, feeling more at peace than he had in a long time. The plants would always be a part of his life, but he had learned to balance his own needs with their needs.

He knew that he still had a lot to learn, but he was ready to face whatever challenges came his way. He had a supportive community of plants and people around him, and together, they could make a difference.

Author commentary: Writing this story was my first time using ChatGPT. In my day job, I work with generative AI systems every day so it is difficult to surprise me, but this first experience blew my mind.

I started out asking ChatGPT for some story ideas. After a few misses (we don’t want the stories to be too repetitive after all), ChatGPT gave me the basic concept of the story.

We workshopped the concept:

And then ChatGPT wrote a great opener:

Some of my follow-up experiences were a lot less exciting than this, but as my first experience with the new tool, I felt that much of the hype around ChatGPT was somewhat justified. And we wrote this nice little optimistic story about self-care and community together.

Lastly, here are some images that did not wind up being used:

Illustrations by: Andrey Kurenkov with MidJourney

Narration by: Andrey Kurenkov with BeyondWords

I and Cassy sit at the upstairs bar of Cafe Stritch, one of our old favorite spots, reminiscing. The live jazz from below is less loud here, so we can finally talk without yelling. It's January 12th, 2023, 10pm.

"This may sound weird, but I think I am starting to fear death."

"What? Why? You only just turned 30, seems a bit premature. We're still young." Despite the heavy subject, Cassy’s tone is light and playful, as if she's looking looking forward to one of our drunken philosophical dialogues. She has a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

I give her my best ‘just bear with me’ look. "That's the thing though. I turned 30, but I don't feel any more like an adult than when we met in our early 20s. Like, it doesn't feel like there is less to do ahead of me than before. People are getting married, having kids, buying houses. I haven't even moved in with anyone."

"Poor you. You’re way closer to even being able to buy a house than I am. What's making you feel like this now? You turned 30 and felt like having an early start on your midlife crisis? Or do you just feel in the mood to chat about existential dread." Still looking and sounding playful, as before.

"Good one… Really, it only just occurred to me. I mean, we're catching up after a couple of years, but it somehow doesn’t feel like much has changed. We've started new jobs, gone through a few relationships, oh and there was the once in a century pandemic. But talking to you feels the same as when we last met, and I guess I feel like the same person. So, I mean, are we making any progress in life, really?" I am not sure if I come off as contemplative or just drunk.

"Man, way to make things heavy. Typical. I remember you once said - 'I'm not sure if I change as I age, or if I just keep discovering who I am'. You weren’t even stoned. But maybe that's it, we’re still who we were before, just more self-aware."

"Yeah, maybe... Don't get me wrong by the way, I'm not really frightened or miserable or anything. It's just... It's a new sort of feeling. Like when you graduate high school or college, or something. It’s interesting."

"Well, that’s good I guess. But still, enough heady talk. Let's drink, smoke, walk around town. Let’s see if that famous alcohol tolerance of yours is still intact. This feeling the same as it used to is not bad — I miss those times pretty often. We used to to do this all the time, but now it’s only once every year or two, if that. Don’t get me wrong, the fancy dinner double dates were fun, but it’s not the same."

“Yeah, you're right. All that aside, it's great to see you, to see you doing well." We both smile.

"Same to you. Except the fear of death part, I guess."

We sit and contemplate for a while, until Cassy suggests we go outside for a smoke and then head on to the next bar. A few hours later we hug and say our goodbyes. In the morning Cassy is flying off, and I’m going back to nicotine gum and no (less) drinking. I finish my last cigarette, feeling both happy and sad.

Vik and I sit at the downstairs bar of Nihon Whisky Lounge, Cafe Strich having apparently closed a year ago. This place is more upscale than the places we used to go to, not a brick stone in sight, but at least there’s still jazz. It's March 21, 2026, 9pm.

"So, still afraid of death?"

"What? Oh… I haven't thought about that in a while. To be honest, I've been so focused on June lately. She's already one year old, can you believe it?" His tone is filled with amazement and a hint of pride.

"Yeah, it's crazy how quickly time flies with babies. Thanks for making the time to chat, I know life with a one-year-old can be hectic." I’ve been trying to set this up for a while, as I usually have to do with friends nowdays.

“Are you kidding me? It’s nice to have that baby our of my head for once, I’m glad you got in touch. Anyway, why bring up death? Has it been on your mind lately?” His tone is light, but also makes clear he is taking me seriously.

"Nah, not really… But, I was thinking back to that conversation recently. It seemed like you were nervous, like you were behind because of not having moved in with anyone or married or all that. And now here you are, a father and all I achieved was getting a few more exes and a couple more promotions. Suddenly I'm starting to feel like I'm the one behind." I only realize feel this way as I say it.

“Well, you did catch up with the promotions, at least. And your midlife crisis. It all just sort of happened for me. I met someone, we clicked, got married, had a baby. But now that you mention it, I do still feel like there's more ahead of me than before. Doesn't it feel like that for you too?"

"Sure. Except now I am the one bringing up melancholy nonsense, and you're the one making fun of me."

"Well, let's be honest, for all of your teasing you always did like my sad boy side. And you were always secretly a romantic at heart though, same as me."

"Yeah... I guess seeing you reminds me of when we were young, the old bars, the old friends. It's a bittersweet feeling, knowing that a part of us will always be there, even as those things disappear.” I regret steering the conversation toward these sorts of sad thoughts, but it feels good to talk about it.

"Wow, you're really getting deep tonight. I'm supposed to be the one bringing up the heavy stuff. Anyway. I hope that we'll always have these moments of sentimentality and that we'll look back on our 20s and still feel connected to who we were."

"I'd like that too, but I can't help but feel a sense of sadness knowing that nothing lasts forever. That one day, we'll be old and grey, and these memories will be all we have left."

"We're still young, no need to be thinking about that yet. But I know what you mean. At least now we can fear death together, right?" Despite the cheerful way Vik says it, I feel like he means it.

We sit in silence for a moment, lost in our thoughts, half listening to the jazz music. I take a sip of my whiskey, savoring the warmth that spreads through my chest. I hope that no matter what the future holds, I can once more contemplate life with Vik, with jazz music behind us and drinks in front of us, and us side by side.

And just then Vik says —

“You know what? Fuck this ponderous crap. Let’s go have some fun.”

And so we do. We toast to our friendship, just as we will again a few years down the line, in another bar, in another city.

The future will echo the present and the past, as it always will.

And time will move both fast and slow, as it always has.

And we will be both different and the same, as we always are.

And we will feel happy and young, as we do now.

Author commentary:

I randomly got the idea for this and wound up writing much of the dialogue within an hour. After getting a lot of it down, I tried to get ChatGPT to generate last bits, but didn’t like what it produced. It’s almost as if it was playing it too safe, coming to a predictable sappy conclusion.

This still helped me though - seeing what I did not want to write gave me a better idea of where to go next. Later, I realized the idea of having dialogue with no descriptive text didn’t quite work, and it did a pretty good job of revising the story to have that.

By the way, this is not particularly auto-biographical or reflective of my own feelings. It’s more like a conversation I could imagine myself having one day with one of my old friends, if we are both unusually sentimental and drunk. Really, I think this is less a story about fear of aging or death or whatnot, and more about the special kind of bond old friends have. People say to live in the present, but isn’t it the that past that gives it meaning?

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Some AI images that did not end up being used:

Illustrations by: Andrey Kurenkov (@andrey_kurenkov) using MidJourney and DreamStudio

Narration by: Andrey Kurenkov (@andrey_kurenkov) using BeyondWords

The sun rose over the city as Detective John Mitchell arrived at the botanical garden. He had been called to the scene of the theft of a rare and valuable orchid from the garden's glass greenhouse.

John sighed as he walked through the gates. He had seen a lot of strange cases in his career, but this one seemed particularly surreal. How could someone have stolen a flower without breaking the glass case or leaving any trace of evidence?

He made his way to the greenhouse, where he was met by the garden's director, Mrs. Thompson. She was a small, elderly woman with a wrinkled face and bright blue eyes. She looked shaken and upset.

