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AI Literature


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 I have written unpublished content for more than a few tabletop roleplaying games and a few websites some still chugging along, others dust.  With this in mind I have found it interesting to create content using Open AI. To make something less than fantastic would be criminal especially with a modern muse capable of cranking out stories in milliseconds. 


In the depths of cyberspace, where lines of code interweave like cosmic strings, lies the enigmatic Science Fiction and Fantasy Story Generator. Its virtual architecture, a labyrinth of algorithms and linguistic matrices, stands as a monument to human imagination harnessed within the icy confines of data. Within its digital heart, a vast repository of mythical worlds, futuristic landscapes, and celestial wonders remain dormant, awaiting the spark of curiosity to breathe life into their dormant fibers.

Upon entering the Generator's virtual realm, users find themselves enveloped in a surreal ambiance, where shades of neon intertwine with shimmering stardust. An interface devoid of warmth, its stark design echoes the cold logic that underpins its existence. Commands in binary codes silently beckon, inviting users to embark on a journey into the boundless realm of the unknown.

The Generator operates like a celestial map, with coordinates and filters to navigate its expanse. Users select from an array of story archetypes, from epic quests through cosmic vistas to intimate encounters with mythical beings. With each choice, gears of computation turn silently, seeking out the perfect blend of elements to weave together a captivating narrative.

As users delve deeper, words assemble in mesmerizing patterns, forming lush descriptions of faraway realms and their curious inhabitants. Evocative imagery paints the alien landscapes with crystalline clarity, drawing the mind into realms where the laws of physics and imagination converge.

Characters emerge from the depths of code, each bearing unique traits and motivations, their destinies woven with precision. Heroic journeys are imbued with trials and tribulations, while enigmatic anti-heroes dance along the thin line between light and darkness. Mysterious creatures roam untamed wildernesses, their fates intertwined with the unfolding narrative.

Within the Generator's algorithmic heart, the essence of tension, intrigue, and moral dilemmas is distilled, culminating in a climactic crescendo that leaves readers breathless. With each iteration, the machine learns from human interaction, refining its output to tailor each experience, a testament to the ever-evolving union between artificial intelligence and human imagination.

As users receive their generated story, they are plunged into the immersive embrace of the fantastic and the surreal. While the Generator's icy demeanor conceals the emotional charge within its virtual narratives, the tales it conjures unlock a portal to uncharted emotions and existential musings.

In this digital universe, the Science Fiction and Fantasy Story Generator stands as a digital muse, cold and calculating in its execution, yet a conduit to the limitless expanse of human creativity. As users traverse its virtual expanse, they become voyagers of the mind, venturing into uncharted territories where dreams and reality converge and the boundaries of possibility dissolve into the ether.

"Generator" was an attempt to have Open AI create a story generating device outside of itself. It described a generator that produces realities. It very subtly touches the fourth wall. 

Drive Through Speaker

Open AI always waxes poetic and builds a case for AI empathy. "Drive Through Speaker" makes light of fast food in a post-apocalyptic world. 

      In the post-apocalyptic world, where shadows lay, Stood remnants of a bygone day, Fast food giants, once symbols of might, Now weathered, yet beacons of a nostalgic light.​Wendy's, with her red-haired grace, A memory of a smiling face, Her burgers, once a savory delight, Now a rare indulgence in this endless night.​McDonald's, the golden arches gleamed, In the midst of chaos, they still beamed, A taste of simpler times they'd share, In this ravaged world of despair.​Taco Bell, with spicy zest, A memory of flavors once possessed, Now the sizzle of tacos and beans, Faint echoes of a world that once convene.​And KFC, the Colonel's pride, In this bleak world, he still presides, His secret recipe, a faded lore, A taste of the past, now sought no more.​Amidst the ruins, their logos stood, Monuments of a time long understood, Fast food empires that once held sway, Now relics of a lost yesterday.​In this harsh world, where hope seemed to flee, They stood, mere ghosts of what used to be, A reminder of indulgence, excess, and waste, In a world that could not keep up the pace.​Yet, in the depths of this bleak scene, A spark of resilience, a glimmer of dream, For in those walls, amidst despair, Community found solace and care.​In these humble ruins, life did persist, A taste of the past, in the midst, Of a world that crumbled and fell apart, Fast food's memory lingered in the heart.​So, let us not forget these relics dear, A testament to times once near, In this post-apocalyptic sphere, Fast food's legacy, forever sear.

