Is creative writing really dead in the age of AI, where stories can be generated in a few minutes from basic plot or character prompts?
The advent of AI has ushered in an age where anyone can now be an 'author' in similar fashion to cameras on phones making everyone a photographer or media personality. Ignoring for a moment the 'who-trained-the-ai' arguments, AI now means
creative story telling has been personalised, made convenient and speedy - anyone is an author, and authorship is individualised; a child can as easily generate a story based on whacky thoughts as readily as an adult 'sensible' ones.
While the task of actually writing the story is out-sourced to AI, the fundamentals still rely on the would be authors imagination, besides, some might argue, AI generating content in this context is no different than handing over a treatise to a 'ghost-writer'.
And just how 'creative' are the products of AI generated stories; can they juxtapose seeming non-sequiturs together to make sense the same way a human might?
With all this in mind, the below is a quick test using different AI to generate a Halloweenish story from the following prompt;
Write a tall tale of 2000 words or less - you can go longer if space is needed - that's suitable for a General Audience, so "U" rated, about why you should not whistle past a graveyard in a quiet part of town, on a dark and foggy All Hallows Eve night, while carrying a carved pumpkin, scary face illuminated by a candle inside.
Elements for possible inclusion;
- a pigeon, awake well past its bed time, hooting because it identifies as an owl
- a calico cat sitting on the cemetery wall seemingly waiting for something, or someone
- a skittish Jack Russel just trying to get home, but totally isn't lost
- an owl sitting in a tree 'tutting' disapprovingly the goings on (it's just a normal night for it "what's so special about tonight?!").
# # #
Google AIOld Bartholomew Flinch lived in a cottage that was practically kissing the old cemetery fence. On most nights, this was perfectly fine. Bartholomew was, after all, a jolly fellow who believed the departed were better neighbors than the gossiping greengrocers. They were quiet, they didn't borrow your wheelbarrow without asking, and they certainly didn't complain about his award-winning turnip harvest. But All Hallows' Eve was different. It was the one night the whispers of the wind weren't just the wind, and the shadows weren't just shadows. It was the one night Old Bartholomew believed you shouldn't, under any circumstances, whistle past the graveyard..
Now, Bartholomew had a grandson named Timmy who, at ten years old, believed most things his grandpa said, except for the things that seemed, well, silly. And the whistling rule, on the scariest night of the year, while holding a perfectly carved pumpkin with a flickering candle inside, was the silliest of all.
"Just to keep your courage strong, Timmy!" Old Bartholomew had insisted, as he handed over the fiery-eyed pumpkin. "But remember, that's just a distraction. The graveyard has its own rules."
Timmy, with the brave bravado only a ten-year-old could muster, decided to put his grandpa's theory to the test. He stepped out into the dark, foggy night, the glowing jack-o'-lantern casting dancing, monstrous shadows on the cobblestones. The graveyard loomed to his left, a dark, silent ocean of marble and stone.
Just then, a pigeon, perched on a weather-beaten tombstone, let out a noise. A sound that was a lot less coo and a lot more... hoot. "Hoooo-hoooo," it declared, puffing out its chest with immense pride. It had been practicing all year and felt quite confident in its new persona. It saw the real, very unamused owl in the tree above and simply gave it a look that said, We're colleagues, right?.
The real owl, an old, sensible bird with an impressive set of judgmental feathers, rolled its eyes so hard it nearly fell off its branch. Honestly, it seemed to think. What is with these city birds? It let out a loud, disapproving "Tut-tut-tut".
Next, a sleek calico cat, perched with an almost royal air atop the cemetery wall, watched Timmy's approach. The cat didn't twitch, didn't blink. It simply sat, tail curled neatly around its paws, as if it were expecting an important delivery.
Timmy, feeling a nervous flutter, decided to turn on the whistle. A cheerful, perfectly innocent tune came out, a little off-key, but still a tune. The moment the sound left his lips, everything changed. The fog seemed to thicken and writhe, as if waking up.
The calico cat's tail uncurled and began to swish, a slow, deliberate metronome counting down to... something. The owl in the tree stopped its tutting and stared, wide-eyed, its feathery disapproval giving way to genuine alarm. Even the "hooting" pigeon suddenly forgot how to "hooo" and instead let out a terrified, squawking "CAW!".
From the shadows of the graveyard, a noise emerged. Not a clanking chain or a mournful groan, but a frantic, high-pitched patter. A skittish Jack Russell terrier, who was definitely not lost but simply taking a very long, very complicated detour, shot out from behind a large crypt. It skidded to a halt, nose twitching. It looked at Timmy, at the whistling, at the graveyard, and then with a whimper, tucked its tail between its legs and bolted in the opposite direction.
Timmy stopped whistling. The patter of the dog faded, but the new sound was closer. A faint, low hum, like a bee trapped in a jar, seemed to emanate from the ground itself. The hum grew louder, more distinct, and then began to pulse in time with the candle flame inside Timmy's pumpkin. The carved face, which a moment ago had looked comically spooky, now seemed to twist and contort with a life of its own.
The calico cat finally moved. It dropped silently from the wall and began to walk, not toward Timmy, but toward a specific, ancient-looking tombstone. It stopped and sat down, looking not at the stone, but at the empty patch of fog right in front of it.
Suddenly, a wisp of vapor detached itself from the fog and began to swirl, coalescing into a vaguely human shape. It drifted toward the cat, and the cat let out a soft, pleased purr. Then another wisp appeared, and another. They all drifted toward the whistling. And toward the candle flame.
Timmy, with the wisdom that only comes from true, pants-wetting fear, knew he had made a terrible mistake. He dropped the pumpkin, and it landed with a soft thump but did not break. The candle inside flickered wildly, and the ghostly wisps began to gather around it.
That's when he heard the music. It wasn't his whistle. It was a faint, old-fashioned, reedy tune, like a long-forgotten folk song being played on a dusty gramophone. The wisps began to sway and dance to the melody, their vaporous forms becoming clearer. He could see their vague, smiling faces, their old-timey clothes.
The biggest of the wisps, a woman with a large, misty bonnet, seemed to curtsey to him. "Thank you, young man!" a voice, like rustling leaves, whispered in his ear. "We haven't had a proper dance in ages! My, you brought the party right to our doorstep!"
She pointed a gauzy finger at his discarded jack-o'-lantern. "And a lovely centerpiece, too!"
Timmy didn't stick around to chat. He bolted for his grandpa's cottage, leaving the ghostly revelers to their silent, joyous dance. He slammed the door, bolted it, and sank to the floor, gasping.
Old Bartholomew looked down at him, a twinkle in his eye. "Forgot to mention that part, didn't I?" he chuckled. "Seems you whistled up a party, Timmy. What kind of party guests were they?"
"Friendly," Timmy managed to whisper, trembling. "And... old-fashioned."
"Ah, the graveyard gala," Bartholomew said, nodding sagely. "They appreciate good music. But once the party starts, they don't want it to end."
That night, Timmy and his grandpa watched from the window. The graveyard was no longer dark and foggy. It was filled with a soft, ethereal light, the wisps of the departed dancing merrily around the single, flickering flame of the jack-o'-lantern. The calico cat sat serenely at the edge of the dancing circle, purring. And the judgmental owl just shook its head in silent, feathery exasperation. The hooting pigeon, however, had found a new, livelier crowd and was trying to teach a ghostly lady with a parasol how to do the "hoooo".
Timmy never whistled past the graveyard again on All Hallows' Eve. Not because he was scared of ghosts, but because he knew, deep in his ten-year-old heart, that some parties, once started, are much harder to finish than they are to get into.