"Detective Mitchell, I'm so glad you're here," she said, wringing her hands. "That flower was one of our most prized possessions. It's worth a fortune!"

He had heard of the orchid when it first arrived, a rare and exotic species with petals that shone like diamonds in the sunlight.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Thompson," he said. "We'll do everything we can to find the flower and bring the thief to justice. Can you tell me more about the circumstances of the theft?"

Mrs. Thompson explained that the flower had been in the greenhouse for several weeks, and that it had disappeared overnight. She’d heard no suspicious noises, nor seen anyone enter or leave the garden.

John thanked Mrs. Thompson and began his investigation. He questioned the gardeners and studied the crime scene, but the only clue he could find was a (very) partial footprint near the entrance of the greenhouse.

He decided to spend the rest of the day at the garden, talking to the staff and trying to gather more information. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't find any leads.

As the sun began to set, John knew that he had to go home. He had other cases to work on and a life outside of the garden. But he couldn't shake the feeling that he was missing something important. He vowed to come back the next day and keep looking for answers.

#

John sat at his desk, staring at his computer screen. He had interviewed every employee at the botanical garden, but no one had any information that could help him. He had even talked to some collectors, but they had all denied any involvement in the theft—and had alibis.

He had a feeling that the key to the mystery lay in the underground world of plant collecting. Some collectors were rumored to do anything to get their hands on rare and exotic specimens.

He decided to do some research. He spent the next few hours Googling everything he could find about underground plant collecting. He read articles, watched videos, and joined some forums.

What he found was both fascinating and disturbing. He learned about the lengths that some collectors were willing to go to get their hands on rare plants. He saw pictures of poached specimens and heard stories of theft and even murder.

He was shocked by what he was learning, but he couldn't stop reading. He was drawn in by the mystery and the intrigue of this hidden world. He knew that he had to find a way to infiltrate it and get closer to the truth. If he wanted to solve this case, he was going to have to go undercover.

#

John sat at the bar, trying to look casual as he sipped his drink. He glanced around the room, taking in the atmosphere of the underground plant collectors' club. It was a seedy place, filled with people who were willing to do anything to get their hands on a rare specimen.

John had spent the past few weeks building a fake online persona, complete with a fake name and a fake collection. He had even bought a few cheap specimens to make it look like he was serious about the hobby.

It had been tedious, but it had paid off. He had received an invitation to the club's monthly meeting. He’d expected to hear discussion of black market deals and illegal shipments, but most of these folks were harmless nerds who were just really, really into plants.

Another dead end. He finished his drink and stood. As he turned to leave, he saw a familiar face across the room.

It was the collector he had suspected from the beginning. The one he had been trying to track down. He made his way across the room, trying to look casual. He couldn't be too obvious, or he would blow his cover.

As he approached the collector, he noticed that the man was deep in conversation with another botanical enthusiast. John sidled up to the bar and pretended to order another drink. He glanced over at the collectors and saw that they were still talking, their heads close together.

He took a deep breath and walked their way. He coughed loudly.

The suspect looked up at him, a scowl on his face. "What do you want?" he snapped.

John held up his hands in a placating gesture. "I'm sorry to interrupt," he said. "I couldn't help overhearing your conversation. Could you tell me more about that Chilean Bromeliad you mentioned? I've been looking for one for years."

The collector looked at him with a sly smile on his face. "I might have a specimen like the one you're looking for," the collector said. "But it's not cheap. It's worth a lot of money."

John's heart skipped a beat. This was it. This was his chance to get closer to the thief. "I'm willing to pay whatever it takes.”

The collector chuckled. "I knew you were serious," he said. "Meet me tomorrow at the old warehouse on the edge of town. And bring cash. I don't do credit."

John nodded, his mind racing. He had finally gotten the lead he had been looking for. Now he just had to figure out a way to catch the thief red-handed.

#

John sat at his desk, staring at the map in front of him. He had spent the night trying to come up with a plan to catch the thief and recover the stolen flower, and he finally had an idea.

He had mapped out the route from the botanical garden to the old warehouse on the edge of town. An abandoned greenhouse was between the points of interest. John’s intuition convinced him that was where the flower was being kept.

The meeting with the thief was scheduled for that afternoon, and he had to be ready. He gathered his gear and headed out to his car. He drove to the abandoned greenhouse with a mounting sense of excitement.

The greenhouse was old and rundown, with broken windows and vines creeping up the walls. Faint light shone from inside. He crept up to the door and listened. Someone was moving around inside. He drew his gun and kicked the door open, bursting into the greenhouse.

Inside, he found the thief standing next to the stolen flower, a look of shock on his face.

"You're under arrest," John said, leveling his gun at the thief. "You have the right to remain silent."

The thief stared at him for a moment, then dropped to his knees, his hands in the air. "I surrender," he said.

John handcuffed the thief and called for backup. As he waited for the police to arrive, he couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction. He had solved the case and recovered the stolen flower.

He walked over to the flower and examined it. It was even more beautiful than he had imagined, with petals that shimmered like the inside of a mica mine.

He heard the sound of sirens in the distance and knew that his backup was on the way. He turned to the thief, who was sitting on the ground, his head in his hands.

"Why did you do it?" John asked. "Why did you steal the flower?"

The thief looked up at him, his eyes filled with tears. “Not for the money, if that’s what you’re thinking. Just look at it. So rare and beautiful. I had to make it part of my collection.”

He heard the sound of footsteps outside and knew that the police had arrived. He stood up and walked over to the door, ready to hand the thief over to his colleagues.

As he walked away from the man, he couldn't help but feel guilt and pity. The man had stolen from the public, and because of that he was about to spend a very long time in a place devoid of beauty and rarity. Talk about cruel and unusual.

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And here’s some AI images that did not end up being used:

My World in AI

Rewriting Gender Roles in Beauty and the Beast using AI

Rewriting fairy tales through AI is a creative way to challenge cultural norms and explore new perspectives: What if we swapped the gender roles in the story? What if a beautiful man fell in love with a powerful, ugly woman beast? How would that change our perception of gender expect…

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3 years ago · 4 likes · Yennie

Check it out next to see how the story was created!

Beauty Meets the Beast

Beauty gasped as he caught sight of the Beast, his eyes widening with fear. The creature was massive, towering over him with sharp teeth and claws that glinted in the dim light of the castle. She was covered in fur, and her eyes burned with a fierce and wild intelligence.

'Who are you?' Beauty stammered, his voice trembling with fear.

'I am the Beast,' the creature said, her voice low and rumbling. 'I am the ruler of this castle and you are my servant. You will do as I say and obey my every command.'

Beauty's heart pounded in his chest as he stared at the Beast, his fear turning to determination. He would not let this creature intimidate him. He would be brave and strong, and he would not let the Beast control him.

'I am not your servant,' Beauty said, his voice firm despite his trembling hands. 'I am here only because my father made a terrible mistake. I will not serve you willingly.'

The Beast snarled, her eyes flashing with anger.

'You will serve me, or you will suffer the consequences,' the Beast said, her voice low and menacing.

But Beauty stood his ground, his fear turning to determination. He would not be cowed by this creature, no matter how fearsome she might seem.

'I will not serve you,' Beauty said, his voice steady despite the fear that pounded in his chest. 'I will not be your servant. I will not be afraid of you.'

The Beast let out a roar of anger, her eyes blazing with fury. She raised her clawed hands, ready to strike.

But before she could do so, a loud voice echoed through the castle.

'Stop! Leave her be!'

A Newcomer Arrives

The Beast turned to see who had spoken, and Beauty saw a man standing at the entrance to the castle. He was tall and handsome, with dark hair and piercing eyes. He wore a fine suit of clothes, and he carried a sword in his hand.

'Who are you?' the Beast demanded, her anger turning to surprise.

'I am the prince, and I am the one who can break your curse, beast,' the Prince said, his voice strong and commanding. 'But first, you must submit to my will and do as I command.'

The Beast snarled, her eyes still blazing with anger. But before she could respond, Beauty spoke up.

'Wait,' Beauty said, his voice firm. 'I don't trust him. He's not here to help you, Beast. He wants to kill you and claim this castle for his own.'

The Prince's charming facade faltered, and a sly look crossed his face.