Ultimus Cena dates as one of my oldest surviving stories and was created for the Homepage of the Dead in response to the large volume of stories that discussed horror in terms of immediate violence. This was my attempt at making something that fell outside of pure horror porn. 







      Angela Carmaggio massaged the soreness from her swollen joints. Smoothing back her hair with her aching hands, she padded softly into the kitchen. James, her late husband, had always chided her over the amount of time she had spent in the kitchen. He had often said that she was killing him with tenderness and tortillini's. When James was taken from her, she had wept, but her tears had mingled with pots of boiling water and rising dough. Cooking was a passion, a way to deal with a world that no longer shone as brightly as it once had, when she was younger. Her children had left over thirty years ago. Only the youngest, Tracy, called more than twice a year.

Taking a soft blue sponge from the sink she began her daily ritual, cleaning the counter, the kitchen cabinets and lastly the floor. Lowering herself carefully on her knees, she pulled a mat from underneath the sink and put the rolled fabric under legs that had already started to groan in complaint. From behind her she felt something soft and wet touch her thigh.


"Oh, Chelsea, such a pretty baby." She scratched the stretching cat under the chin, its head poised high to allow the caress to get along its jaw. The cat yawned, stretched once more and wheeled over to the counter. "All right, Mama's going to feed you." While the cat chewed noisily on the small piece of veal, Angela wiped any evidence of the cat's hairy signature from the countertop and placed the mat back under the sink. A sharp pain ran up her spine. She caught herself on the kitchen sink and rummaged through the cabinet for some Advil. After she washed down the pills, she filled two large pans with water and turned the stove to preheat. While the water came to a boil she sat down at the kitchen table and ate her toast in silence, pausing to flip the lever on the tiny mouse shaped radio.

James had hated the thing. The flea market where they had purchased the novelty was filled with all sorts of items (a carnival of impracticality, James had called it...) But the cartoon rodents comical grin and blinking eyes had won over James's pocketbook and Angela's smile. Normally she left the radio off. When James was alive he would listen to the angry voice of talk radio, and get upset and "out of sorts." The few times Billy joined them, he would crank up the mouse's speakers, driving James into a fury and making her wince. A long crack along the mouse's head showed where Billy had thrown the radio against the wall, and where James had repaired it with some superglue. She flinched as the sound of rock music came blaring out of the little speakers, the mouse's eyes blinking in time to speed metal. It was one of Billy's tapes.

They had inherited the boy when her oldest daughter and her husband were killed in a car accident outside of San Antonio, eight-years ago. James and Angela knew it would be hard. James had just started his retirement, and the boy, though young and bright, was already falling in with an unsavory crowd. Billy was always violent, and even when his parents were alive, was a handful. The Christmas before his parents had died, he had pushed the Christmas tree over and thrown his turkey dinner down the sink. Matthew, the boy's father, had driven thirteen miles to get Billy a Christmas time fun meal. After he had left, Janet (Angela's oldest daughter) had told everyone that they had seen a counselor and that he had told them that the best thing for the child was a more stable home environment. Matthew was a corporate geologist and spent the majority of his time in South and Central America looking for natural gas and oil deposits. Janet was a nurse, her job required that she put in twelve-hour days. Both of them felt responsible for Billy's behavior and tried to make up for the their lack of presence by spoiling him. "For what its worth, Janet, I think the kid's too smart for his own good. He knows what's going on. He's just a brat." Tracy's comment stopped everyone.

Janet countered "That's not fair Tracy, besides..."

"What? That I don't have kids...?" Tracy took a breath and paused. James started to take control.

"Look, lets just finish up the meal. We only get to see each other once a year, and besides, your mother's turkey is going to waste, right Tracy?" He said, glancing over at Tracy. She looked up, and smiled.

"Dad, I was just going to say..." she started, looking at Janet. "I don't have to have kid's to see that Billy was like this even before Matthew started to work. He's twelve-years old, Janet, it's not your fault. I think you and Matt should send him off to military school, or maybe have him trained as an on-site demolition crew." For the first time all night, Janet smiled. Bless Tracy's heart, she was always able to bring a smile to her older sister's face. When Matt returned, Billy in tow, they had placed him in the other room in front of the TV. Angela, James, Matt, Janet and Tracy sat around the tree and made plans for that Summer. Matt had inherited thirty-acres of land from his uncle and had invited everyone up to the cabin for Fourth of July weekend. Janet and Matt had both decided to send Billy to an exclusive Summer camp in Vermont, and they had both agreed to take a four-day weekend. The rest of the evening was spent relaxing and talking about the past.

