Conversations with AI
In this section, I’ll be publishing the prose I write during my conversations with ChatGPT. Most of the chat is research, showing how I use OpenAI’s program to generate ideas. Putting the prose sections here will allow them to be seen as a part of my portfolio without being hidden within pages of dialogue. While I could give the prose new titles, I’ve decided to keep them so that you can know exactly which research chat created them.
Dark Beauty
Carlota. The forgotten Empress of Mexico. No, the forgotten Princess of Belgium. No, just forgotten.
“I haven’t forgotten you!” a young voice cries out.
The stone cold bricks surrounding the woman shudder and recoil from the ray of sunshine.
“How can you,” the old woman responds, “we are the same person.”
“Well, not really,” the young girl shrugs.
The girl, real or a figment—Carlota couldn’t be sure, bounced on her toes like every step was a game of hopscotch. For a moment, Carlota sighed, longing to be such a carefree little girl again.
“We’ve been through to much,” her younger self expressed her unspoken thoughts with cruel voyeurism.
“I DID MY BEST!” Carlota cried. “I did my best.”
“You were a sacrifice,” young Carlota said.
“Why?” Carlota sobbed.
“I don’t know,” the girl quipped, “I’m you, remember.”
“I wanted to help. I wanted to make things better.”
When Love Comes
Elizabeth sat in the library, still in mourning black. How can I be so desensitized to my own child’s passing? she pondered to herself. Unlike most people, Elizabeth willed and prayed for tears to fall down her cheeks with the grief of her eldest son, Arthur.
The library door creaked open, causing Elizabeth’s head to shoot in its direction. Behind the oak door, the head of her second-born popped out.
She sighed in relief. “Oh, my darling!” she said, “Come, come!”
Henry sprinted toward his mother, crashing into her arms and forcing the lounger to squeak as it moved under the new weight.
“My darling boy,” Elizabeth cooed, “how are you doing, my love?”
“I’m sad,” the eleven-year-old replied, “and I worry.”
“Worry?” Elizabeth echoed, “What do you worry about?”
“Many things,” Henry replied matter-of-factly, “but namely, I worry about Arthur.”
“About Arthur?”
“Yes. I worry if God took him so early… well, I worry what that means.”
“Oh, Henry,” Elizabeth sighed, holding onto her son a bit tighter. “The Lord has plans for Arthur. The sweating sickness was a test, a result of which we can never fully understand.”
“I want to understand!” Henry declared.
“Well, of course, you do. And you will get your chance. You are the heir to the throne. You can do anything. You are, my love, Henry the Eighth.”
Unknown Sister
System status: Functional.
Biosystems: Ready.
Pod bay release: Activated.
The NASA team holds its breath. Everyone is waiting to hear the voice of 2039 Henrietta Lacks.
“Check in, Houston.”
The NASA team erupts in applause. The lead calls back to Henrietta, “Heard, Hen. Let’s take the next steps.”
“Alright, but I ain’t Neil, Houston. No marketable one-liners from me.”
“That’s fine, Hen. Just keep breathing for us, okay?”
“No problem,” she says, but there’s a twinge in her voice that everyone expects. Fear. “Opening bay door,” she informs.
Once again, NASA stills.
Nothing can be heard over the radio. 60 seconds. 90.
“Hen?”
Detective’s Daughter Disappeared
Hello, hello.
Dede, Dede.
Terri, what’s wrong?
It’s Kyron.
Terri, talk to me, what happened?
It’s Kyron. It’s Kyron.
Calm down, I don’t understand.
I need you. Please, come now.
I’m at work, Terri.
I know, but I need you. Now.
I’ll be there. Calm down.
It was an accident.
What was, Terri?
It was an accident.
What was?
Kyron.
Slytherin and Ravenclaw’s Love
A house. A home. Not a place people would suspect medical practices were going on inside of.
Bettina’s heels click against each brick stair as she makes her way to the front door. She can hear the neighbor’s whispers in her mind: what they must think of girls going in and out of this place.
Buzz.
Bettina rings the doorbell once. Then waits.
Mrs Sing opens the door. She isn’t dressed as a nurse, but Bettina knows she’d take on the role soon enough. Silently, Bettina enters the house. She follows Mrs Sing through the house, and asian herbs permeate the air. So no one will know what happens in here, Bettina thinks.
Mrs Sing leads Bettina to a door near the back of the house—the basement.
The two women descend the stairs, entering a room of rust and ammonia. A twin bed with wires lying on the mattress calls to Bettina. She can’t tell if it is the call of freedom or death.
Bettina strips off the layers of clothing that make her a presentable woman above ground. Naked in the cold, dingy air, she lies on the bed, letting the thin cotton sheet cover her body.
Mr Sing enters the basement wearing scrubs and a face mask made of cloth. He washes his hands in a rusted sink. A shiver runs down Bettina’s spine. She grips the linen in frustration.
Glass bottles chime as Mr Sing retrieves one. With a needle, he extracts an amount before replacing the vial on his shelf.
His footsteps echo in the ample space. Bettina stares up at the ceiling, trying not to flinch at the sudden touch of Mr Sing’s cold hands and needle piercing her skin. Bettina recognises the feeling of special H spreading through her veins.
When her head began lolling back and forth, Mr Sing started the procedure.
A dull scalpel carves into her navel, creating an incomplete square of torn-out flesh. Mr Sing pulls the flaps of skin, muscle, and tissue up and drapes them back over her belly.
Bettina looks down; Mr Sing is elbow deep inside her—the feeling of rubber bands snapping inside her forces her back to curl up. A bloody hand clamps down on her stomach, pushing her back down.
An ovary acts as a paw, curling out of the space and landing on the landing strip of flesh with a wet plop. Its sister climbs up, and together, they lift the ovary's body out—the uterus—until it’s crawling and squirming on Bettina’s stomach.
The woman smiles with bloodstained teeth. Her head falls back against the mattress. “It is done. The bloodline of evil ends here.”
Stark Daughter
“Mr President,
California’s population is estimated at thirty-nine million, four hundred thirty-one thousand, two hundred and sixty-three residents. On the opposite end of the spectrum, Wyoming’s population is merely five hundred eighty-seven thousand, six hundred and eighteen residents. Of those, California currently reports nearly a hundred sixty-one thousand, five hundred forty-eight people are unhoused. This is just about twenty-seven point eighty-nine percent of our national figure. Wyoming does have a homeless count, but it is one of the few states with a factor below a thousand.
My name is Victoria Strass. You work very closely with my father on military expansion and technology. I’m not here to propose more wasted money. There is a crisis at home, and it isn’t homelessness; it’s an imagination crisis.
I worked closely with general contractors and business owners in California to create the first fully renovated building, designed to accommodate the homeless community. In fact, I live in a unit on the bottom floor of said building.
I introduce myself to everyone who enters the building. I’ve hired countless professionals to help these people find jobs and manage their money, as well as therapists to handle our mentally ill.
I can’t tell you, Mr. President, how many veterans I have met just in California. This country is so focused on our overseas military that we forget our soldiers back home.
I can show you the success of a California building, but what I want to show you is the success of a town. This country houses acres of unused land. I am proposing and asking for the US government to grant areas of these lands to our homeless. I want to create new towns and cities with people who have been forgotten about and ignored.”