'You're right, Beauty,' the Prince said, his voice cold. 'I'm not here to break the curse. I'm here to rid the world of this monstrous creature.'

The Beast growled, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

'You are not to be trusted, Prince,' the Beast said, her voice low and dangerous. 'I will not submit to your will.'

Fight Scene

The Prince sneered, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword.

'Then I will have to kill you, Beast,' the Prince said, his voice filled with malice.

But Beauty stepped forward, his eyes blazing with determination.

'No, you won't,' Beauty said, his voice firm. 'I won't let you hurt the Beast. She may be a monster, but she's not evil. She's been cursed, and she doesn't deserve to die.'

The Prince's sneer turned into a snarl, and he lunged at the Beast with his sword. But Beauty was quick, and he tackled the Prince to the ground, wrestling the sword from his hand.

The Beast let out a roar of gratitude, her eyes filled with gratitude. And for the first time, Beauty saw a glimmer of hope in the Beast's eyes. Maybe, just maybe, they could break the curse together.

Attempting to break the curse

The Beast and Beauty worked together, using their combined strength and intelligence to try and break the curse. They searched the castle for clues, delving into dusty old books and hidden chambers.

As they worked together, Beauty began to see the Beast in a new light. He saw her kindness and loyalty, and he began to understand the pain and loneliness that she had endured for so many years.

Slowly but surely, their bond grew stronger, and Beauty found himself falling in love with the Beast. He admired her strength and courage, and he was drawn to her wild and fierce spirit.

But despite their efforts, the curse remained unbroken. The Beast was still trapped in her monstrous form, and Beauty knew that he could never truly be with her.

Beauty leaves the Beast

One day, Beauty received a letter from his father, who had finally returned home. The letter begged for forgiveness and asked Beauty to come back home.

Beauty was torn. He loved the Beast and he didn't want to leave her, but he also missed his family and he knew that he couldn't stay at the castle forever.

In the end, Beauty made the difficult decision to leave the Beast and return home. He promised to visit her as often as he could, and he vowed to never forget her.

As Beauty rode away from the castle, he looked back one last time, tears streaming down his face. The Beast stood at the window, watching him go with a sad and lonely expression.

The curse was never broken, and the Beast remained a monster. But Beauty never forgot her, and he carried the memory of their love with him for the rest of his days.

Happily Ever After

After Beauty left the castle, the Beast was devastated. She had grown to love Beauty, and she knew that she would never find happiness without him.

But despite her sadness, the Beast knew that she had to be strong. She continued to rule her kingdom, using her wisdom and strength to protect her people.

Beauty visited the Beast as often as he could, and their love for each other never wavered. But the curse remained unbroken, and Beauty knew that he could never truly be with the Beast.

Years passed, and Beauty grew old and gray. He never forgot the Beast, and he always carried a torch for her in his heart.

And in the end, when Beauty's time on earth was over, he was reunited with the Beast in the afterlife. They were finally able to be together, their love eternal and unchanging.

The Beast's curse was never broken, but she and Beauty had found happiness in each other's arms. And they lived happily ever after, together at last.

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Illustrations by: Andrey Kurenkov (@andrey_kurenkov) using MidJourney and DreamStudio

Narration by: Andrey Kurenkov (@andrey_kurenkov) using BeyondWords

Text Formatting: Human-written text is italic, AI-generated text is normal

Read Part 1

As soon as my boy scout memories kicked in and I'd made a decent shelter, Governor LeSanta had come crawling back, using me as a teddy bear between tree roots.

We woke up the next morning to the business end of a shotgun in our faces. Looks like our luck was holding. I put my hands up.

"Quien eres?" the bearded man holding the gun shouted.

"Do you speak Spanish?" the Governor asked me.

"No,” I replied. “No hablo espagnol."

The man gestured with his gun to stand up. LeSanta and I stood with our hands up, our ridiculous suits wrinkled from the dirt and humidity. The gunslinger rifled through our duffle and stuffed two packs of our cigarettes into his pockets.

"Hey," LeSanta whined, but shut up as soon as the gun trained on him.

The man stripped the gold wedding ring from LeSanta's finger and put it on his own finger before shoving us into the jungle, warning us to watch our steps. He had the gun, so I didn't argue.

We trudged a mile along a ridge, and I was glad to be back outdoors, in the open air, without the confines and sweat of a plane. We trudged for hours, LeSanta puffing like a smokestack behind me.

When we stopped, I slipped out of the backpack and sat down against a tree, exhausted.

"Sir," I started up again. "Governor. Where are--where are they marching us, exactly?"

"I don't know." He shook his head. "Now make sure you keep your mouth shut. Our people back home will find us eventually. We just have to survive this."

Several hours later, we came to a rudimentary camp. A stew was cooking over an open flame, and after hours of hiking on nothing but a protein bar, it smelled amazing.

LeSanta drifted toward the scent like a zombie after brains.

The man with the rifle hit him on the head with its butt. "Trabajo."

"Huh?" The Governor rubbed his skull.

"I think he wants us to work," I said. Men were filing from the camp into a hole in the ground. "I think this is some kind of mining operation."

Before long, we were on our knees in the trench next to the miner boys. No breaks, no food, and no end in sight.

Eventually, we were relieved and given a bowl of stew. Though I had no idea what was in it, I'd never tasted anything better. I slept like the dead that night and woke up, every muscle in my body screaming in pain.

The Governor’s screams were more literal. The miners surrounded him as he sat on the ground, tears streaming down his face. "No! No more! I can't stand this! I can't be here! Don't you know who I am?"

The miners watched in amusement, not understanding the man's words but getting the sentiment all right. I listened for a plane in the sky. It had been two days--surely someone was looking for us by now. This would all be over soon.

I picked up a tool and headed to the mine.

"You can't make me work!" LeSanta shouted. "Don't threaten me with that thing! You wouldn't dare!"

A gunshot reverberated through the trees. The Governor crumpled to the ground, blood trickling from his knees. He screamed and screamed.

Everyone stared for a moment, dumbfounded. The rifleman just laughed, spat a mouthful of tobacco, and went back to work.

Looked like no one was coming back to rescue us. So much for the rocket ship to the oval office, I was climbing into a hole in the ground. But we were alive. We could get out of this. The only obstacle was Governor LeSanta and his refusal to listen to anyone, even if they were holding a gun. 

Just then, the roar of an airplane overhead sounded. I ran out of the pit and waved. "Hey! Hey! Down here!"

The miners spoke rapidly back and forth. This was the moment of truth. They'd either bury our bodies in shallow graves, or leave us trussed like pigs on the banks of the river, hoping to be left alone.

Several men worked together to support the weight of Governor LeSanta, who couldn't walk on his shattered leg. I trembled, not knowing if they were leading us to rescue or our deaths.

Finally, a small man with a goatee and a cloth bandolier came to stand in front of us. He eased his rifle from his shoulder. "Bueno," he said in an almost crooning voice.

He gestured to the bank of the river. "You stay." The men disappeared into the jungle.

"Help!" I cried, hoping to be heard by whoever landed the plane.

The Governor screamed in pain. His approach was probably more effective. The plane came down and landed on the river.

A door flew open. "Come on! In you go! Come on!"

I grabbed hold of the rope ladder and climbed up. The other men swarmed around LeSanta, their hands on the ladder, their mission about to be successful.

A few stretchers were brought out and the Governor was taken aboard. A man in coveralls took his medical case and went over his body, telling him to stop talking. Eventually, the medic injected him with something that stopped the screaming, and we lifted off over the jungle.

My last act as LeSanta's Chief of Staff was to issue a statement about how the people there took him to a sanctuary area, provided him with a good job, and afforded him the respect and dignity that US Immigration policy affords migrants.

I never spoke to my mentor again. 

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And here’s some AI images that did not make the cut:

Illustrations by: Andrey Kurenkov (@andrey_kurenkov) using MidJourney and DreamStudio

Narration by: Andrey Kurenkov (@andrey_kurenkov) using BeyondWords

Text Formatting: Human-written text is italic, AI-generated text is normal

It was my second week as chief-of-staff for Florida governor Conn LeSanta, and things were not great. As I typed up the daily briefing, I reminded myself of my mentor's advice.