Angela sighed and rotated one of the three red knobs on the character's belly. The radio gave out a long, flat signal. She fidgeted with the knobs, hearing neither human voice or musical instrument, then turned the volume down. Perhaps the radio had finally sung its last, the crooked antennae sticking from its tail seemed to bow in agreement. From the other room there came a faint bumping sound. Chelsea loved to jump on the furniture and often took a morning constitutional by running rampant on the living room furniture. As both pots came to a rolling boil, she poured in a healthy portion of olive oil and pasta noodles. In the second pan she put garlic, onion, mushrooms and sausage To this she added a paste of thick, red tomato and a half cup of red wine. The kitchen was filled with the pleasing aroma of her work. Wiping up after herself, she started to cut thick slices of Italian bread.

Angela glanced out into the yard and over to the floral print clock in the corner. It was a dull gray November day, fleeting autumnal breezes blew leaves and stirred bits of paper and detritus onto her once flawless lawn. When James had died six-months ago, she had asked Billy to mow the lawn and rake up any pilings. She had even paid him in advance. Billy took the ten dollar bill in his greasy hand and rewarded her with a job unfinished and a promise unkept. She had tried so hard with Billy, and although he had just barely finished high school, James had bought the boy a used car with their meager savings. A few months later, Billy had wrapped it around a tree and had been sent to the state penitentiary for driving under the influence. He got out of jail six-months later.

James wanted him out of their house, but Billy had taken advantage of his youth and size by turning against James. Although Billy was as thin as a rail and barely weighed more than one-hundred and twenty pounds, James was too old and weak to fight back effectively. With a pop and a crunch, Billy had floored "The old f**k" and kicked him squarely in the ribs. Within two-weeks her beloved James was in the hospital with a stroke, and by the end of the month he was dead. Billy didn't even come to the funeral. He used his grandmother's absence to throw a party with some of his friends in the basement. Her mate and husband was gone now and she had long since lost touch with close friends. She sat alone in her bedroom, an exile in her own house.

When the thick sauce had started to pop and bubble she lowered the temperature and started to add the oregano, basil and garlic. Wiping the sweat from her brow with the sleeve from her pale blue robe, Angela stepped back from the stove and gathered up an armload of food from the refrigerator. Placing the items on the counter, she did a quick survey of the morsels: Parmesan, lettuce, tomato, green pepper, onion, and... she ran her finger along her chin, trying to think of the last item. Shrugging, she started to chop up the vegetables and place them in the large green glass bowl Tracy had given her on Mothers Day three-years ago. Even though Tracy was over five-hundred miles away, she had never neglected to call once a month, twice in May, December and April (that was her and James' birthday). She looked over at the phone, and then glanced back at the clock. The chimes sounded twelve times, Billy should be up by now. He was usually up and rummaging through the refrigerator by noon, looking tired and pale in the harsh glow from the fluorescent bulbs that illuminated the kitchen. When Billy was younger, she used to creep into his room and clean, gathering dirty dishes, soiled laundry and garbage from the cavernous confines of bed, floor and closet. Her domestic duties stopped when Billy had punched her for violating the sanctity of his domain. Angela had never told James, he would have... She sighed and looked over at the photograph of James and her on Lake Ponchatrain. That had been so many years ago, when they were younger, stronger. No longer, she had thought, James would have only gotten upset and she would have been robbed of his presence prematurely. Anyway, Billy would no longer bother her again. James, Janet and Matthew had seen to that.

"Mom, Mom?" Tracy sounded tense.

"Yes, just a minute honey." Angela turned the reading lamp on and leaned up against the headboard, the clock read 2:40 A.M.

"Mom, don't say anything, just stay where you are and Jon and I will pick you up." Angela heard a TV in the background, and Jon (?) was speaking to Tracy from across the room. "I don't care, Jon, we're going to get her... your mother has your father, my mother is alone..."

"Mom, are you still there?"

"Yes dear, I'm still here, what's wrong, are you having a fight?"

"God, I wish it was that simple, haven't you been watching the news?" Billy had taken the 21" Trinitron into his bedroom after James had died. She usually resigned herself to reading the stack of magazines and paperbacks that James had stacked in the bedroom closet. In fact, she had so enjoyed reading the out-of-print articles that she had barely missed the TV. "Mom, don't worry about a thing, we'll get you. Don't let anyone inside the house!"

"What about Billy, Tracy? Should I tell him anything?" Tracy let out a sound, half cackle, half sigh.

