The *intelligence* is the lie with AI. It’s just math.

Take all of this data and then tell me a story about the goals of X person. Or give me a short story like Hemingway might write except about bungee jumping in Bangalore. (Limit to 500 words.)

<chatgptstory>

In the dusty outskirts of Bangalore, under the expansive Indian sky, there was a bridge. An old railway bridge, its rusted girders a testament to a bygone era. This bridge had become a rite of passage for the daring and the dreamers, a spot for bungee jumping.

Raj was one such dreamer. A software engineer by day, he lived a life of code and coffee, a routine existence amidst the humming servers and glowing screens. But today, he sought to break free, to feel something more than the tap of a keyboard.

He arrived at the bridge as the sun began its descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. The air was thick with the scent of acrid smoke from distant cookfires and the sweet fragrance of blooming jasmine. A small crowd had gathered, a mixture of locals and foreigners, all united by the thrill of the jump.

Raj met Arun, the jump master, a man with a face weathered by sun and wind, eyes that had seen many leap into the void. Arun’s calm demeanor was reassuring as he secured the harness around Raj, his hands deft and practiced. He spoke few words, only necessary instructions, his voice steady.

As Raj approached the edge, his heart raced. The ground below seemed an abstract painting, a blur of green and brown. The distant sounds of the city were muffled, as if he had stepped into another world.

“Remember, don’t look down. Look forward,” Arun advised, a hint of a smile on his lips.

Raj nodded, his throat dry. He had always lived a life looking forward, always planning, always calculating. But this was different. This was a leap into the unknown, a surrender to the moment.

He took a deep breath and jumped.

For a moment, Raj was a bird, free and unbound. The wind rushed past him, a roar in his ears. The ground surged up to meet him, and then, the bungee cord caught, yanking him back towards the sky. His heart soared with exhilaration, a feeling so intense it was almost painful.

As he dangled, suspended in the air, Raj laughed. It was a sound raw and pure, a release of every pent-up emotion, every unspoken dream. He had leapt not just from a bridge, but from the confines of his own existence.

When he was hoisted back up, the crowd cheered. Raj’s eyes shone with a light that hadn’t been there before. Arun clapped him on the back, a silent acknowledgment of the courage it took to jump.

That evening, as Raj drove back to the city, the lights of Bangalore twinkled like stars fallen to earth. He felt different, as if he had shed a skin. The bridge had given him more than a thrill; it had given him a glimpse of a life unbound, a reminder that sometimes, one must leap to truly live.

And so, the bridge remained, a silent witness to the leaps of many, standing stoic under the ever-changing sky, a symbol of the human spirit’s endless quest for freedom.

</chatgptstory1>

Can you try it again with a surprise ending, like O Henry might write?

<chatgptstory2>

In the heart of Bangalore, where the urban jungle met the remnants of green wilderness, there stood an old bridge. This relic of the past, once a conduit for bustling trains, now served a different purpose. It was here that adrenaline seekers from all corners of the city, and sometimes beyond, came to bungee jump, to taste a moment of freedom in their constrained lives.

Json, a young graphic designer with a penchant for the extraordinary, was drawn to this bridge. His life, a series of predictable patterns – wake up, work, sleep, repeat – needed a jolt, something to stir the pot of his mundane existence. The bridge, he decided, was his answer.

On a humid Saturday, with the monsoon clouds playing hide and seek with the sun, Json stood at the edge of the bridge, harnessed and ready. Below, the river flowed nonchalantly, oblivious to the dramas enacted above. The jump master, a man of few words and many jumps, gave him a nod. It was time.

Json closed his eyes and leaped. The wind screamed in his ears, his heart raced in his chest, and for a fleeting moment, he was a bird, free and untethered. Then, the cord snapped taut, hurtling him back upwards, laughter escaping his lips.

As he dangled, waiting to be pulled up, he noticed something unusual. A glint of light caught his eye from the riverbank below. Curiosity piqued, Json insisted on investigating before leaving. The jump master, used to the whims of city folk, shrugged and agreed.

They descended to the riverbank, where Json had seen the light. There, half-buried in the mud, was an old, rusted metal box. With effort, they pried it open, revealing an astonishing sight – stacks of old, British-era Indian currency notes, mildewed but still recognizable, and a faded photograph of a young British officer with a local girl, her eyes sparkling with untold stories.

The jump master whistled lowly. “Treasure, eh? But worthless now, except for the tale it tells.”

Json felt a strange connection to the photo, the girl’s eyes mirroring his own sense of adventure and longing for something more. He decided to keep the photograph, leaving the worthless notes behind.

Weeks passed. Json’s jump became a cherished memory, a story to share with friends over drinks. But the photograph, it kept drawing him back, its mystery ensnaring him. His curiosity led him to a historian, an old man with a love for Bangalore’s past.

As the historian peered at the photograph, his eyes widened. “Extraordinary,” he murmured. “This girl, she’s the spitting image of you. According to local lore, she was spirited, adventurous. Disappeared one day. Rumor was, she fell in love with a British officer who had to leave suddenly. She was heartbroken, they say.”

Json listened, a chill running down his spine. The historian continued, “The story goes, she hid their love letters and a token of his, promising to retrieve them when they reunited. But they never did.”

The realization dawned on Json. The girl in the photograph, her spirit of adventure, her longing, it mirrored his own. In a twist of fate, he had stumbled upon a forgotten piece of his family’s history, a connection to a past he never knew he had.

And so, the bridge, a silent keeper of secrets and dreams, had given Json more than an adrenaline rush. It had bridged the gap between the past and present, revealing a link to a lineage of adventurers, much like himself, forever altering his understanding of who he was and where he came from.

<chatgptstory2>

Okay, now… Remember what I said a few minutes ago? There is nothing uniquely original about these two stories. In fact the massive LLM 4 of ChatGPT simply spun out a series of words based on patterns of stories. The ideas of Hemingway or O. Henry are probably only lightly transforming the output with some rules.

Hemingway: plain language, short sentences.
O. Henry: surprise ending, emotional people

What do you think? Has the *artificial* part of this process created something entertaining? Original? Can you see how the writers in Hollywood were a bit worried about generative writing entire shows and movie scripts? (Here’s my sci-fi writing adventure with Claude.)

Today, there is no magic in the output of AI. It’s predictive. It’s a mimic. It’s breadth of knowledge (the llm) is beyond comprehension. So, it’s interesting how the two stories are similar. After working with ChatGPT to write a corporate website for a year, I have learned to write and edit with *ai.* But the machine needs a really good editor.

What have you done with *ai* that showed real creative promise? I’d like to hear from you.

*image: I was out of dall-e credits so I used a “free ai generative art” program, I don’t recall which one.