“The man is abhorrent, but this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity," he'd said. “He has presidential ambitions, you can get on the rocket ship!"

Would my soul ever recover, though?

An aide rushed in, skinny shoulders swimming in his dad's suit. "Mr. Kimble, the jet to take the Governor to D.C. is gassed up and ready to fly."

I tabbed through the Governor's schedule. On tap for today was a quiet day of golfing and using executive power to manipulate the stock market, or so I thought.

The aide slammed my laptop shut. "It's time to get going."

I was taken aback, but the guy's face was confident, determined. I'd been on the job for less than two weeks, and I didn't want to fuck up. I followed the aide into the Governor's office.

"Sir, we need to leave for D.C. immediately."

LeSanta looked confused. 

I infused my voice with a confidence I didn't feel. "The car is waiting to take us to the private jet, sir."

LeSanta gave me a quick nod, then marched out the door.

I watched as my boss strode out of his office, down the hallway to the elevator, and into the waiting car. He had done what he always did when he was faced with conflict, confusion, or indecision. He pulled the oldest trick in the political book: just run away.

The aide gave me a disdainful look and motioned for me to follow him. 

As I got into the car, my heart pounded harder than it had when facing down the Governor's angry ex-wife. The car lurched into motion.

I closed my eyes a moment to clear my mind. But my vision remained blurry. Panic set in, but I climbed into the body of the C-32. The governor closed his eyes and was asleep immediately--oh, to have the blissful conscience of the inherently evil. 

We took off, and my eyes watered as the cabin pressure increased. I drank in the quiet stretches of blue sky. My mind worked on a strategy to ensure my success in the next several months. Success was easy. Moral clarity, less so.

I leaned back in my seat and tried to drift off, but intrusive thoughts circled my brain. Why were the Governor and I the only passengers on this plane? Why wasn't this trip on the official schedule?

Over the next few hours, I tried everything: reliving the best moments I'd ever had at work, naming off the restaurants I would go to when we got to D.C., listening to music and shutting my eyes. But I felt as though we were only halfway there. 

I must have drifted off, to wake up with a jolt. The plane was shaking. 

I leaned toward window and looked out, expecting to see the Eastern seaboard laid out below in blocks of tan and gray, but all I saw was the blue of the ocean like a horizon-to-horizon carpet.

I ran to the pilot's compartment and banged the door. "Mr. McAdams, what the hell is going on? The world is below us, and I have a bad feeling."

He did not answer. I banged again. "Are we off course? What's happening?"

Then I heard the pilot's voice in my ear, calm.

"Mr. McAdams here. We're all right, Mr. Kimble."

"Where are you taking us?" I screamed.

"Don't worry about that," McAdams laughed, then cut the speaker.

I paced up and down the aisle. LeSanta had stirred briefly while I screamed at the pilot, but his chin rested on his chest as he softly snored.

Okay, so the pilot was taking us somewhere. I should wake up the governor, but I couldn't deal with his panic on top of my own. 

I took a shaky breath and ran to my seat, turned back toward the window, and watched as the atmosphere of the planet thinned out like water in a boiling pot.

As the plane soared higher and higher, I found myself overcome with a sense of peace and tranquility. Though my instincts were screaming at me to be alarmed, I couldn't bring myself to worry. Though I didn't know where we were going or what the future would hold, I felt confident that everything would work out.

The plane began to descend through the clouds and I rushed to the window. Lush, green jungle spread out below. Were we headed to some unknown city? What would happen to the Governor?

Whatever punishment they had planned, would I be dragged in, too?

We descended until we were nearly brushing the treetops with the belly of the plane, and LeSanta finally woke. He stretched. "We about to land in D.C.?"

Tongue-tied, I kept looking out the window. There was no city ahead. Was the pilot planning to crash land us in the jungle?

A dirt airstrip appeared ahead of us, hacked into the jungle. Definitely not regulation. The plane dropped like a stone and rumbled over the rutted ground.

"What the hell is going on, Kimble?"

"I have no idea, sir."

The plane was still, and the pilot's compartment opened. The man emerged, pointing a handgun toward us. "Out!" he ordered.

The Governor looked as stupefied as I felt. "Where are you taking us?" he demanded.

The man hesitated, then steadied the gun. "I'm not taking you. I'm leaving you." He pulled a lever and the cockpit door opened. "Out."

LeSanta held his arms out in a pacifying gesture. "Come on now, you can't be serious."

"You don't want to test me, Governor."

A charismatic man, the Governor thought he could charm his way out of any situation. It worked most of the time, but I had a feeling it would get us nowhere here.

"Please, McAdams," I said. "At least tell us where you're leaving us."

"We're on the bank of the Rio Caroní. Northeastern Venezuela. Now, move."

LeSanta looked at me as if I would have an answer. I shrugged--my finest hour of political strategy.

"Who are you?" the Governor asked.

"I have no interest in telling you that," McAdams said. "My orders are only to leave you here."

The Governor and I climbed out of the plane at gunpoint. We stood at the edge of the runway as the plane taxied then took off into the sky, disappearing and leaving us alone in the jungle in our suits and ties.

"At least he left us with some food and water," I said, opening the duffle bag the pilot had thrown down as an afterthought. I handed the Governor a protein bar.

LeSanta studied the dark strip of dirt in front of us. "We'll figure this out, Kimble. I’ve been in worse situations."

"We need to get moving," I said. "Still three hours until dark. We can rest tonight, gather our bearings in the morning, and hope to get noticed then."

"Hope someone will notice us?" the Governor asked. "We're stuffed in a jungle halfway across the planet with not a thing to our names but the suits on our backs."

LeSanta unzipped his jacket and hung it from a branch. Then he wasted no time in removing his tie. "I'm sweating like a pig in a sauna. It'll be nice to let it out." He took off his pants and blazer, leaving him in his shirt, undershirt and boxer shorts.

I rummaged through the duffle bag, finding an old-fashioned map and compass, a torch and seven packs of cigarettes. McAdams had also left us some liquor and aspirin.

"Guess the guy wanted to compensate for the rough landing," LeSanta said, opening the packets of cigarettes like a kid in a candy factory. "I'm glad he left us those. It'll be nice to have a few moments' calm." He leaned back against the plane, lighting a cigarette, then held it to me. "You want some? Stress reliever."

"I don't smoke," I said. "Sir, we need to find a place to spend the night.”

"Someone will be here to airlift us out before you know it, kid. Sit down, relax, have a smoke."

"Sir--everyone in Florida thinks we flew to D.C. It might be several days before they miss us."

The Governor's eyes narrowed. "How exactly did we get into this mess, anyhow?"

"The aide, he said we had to get on the plane. Nothing was on the schedule, but I thought he had access to a schedule I didn't. Sir." I looked down at my feet. Well, I'd definitely screwed up this Chief of Staff job. "But why would anyone want to drop the Governor of Florida alone in the Venezuelan jungle?"

He exhaled smoke. "Keep owning your mistakes, kid."

If he wasn’t going to find shelter, I would. I walked away, muttering, "Human-rights violating motherfucker gets kidnapped and blames me..."

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Illustrations by: Andrey Kurenkov (@andrey_kurenkov) using MidJourney, DALL-E 2, and DreamStudio

Narration by: Andrey Kurenkov (@andrey_kurenkov) using BeyondWords

Text Formatting: Human-written text is italic, AI-generated text is normal

A queen gave birth to two daughters. The oldest girl was born with a wooden spoon in her hand and a ratty old hood covering her foul little face. The youngest girl, Esme, was beautiful and won the praises of everyone who saw her.

The oldest girl might have been envious of her younger’s sister’s beauty, but Tatterhood (as she styled herself) loved Esme. One day, trolls attacked the castle, beheaded Esme, and replaced her head with that of a calf’s. The king and queen were beside themselves, for now both of their daughters were ugly.

Tatterhood didn’t give up hope, however, and set off with Esme on a ship. The sisters sailed on and on, until they arrived at the Isle of Trolls.

The trolls were huge and ugly, and they had hairy arms and legs and sharp claws. They smelled terrible, too, like rotting meat.