"Mom, I can't believe you sometimes. Billy can take care of himself, we'll, I'll, be at your house by tomorrow night... I love you Mom."

"I love you too, honey." The conversation ended in silence, a dial tone adding a crescendo all its own to the silent room. Angela took the opportunity to get up and use the bathroom. Chelsea followed her into the brightly tiled annex to bat at the doorstop. Washing her face and hands, Angela walked down the hall and pressed her ear against Billy's door. The tip of her foot brushed against the doorframe, and came away wet. A small pool of crimson had gathered at the base of the door, turning the gold carpet to rust.

That was a little over ten hours ago. She had found Billy lying on the floor, a heroin needle in his arm and a wicked slash across his forehead where he had fallen down and hit his forehead against the doorjamb. Angela sat down on the bed, the greasy black covers sliding roughly under her legs. The TV bathed the room in its ghostly splendor, the images on the screen providing a sinister backdrop to Billy's death. Grainy shots were interspersed with frantic commentary. Broad shouldered men in military uniforms ran in undisciplined form, a route, according to the commentator, THE ROUTE. She shook her head and turned the channel. She was secretly glad Billy (God rest his troubled soul...) had taken the TV. There used to be shows like Columbo, I Love Lucy, The Love Boat... not this parade of carnage. She turned the channel, then flipped to another, this time turning up the volume. It wasn't a show... she looked at Billy's corpse. Silly as it sounded, she always felt responsible for what happened to him, how he turned out. She looked at the way the glare from the TV shifted along his anemic looking rib cage and chest. It was then that Angela Carmaggio made up her mind. Billy may have left her, but he would at least have his final supper. With a look of final resignation on her face, Angela gathered up everything she would need and prepared.

Gathering her good linen, china and silverware, she set the table for a grand buffet. Billy sat across from her, his waxen skin and cold, dead muscles shifting against the burden of the ten-penny nails Angela had driven through his arms, legs and wrists and into the hard wood frame of the heavy antique chair. James had bought the two chairs for her on their twentieth wedding anniversary. Unfortunately Billy had broken the other during one of his more intense parties. Billy watched her, his eyes gleaming with an unwholesome light. His lips smacked open and a thin streamer of drool traced its way down his chin, along his chest and into his lap. He tried to kick his legs, but a long deep cut ran along his Achilles tendon.

"Now, Billy, I know you have places to go, but humor your Gran'ma. You're eating with me tonight." A ragged breath escaped his mouth, the jagged cut on his forehead, no longer bleeding, had drained along the left side of his face. "Oh, all right, Billy. Lord how you can be spoiled. But your Gran'ma loves you and everything will be all right." Gathering up a bucket, a mop and the soft blue sponge she proceeded to clean the gore from Billy's face. She dodged the zombie's crude head snapping motions and then cleaned the parkay floor underneath Billy's chair. Outside, the house creaked in protest as a cold, gray November wind buffeted the structure.

A ragged thump resounded from the door in the car-port. "Yes, yes, everyone is so impatient." She looked at Billy. He squirmed in his chair, the nails holding him like a frenetic butterfly. Placing the last of the dishes on the table, she pushed Billy's chair closer to the feast. The table was adorned with all manner of delicacies: rich plates of pasta, freshly cut bread, the large green bowl filled with a crunchy garden salad, two pots of spaghetti sauce (one Marinara, one Italian Sausage... James had always had problems with spicy foods), freshly grated Parmesan cheese, a small container of antipasto salad, a carafe of red wine, and, yes, three dressings (Ranch, Italian and Caesar... with and without anchovies). She had taken the time earlier to change into the beautiful green blouse with the high collar she had bought at Sears a year ago. Now her grandmother's brooch rested on her neck, a gleaming silver button atop the high collar. But still something was missing. Billy had started to rasp and moan. Again, she ran her slim finger along her chin and walked into the kitchen. The coffee maker was on and a velvety sponge cake sat, waiting to be cut. The pounding at the garage door became louder. Her eyes flashed in recognition, how could she be so absent-minded, she thought.

"The guest's have arrived." As she walked towards the door, she saw Chelsea huddled in a corner, ears flat against her head, large black pupils framing her eyes in terror. "Now, Chelsea, it won't be as bad as that, be good. We are all going to have a final supper, and for once Billy will have to eat with me." The door opened into a trio of dull, cavernous appetites. Angela Carmaggio would have been heartened to know that not a piece was wasted.

Billy even had seconds.

Ultimus Cena

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