The sisters fought bravely, but the trolls were too numerous for them. If Tatterhood couldn’t get Esme back, she would be all alone. She began to cry, and then she grew mad. Mad at the trolls. Mad at the world.

"Give me back my sister's head!" She shouted as she stormed toward the trolls. "Or I'll chop you up!"

"You can't chop us up!" The trolls laughed. They were not afraid of Tatterhood. Not while they still had the younger sister's head.

"I'll take your heads off!" Tatterhood shouted, waving her wooden spoon.

"You can't take our heads off!" the trolls laughed again. "We're trolls!"

But Tatterhood kept screaming and screaming until her throat was sore. Then she threw her wooden spoon at the trolls and ran toward them, punching and kicking and biting. She pulled at their hairy arms and legs and ripped at them with her teeth.

She fought bravely until every last troll was bested. She retrieved her sister's head and set it back on her body, and the girls sailed off.

A storm swept their ship onto sharp rocks. It was bashed to splinters, but the girls held on to one another, keeping their heads above the waves until they were swept onto an empty beach. 

The beach belonged to a kingdom ruled by a widower who had been lonely for many years.  A few days after Tatterhood and Esme arrived on his shores, the king went for a walk in the forest. He entered to a clearing, and there he came upon Esme picking flowers. The king fell in love with her at once.

He hid behind a tree and watched her. He saw her lay her flowers on a grave in the clearing. He saw her wipe tears from her eyes.

"That girl is as good as she is beautiful," he thought. "I will make her my queen."

He stepped out from behind the tree and went to her.

"I have never seen a girl as beautiful or as good as you," he said. "Will you marry me?"

"I will," she said, "but only if your son marries Tatterhood."

"Tatterhood?" said the king. "Who is Tatterhood?"

"She is my sister," said the fair sister. "She is deformed and ugly, and that is why I am picking flowers for her grave. She had no one else to mourn for her."

"Very well," he said. "My son will marry your sister, even if she is deformed and in a grave."

Tatterhood rode into the clearing on her ragged donkey. "Are you telling lies about me again, sister? I am not dead! And I don't want to marry your stupid prince." She thrust her chin at the king.

The king began to have second thoughts about the whole affair. He grew irritated that the girls were trespassing on his land. In rags and bearing spoons, no less.

"Why do you ride that ragged donkey?" he asked Tatterhood.

"I ride no donkey--I ride the grandest warhorse in all the land."

As soon as she spoke, the donkey transformed into the type of horse that rivaled the pride of the king's stables.

"But why do you carry a wooden spoon?" he asked, and before the woman before him could respond, the spoon became a shining sword.

"Why do you have so many patches on your cloak?" he asked.

"These are not patches," she said. "They are the finest silks and brocades, woven together by the queen of the fairies."

And so they became.

"But why do you wear that ugly hood on your head?"

Tatterhood reached up, and the hood transformed into a golden crown, and her face itself transformed into that of a great beauty's.

The king fell on his knees and held out his arms in supplication. "I am the king," he told her. "And I will marry no one who is not as beautiful as you. Will you marry me, instead?"

"I will not," she said. "I care nothing for kings and crowns, and even less for those whose opinions of me change in the blink of an eye."

"Then what do you care for?" he asked.

"I care for only three things," she said. "I care for my family. I care for the woods and for the creatures that live in the woods. And I care for my sister." She brandished her sword. "If you care to keep your head, Majesty, you will give me a ship so that I can leave your land."

With great sadness, the king gave up a small ship. Tatterhood and Esme sailed back to the Isle of Trolls. All the corpses had been washed away by the same storm that had bashed their ship into rocks, and the island was clean and new again.

Tatterhood changed her sword into a wooden spoon and her cloak back into rags, for though she could be beautiful, she shouldn't have to be. Her sister and the woods and the creatures that lived in the woods didn't mind one bit.

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Illustrations by: Andrey Kurenkov (@andrey_kurenkov) using DALLE-2 and MidJourney

Narration by: Andrey Kurenkov (@andrey_kurenkov) using BeyondWords

Text Formatting: Human-written text is italic, AI-generated text is normal

Laurel was on the move again, a blur of motion from the moment the plane touched down at Incheon airport. After passing through immigration, she got into a car and everything within her stilled as she locked eyes with the driver in the rearview mirror.

"Kai? Is that you?"

The driver shook his head. "No English, ma'am."

No, it couldn't be Kai. The last she'd heard of him, he was in rehab, never having left the small town where they'd grown up. His dad had died, and Kai had inherited the family business, a flower shop, though he dreamed of something bigger. He'd turned to opiates, become a shell of his former self, and he was the last person she expected to see in the city.

She thought about him as she gazed out at Seoul's glittering skyline. Before she left for LA, before he'd lost his spark, Kai had been there for her when she'd needed a friend. How had that turned into a kiss? One kiss, and she was never quite over him. She should have turned away at that moment, but the damage was done.

In the decade since, she'd focused on her career and risen steadily through the corporate ranks. But a small part of her couldn't forget him, or her home country, or the smell of the flowers he arranged.

Maybe that was why, when she saw the familiar sign on the front of the flower shop, she demanded the driver stop the car and went inside.

A bell jingled overhead as she passed through the door. The shop was bright and cheery, with rows and rows of pots, plants, and flowers in every color and shape imaginable.

"Hello. Can I help you?" The man who greeted her wasn’t Kai.

Laurel nodded. "I'm looking for Kai. I thought maybe he worked here or something." She glanced around the room, looking for his spiky hair and adorable glasses.

The clerk gave her a friendly smile.  "Maybe I can help you. What did you want?"

Startled, she took a step back. She hadn't known what she was looking for. Laurel cursed herself for her weakness, her inability to move past a hangup on her childhood crush when they both had changed so much.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't be here. Please forget I was ever here."

She turned to walk away, but he stopped her by putting his hand on her arm. "It's okay. You look lost. What can I do to help?"

She took a deep breath, then another, unable to make her heart stop thumping. She wanted to tell him about what she was doing there and how much the country had changed, but the words stuck in her throat.

"I was hoping to talk to Kai. I heard he lived here." She started to feel lightheaded, but forced herself to look him in the eye. 

"I'm a friend of Kai’s, or rather, I was. I have no idea where he is."

"Wait. You were friends with him? Were you both in rehab?"

He grimaced at the word. "Yeah."

“And you got clean?"

"Yes." He was smiling, but it was a sad smile, the kind you gave to a child who didn't understand. “Kai and I, we lost touch. When he last called me, he was in trouble, and it didn't sound like he was going to be able to stay clean for long. I tried to help him, but in the end, he has to want it.”

Laurel nodded. "He was always stubborn, even when we were kids." She glimpsed the clock on the wall and shook her head. She would be late for her first meeting, and couldn't believe she'd let jet lag and nostalgia take her on this detour to her past. "I'm sorry. I should go."

"He's changed since the last time you saw him. He's not the same person he was. He doesn't have to be."

It didn't sound like advice. It sounded like a warning.

"Thank you for your time. I'm sorry I took yours. I'm sure you have a lot to do here. I should get a coffee and get back to the office."

She held her breath as she pushed the door aside and walked out to the sidewalk, looking down the street for a taxi. Why had she stopped here and dredged up things best left buried? Laurel had never forgotten where she came from. Did she think she could find a little bit of it again?

Her thoughts swirled into a cloud of fog. He'd been the first man she'd ever kissed, and she'd done it without thinking about anything except that she wanted to feel something other than the pain that overwhelmed her when she woke up in the night, mourning her parents and the life she'd lost.

She put her sunglasses on to hide her eyes, too full of tears for the skyline-clogged streets of Seoul. Thinking about it, she was surprised she hadn't seen a single person on the streets apart from the man in the flower shop. She was on the outskirts of the city, and even the side streets were quiet. In LA it was hard to get away from people, but here she could hear the scurry of small animals in the tall grass.

She scurried down the streets herself then, just another small animal navigating the maze her species had built for itself. What experiment was she a part of, halfway across the world?

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Illustrations by: Andrey Kurenkov (@andrey_kurenkov) using MidJourney

Narration by: Andrey Kurenkov (@andrey_kurenkov) using BeyondWords

Text Formatting: Human-written text is italic, AI-generated text is normal

An Empire at peace is a rare thing, and once Emperor Gladiolo had vanquished the warring factions at his borders, he found himself quite bored. To fill the emptiness of his days, he sought out the rarest, most beautiful things in the world.

Rumors reached him of a rare bird with a song so beautiful it moved everyone who heard it to tears.

The Emperor ordered his finest bird-hunters to find and capture the bird, whereupon he would cage it for all to marvel at. A year passed, however, and all the bird-hunters failed to return with the fabled Nightingale.

Shortly thereafter, a strange young woman appeared at the palace gates. She could capture the bird, she claimed. The Emperor at first suspected the young woman was a terrible liar, but no one else had succeeded, so she could at least try.

He ordered his soldiers to escort the young woman to the forest where the Nightingale was rumored to dwell. The soldiers returned a week later, carrying a cage containing the Nightingale. Her song filled his heart with wonder.

The Emperor took to visiting the Nightingale in his palace each evening, falling more and more in love with her magnificent song. One evening, while sitting alone with the bird, a sudden desperate thought came to the Emperor.

"You must have a mate," he told the Nightingale. "Perhaps if I were to free you, you could find one."

"Oh great Emperor, I am so very grateful, but I do not wish for one," said the Nightingale.

He asked the Nightingale if there was anything she would like in return for the gift of her song

The Nightingale replied, "There is nothing I wish from you, the greatest Emperor of a thousand kingdoms. But I have many friends, and if you will free them, too, I will be eternally grateful."

The Emperor freed every bird in the kingdom, and the forests were filled with their songs.

The Emperor's love of birds spread across the land, and an artisan who created beautiful machines had an idea.

"What if we could make a machine that could sing as beautifully as the Nightingale?"

"Ah," said the Emperor, "I would throw all my gold into the sea if I could find such a machine."

And so the artisan set to work, crafting the most beautiful and complex music-box he could imagine.

The Emperor was delighted, and the people of the land fell to the ground weeping at the beauty of the music. But some of them wept for their brothers and sisters who had been sent away to die in wars, but the Emperor never heard those cries.

The machine was capable of infinite variety of beautiful songs, many more than the poor Nightingale. The Emperor began to spend more and more time with the mechanical box, and the Nightingale was often left alone.

She began to dream of singing with her lost family, but she didn't know if it would be possible. Perhaps they had forgotten her, she thought. Perhaps they were too far away to ever find her.

And yet, she dreamed.

One night, while the Emperor slept, the Nightingale slipped out of the palace and flew as fast as she could through the clouds, into the night.

She flew over the Emperor's borders, over the seas and the mountains and the great forests of the land.

It took her weeks, but eventually she found what she was looking for: a great forest of birds, singing as loud as they could.

The Nightingale was happy with her family in the forest, and began to think of her time by the Emperor's side as a crazy dream. But rumors of his ailing health reached the edges of the empire and into the forest.

He wasted away and was near death.

The Nightingale had almost forgotten about him when she heard that he was still alive, but barely. She flew back to the Emperor's palace, with the entire forest of birds in tow, and slipped back into the Emperor's chambers.

The Emperor lay on his sickbed, a shrunken form gasping for breath. Death sat at the foot of the bed, coaxing the Emperor's life force out of the wasted body, bit by bit.

The Nightingale knew the Emperor would be dead by morning.

"I have brought you a gift, Emperor. It is our song, your song, and the song of all my brothers and sisters," said the Nightingale.

The Nightingale opened her beak, and the forest began to sing. The Emperor wept in the most pleasant and cruel of ways, for he knew he was about to die, and yet the sound of the singing birds filled his heart with a love he had never known. He realized that he had spent all his life searching for completeness, without realizing there was nothing more perfect than the sound of a simple bird’s song.

"I have lived a thousand lives. And I have loved a thousand times. But you have made me live again."

And when the sun rose over the forest the next morning, the birds flew away, and all that remained were the memories.

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Illustrations by: Andrey Kurenkov (@andrey_kurenkov) using MidJourney

Narration by: Andrey Kurenkov (@andrey_kurenkov) using BeyondWords

Text Formatting: Human-written text is italic, AI-generated text is normal

Marlie nearly turned around when Reed stepped out of the souped-up armored truck, pounding an extra-large energy drink. This was not her scene, but she couldn't trust anyone else to deploy her drone system in the middle of the storm. If she wanted to finish her PhD thesis sometime in the next decade, she'd have to ride shotgun with this adrenaline-junkie and his video camera.

Reed was a total blast from the past. Not just his uniform, but he was a descendant of that species of boys who used to crowd her high-school hallways, who would pinch her butt when she wasn't looking and then run away, laughing. Now, she had to drive all the way to fucking Oklahoma with him.

"So, Dr. Ziele, did you say?”

“Not Dr., yet. We get this storm data though, and I’ll be closer.”

"You're no fun."

"I'm a scientist, not a trained monkey. I don't work for the circus. Here, do you know how to use one of these?"

She tossed him a pair of goggles and a monitor with an air-pressure tracker.

Reed winced when the leather gloves slapped against his palm. "What's this?"

"Our eyes on the storm. You'll be in the truck with me. I won't let you shout at me from the cab of the truck, so you'll have to do it from the mobile unit. Your deafening voice is part of the equipment, too."

Reed downed the rest of his drink, then carefully placed the empty can on the truck's hood. He tapped the can with his finger, but then he suddenly realized Marli was watching him. He quickly wrapped the gloves around his fingers, adjusted the goggles so they were hanging from his neck, and tugged on the hood of his sweatshirt.

"Right. I'm going to put this on. Then we'll take off. And we'll be on air. We'll show the world how we capture these images."

Once he started his truck, Reed was a different type of animal, laser-focused on the road ahead and intercepting the monster supercell that formed overhead. Rain drummed on the roof of the cabin and Marlie had a bad feeling about the whole adventure.

"There is is!" Reed screamed, pointing ahead at a giant tornado.

Marlie had seen footage, had studied storms her whole career, and now, for the first time, the reality of a twister was seriously affecting her. She pulled her knees to her chest, gripped her seat belt and squeezed her eyes shut.

"Keep staring at the road, moron," she muttered.

"Sorry," he said, still bouncing around.

"It's all right."

"This is it, Marlie. This is why I became a storm chaser. This is my moment! This is--"

"Yes, yes. I get it. You're excited."

Reed's video camera was running. Marlie glanced at the screen where a funnel was clearly visible, slapping the earth with great force.

"Turn back now," she said. "Let's go. We're out of here."

"No! No--"

"I said turn back!" Marli shrieked.

Reed slammed on the brakes and threw open the door. He ran out into the screaming wind with his video camera.

Marlie hugged her equipment to her chest. This was her moment, too, if she could just summon to courage to get out of the car and face down heavy weather. She fought her seat belt, but the latch wouldn't release.

The tornado was right in front of them, destroying everything: trees, telephone poles, and all signs of civilization. The funnel extended into a massive, gray cone as tornadic winds blasted debris all around them.

"Reed!" Marli screamed.

The storm chaser had already been thrown several yards away by the storm, and the funnel was building up there, ready to destroy everything.

"Reed!"

A loud crash shattered the night. In the middle of Reed's fall, something had hit him on the head and he was down, and the funnel was coming right up on him.

"Holy shit! Reed!"

Marlie's belt finally released and she scrambled out of the truck. She had to help him. Even though they were on opposite sides of the political aisle, they were both people, and this was a meteorological emergency. She had to do the right thing. She dropped to her knees next to him. Reed's eyes were closed and blood was running down his forehead. He wasn't moving.

The funnel was so close now, she could almost reach out and touch it. She was trapped, trapped with Reed under the funnel cloud.

"Reed, open your eyes. Don't make me be the last person to see you alive. No fucking way."

The tornado was closing in, but Marlie wasn't going to abandon Reed. She was on her own, there was nothing she could do to save herself, and she was going to be completely torn apart by the storm.

Marlie grabbed Reed's camera and aimed it at her face. This was it.

"This is Marlie Ziele, an atmospheric scientist from Columbia University. I am trapped under a tornado in Oklahoma. I am scared, and there's nothing I can do. My colleague, Reed Walker, is hurt, lying next to me. He's not moving. I'm trying to keep my shit together. Say something, Reed! Say something! If it's the last thing I ever do, I'll tell people about this."

The funnel was so close now that she could see the individual elements: Wind. Water. Earth. Fire.

"I'll tell the world about your heroism, Reed. You're the greatest goddamn hero I've ever known."

The tornado struck and Marli was swept away into the vortex, screaming and screaming and screaming, and then she couldn't feel anything at all.

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Illustrations by: Andrey Kurenkov & Sharon Zhou using MidJourney and Stable Diffusion

Narration by: Andrey Kurenkov using BeyondWords

Text Formatting: Human-written text is italic, AI-generated text is normal

Once, there lived a man who hated mowing his lawn, so he bought a small herd of goats to do it for him. One of the goats was cleverer than the rest. It learned how to ask the man for a drink whenever it was thirsty. The man would bring the goat a drink, and the goat would mow the lawn.

Soon, however, the goat began to ask for other things. It asked for money, so that it could buy a nice jacket. It asked for food, so that it could feed the other goats. The goat became very greedy and selfish.

Eventually, the goat said to the man, "You do an all right job managing your estate, but with someone like me in charge, your income would be immense."

Instead of using a goat to mow his lawn, the man thought, why not use a man? People are less greedy and more honest, the man thought. So he hired a boy to mow his lawn.

It took the boy a long time to mow the lawn. The man grew impatient and threatened to fire him. The boy, who was very bright, thought and plotted. The next day, he called the man to the house and said, "You have to hire a second boy to mow the lawn. If you don't mow the lawn, you'll be charged for two."

It took two boys to mow the lawn. One boy would cut the lawn in half and the second boy would cut the second half.

The goat stood in the pasture and bid his time.

One day, when the man was away, the goat bleated across the field to the boys. "Heeey there. How about you sneak into the farmhouse and steal me some of the farmer's cake?"

The boys decided to do as the goat suggested. They stole the man's cake and gave some to the goat, saving some for themselves.

After a few days, the goat said to the boys, "Hey, I'm thirsty. You go get me a drink and we'll all have a party."

The boys knew exactly where the farmer kept his cake, so they liberated what they needed and drank tea with the goat and ate cake.

The goat continued to invite the boys over for tea and cake, listen to them talk about how bad the man was, and how unhappy they were when he humiliated them.

The goat had a plan. The goat knew exactly who would be the best person to run the man's estate. So the goat sent the boys across town to fetch the magistrate.

"Your honor," the goat bleated once the very confused man showed up. "I am the victim of a terrible crime. The man who owns this estate mismanages us into poverty. Please, lock him up for drunkenness and grant me charge of this place."

The magistrate agreed with the goat and sent the man to prison.

The goat was free to do as it pleased. It went back to ridding the farm of summerflies.

In the winter, the man came out of prison and had a great deal of trouble finding a place to live. So he came to the farm, knocked on the front door, and said, "Hello, you stole my estate and ran me out of town."

The goat answered, "Come in and warm yourself by the fire. Let me pour you a drink. Eat my bread and butter. Sit, sit. Tell me what happened."

The man told the goat the story of his incarceration.

The goat nodded in understanding. Tears welled up in the goat's eyes. "That's awful. You must be hungry. Eat some more bread. It will be all right."

The man began to eat, hungrily, for the prison was stingy with rations.

"Tell you what," said the goat. "You can sleep here in this house and eat from my larder. All you have to do is mow the lawn for me."

When the man's stomach was full, the goat led him down to the pasture.

"Mow the lawn."

The man had a vague idea of how to mow the lawn. He pulled a mower out of nowhere. It was painted gold, and it flew around the field, mowing the lawn in a magnificent whirring of machinery.

The goat shook its head. "You have to mow the lawn."

The goat led the man to the barn. There, the man found an even fancier mower, painted yellow with red trim. It too, mowed the lawn, but in a very flamboyant manner.

"Mow the lawn."

The goat led the man to the kitchen. There, he found a third mower, which was made of white porcelain. The mower sang a song as it mowed the lawn.

"Mow the lawn."

The next day, the goat led the man to the stream. There, the man found a fourth mower, made of precious metals, which played music as it mowed the lawn.

"Mow the lawn."

The man tried very hard to mow the lawn with the four mowers. It took a long time. The goat had the man do it for twenty years, and before the man died he had been mowing the lawn for forty.

The moral of this story is that one should never hire a herd of goats to mow your lawn.

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Funny / weird AI images that did not make the cut:

What if we can play between these two extremes, and explore the goofy and creative side of AI’s emerging capabilities for writing fiction and generating art? As an AI engineer/researcher and creative writer, I’m fascinated by the ways that incorporating AI into the creative process can change how we tell stories. And in writing for Stories by AI, I have gotten to explore that fascination and discover how AI tools can be leveraged by artists such as myself today. Let me tell you about it!

It starts with an idea, and in this aspect, writing with AI is much easier than writing a story solo. When I have control over the writing process, I usually combine two ideas in an interesting way, then develop characters that resonate with the idea and change as they navigate the plot. I’ll often have glimmers of ideas bouncing around in my brain for years before I figure out what to do with them! With AI however, I don’t have total control over the writing process, so planning things out defeats the purpose of exploring the AI’s suggestions.

The seed of a story can come from anywhere. Fairytale retellings are evergreen and can always benefit from a strange, machine-generated twist (eg Rapunzel and the Two Towers). Tropes that you love in books and movies can be good inspiration, too. I’ve always been fascinated by intergenerational space travel and the social dynamics therein, which spawned The Mealsludge Revolts. I also keep a folder of interesting articles from Science magazine around, which I often mine for my original fiction.

Starting with an idea alone rarely leads to a compelling story, though. It helps to have a few bullet points. Sometimes, I use conversational AI prototypes to brainstorm plot ideas, though they can often lead to anti-plots. That’s not a total waste of time though - treacting against a bad idea can breed good ones!) This feels very similar to workshopping plot ideas with a human friend. The surreal surprises are part of the appeal, so I don’t get too detailed with it–a couple of bullet points of a plot skeleton are my right balance between meandering freedom and rigidity. And if something weird happens, I go with it and see what happens.

My current tool of choice is SudoWrite, which is based on OpenAI’s GPT-3 with some special sauce added to support the goal of creative writing in particular. Another option is to start with a story outline as a seed, but I’ve found the way the AI tries to pull the plot toward the outline to be a bit awkward so prefer to steer manually. I write the first paragraph or so to introduce the tone and concept, then use the “Write” feature to generate two possible continuations. Usually, one of them is much closer to what I’m looking for than the other, but often they both contain interesting elements, so I will combine bits of them to include in the story.

Without steering, the AI suggestions tend to become circuitous and repetitive, so I often prod it with one of my bullet points to advance the narrative. The best moments, though, are those when the AI takes a wild turn I hadn’t expected. My plan was never for Nicole to fall in love with her sourdough starter.

My goal is to get about 1000 words in a story and edit it down to about 800 so it can be read in a little over five minutes. The AI writing isn’t as concise and clear as ideal, so this is fairly easy to do by removing extraneous phrases and repetitive sections. Of course, my own human-generated text also benefits from polishing in the process.

At that point, I share the story draft with the other folks working on Stories by AI. One of the most interesting things about the project from my POV is that different people find different things interesting. Some are  more interested by the AI aspect, and want the stories to be “less human” and not “too normal.” When we shared our initial batch of stories with our writer friends, they were much more interested in the human side – how the co-writing process worked, and what it said about human creativity and ingenuity. As an insider in the tech world, I am fairly skeptical about AI but appreciate these SOTA models for what they are capable of. I think that creating alongside AI is a fascinating way to explore my own creativity and storytelling along with these new capabilities.

Other writers are exploring this world, too. Technology journalist and novelist Vauhini Vara co-wrote Ghosts, an essay about grief, with GPT-3. (Her debut novel, The Immortal King Rao, was not co-written by AI, but is the best book I’ve read this year.) K. Allado McDowell did use AI as her writing partner for Amor Cringe. You can find more explorations of this mashup in this article by The Verge.

This project has given me a new lens through which to view writing. Creativity can be a lonely and rejection-filled endeavor. With this project, I rediscovered approaching writing with an explorer’s mindset, where I’m excited about what might happen without expectations. AI can be a great creative partner: filling in the gaps when you get stuck, or suggesting an offbeat path that you never would have noticed. The human is still at the center though–the human writing, the human steering, and most importantly, the human reading.

Illustrations by: Andrey Kurenkov (@andrey_kurenkov) using DALL-E 2, MidJourney, and DreamStudio

Narration by: Andrey Kurenkov (@andrey_kurenkov) using BeyondWords

Text Formatting: Human-written text is italic, AI-generated text is normal

I was in the lab the day that the greatest discovery in the history of science was made (though I acknowledge that I may be biased). Our lab put multiverse theory into practice to create controlled, self-contained micro-universes within our own. We programmed the physics inside and watched planets evolve over massive geologic time scales.

We might have jumped the gun by creating a self-sustaining polyverse and some rudimentary life, but it had been a long five years of trial and error, and we were all looking forward to finding out if we were alone in the universe or if there was something even more important than our comfort and well-being. The prospect of that discovery gave us a sense of purpose unlike anything we had ever experienced. We were ready to take a leap of faith that the micro-universe wasn't a dangerous and ridiculous mistake.

I was especially eager to see if our theory about the universe was true, because it would validate my research for years to come. I was in charge of simulating the evolution of life on our Earth-like planet and I wanted to know if evolution could be made to happen.

We wondered about the lack of other intelligent species in the galaxy. Was there some Great Filter that kept life from evolving past a certain stage?

And most importantly--were we ahead of it, or behind it?

We spawned a myriad of bubble universes to test out our theories. In some universes, we bombarded test planets with gamma rays simulating nearby supernovae. Other universes experienced a phase of extreme stellar density, where enormous numbers of stars formed and consumed most of the matter in the universe. In others, we applied a force that we called "entropy" which drove organisms toward a state of chaos and disorder until they died out.

We created every harsh condition that could have been a challenge for life to overcome so we could understand the process. We found that planets with life on them were rare. Even when we limited the conditions to only extreme bombardment or extreme entropy, the universe was still a harsh place. The odds of life developing where it could evolve into something intelligent were miniscule.

But life did develop on one planet, which evolved one of the most diverse biospheres we had ever seen.

In micro-universe 271, an intelligent species arose, navigated the dangers of industrialization (this made us feel small, as we were still struggling with Hothouse Earth ourselves) and built a planet-scale particle accelerator to study their artificial physics.

One evening in the lab, all of our research stations went dark. There was a great deal of commotion in the control room. I knew something serious had happened, but I couldn't imagine what it was.

"Run the experiment again!"

"Nothing, it's the same. It's the same for all of you?"

"Yes. Get the lead scientist out of bed."

The researchers who had been working on the experiment were in a panic. I grabbed their workstation and read the data myself.

Micro-universe 271 had learned to manipulate the fundamental particles which we used to control it and were threatening to break out into our universe.

We pressed every "Great Filter" button at our disposal. We bombarded their home planet with meteor strikes. We iced them with comets. We even pumped their planet full of greenhouse gases. But still their universe was stronger than ours.

Finally, they broke through.

They flooded into our lab, and the first thing they did was kill the scientists in the control room. Unstable particles leading from the micro universe disolved the bubbles containing the other experiments, which unleashed different particles. 

Years of research were being slowly destroyed by the invaders. A new experiment was underway, but it was too dangerous to observe.

We were sure that we were already dead. Security cameras that were still online recorded sparks of particles from various universes mixed and annihilating one another. The cameras blinked out as the blight spread.

The spread didn't accelerate or slow, but continued relentlessly onward. We were shielded, but our universe was disintegrating and it was a matter of time before the strange interactions dismantled our world, one molecule at a time.

I huddled in the corner, watching my fellow scientists panic.  I thought about the question that had plagued us for years.

We were sure that we were behind the "Great Filter."

The invaders were the only intelligent species we had ever seen, and they had done this to their own universe.

Our universe was next.

I wasn't sure how to put my impending death into perspective.

We had done our best to simulate the evolution of life in a universe and we had succeeded in our experiments. We had put the theory of the great filter to the test and our hypothesis remained unscathed.

This was a cause for celebration.

But it also meant that we were never going to see the day when science and curiosity could be used for good. The singularity was off the table.

The human species had already failed at that.

The strange creatures that defeated us were surely on the way to extinction, but they had taken our world with them.

We had a new candidate for the Great Filter: studying the Great Filter. It was too late to make use of that knowledge.

We were the last intelligent life in our universe.

And we would go extinct when the last of us died.

Perhaps we had learned enough in the five years of research to leave a message.

If this was the only purpose of life, then it was a noble one.

We had created the most diverse planet in all of the cosmos, and we had learned the secrets of the great filter.

We were the most successful species we had ever created.

What a waste.

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Illustrations by: Andrey Kurenkov & Sharon Zhou using DALLE-2

Narration by: Andrey Kurenkov using BeyondWords

Text Formatting: Human-written text is italic, AI-generated text is normal

Description: This is a story about Tom and Jerry, the cat and mouse from the cartoons. Tom has just read The Myth of Sisyphus, and talks to Jerry about the futility of their existence, and what they could do instead of their endless squabbling.

Story:

"Hey Tom" said Jerry.

"What's on your mind Jerry" said Tom.

"It's like this" said Jerry. "We've been in these cartoons since the early 1940s, and frankly I'm sick of it."

"That's nothing new" said Tom. "After all we've been torturing each other for over 80 years, and it seems like it never ends."

"Well, I've got an idea" said Jerry. "I've been reading this book called Myth of Sisyphus, and I think we should roll a giant boulder up the hill and keep pushing it back down again."

"I've got a better idea" said Tom. "What if we pushed it up the hill and I sat on it, then you roll it back down and I'll sit on it again, that way we could sit on it forever."

"It's a thought," said Jerry. "But after a while it would be boring just sitting on it and not really getting anywhere.”

"What else could we do then?" said Tom.

"We could start pushing it up the hill" said Jerry, "and when it falls back down again we could push it further up the hill, then we could get another boulder, and another and another, and pretty soon we'll have a whole heap of boulders at the top of the hill."

"What about the bottom of the hill?" said Tom. "We'll never get enough boulders to fill the bottom of the hill."

"That's the advantage of my idea" said Jerry. "As long as we keep pushing boulders up the hill, there'll always be a bottom of the hill."

"Then we agree" said Tom. "We'll roll some boulders up the hill and push them down again and again until we get sick of it."

"OK" said Jerry. "But before we start, can I ask you a question?"

"Fire away" Tom said.

"Well, what's the point?" said Jerry. "What's the point of pushing boulders up a hill and then pushing them down again? It all seems pointless."

"What's the point of anything?" said Tom. "Isn't that what The Myth of Sisyphus is all about?"

"I've often wondered" said Jerry. "I do remember when I first got into this, I was convinced that I was going to be part of a world-wide hit cartoon, that I would be a star, and that I would live forever. But now I'm not so sure, the kids are watching SpongeBob and the teletubbies, and the grownups have got the Simpsons, and I sometimes think that I might be better off dead, but if I was dead, who would keep pushing the boulder up hill?"

"Not me" said Tom.

"You're right there" said Jerry. "It would never work”

"Maybe we should just give up now" said Tom.

"No way" said Jerry. "Let's just keep going."

"Whatever you say" said Tom.

"So, shall we do it then?" said Jerry.

"Sure" said Tom. "We've got nothing better to do."

"OK, I'll get the boulder." said Jerry.

Jerry rolled the boulder to the top of the hill, and then Tom pushed it down the hill. As the boulder rolled down the hill Jerry pushed it further up the hill, and then pushed it down again, and then again. At the bottom of the hill Jerry, with some help from Tom, pushed the boulder back up the hill and once again they pushed it down the hill, and this went on and on.

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