Note to readers: This article contains content created by LLM ChatGPT. The story portion is the product of my prompt and ChatGPT’s response. The rest of the article is my unadulterated creation, thunk up out of my own brain. Please, contact me with questions related to this article or the series of articles.

Week seven. What I’d like to call the end of the line. Except there is an end of the line, and this is not it. ChatGPT provided a wrap-up scene, admittedly at my request, that I will attempt to include in the next installment.

This impromptu analysis of AI chatbot skills to write fiction began as a grasp at content creation. As I searched for ideas to include in my author newsletter, desperation led to ChatGPT for ideas. Up popped the prompt, “Write a short story.”

Wow. This had to be divinely guided. So I said to ChatGPT, “Let’s dive into crafting a captivating short story. Can you start by asking me what my favorite genre is, and a theme or element I’d like included?”

ChatGPT replied, “Absolutely! What’s your favorite genre to explore in a story and is there a particular theme or element you’d like to include in it?” ChatGPT is fond of the exclamation “Absolutely!”

I prompted, “Mystery with a noir feel and a married private eye. Give it the theme of marital fidelity.” ChatGPT created the opening of “Shadows in the Smoke.”

Early on I identified the possibility of analyzing ChatGPT’s skills as a short story writer. I thought it would make a brilliant series of articles. Maybe I was right. That’s for you to decide.

The effort has been illuminating for me. It enhanced my understanding of LLM chatbots and their potential use in writing fiction.

Comprehending the Large Language Model Artificial Intelligence and its Hirelings.

Originality is not the strong suit of LLM chatbots. Not at this stage of their development. Some models are more creative than others, as I indicated in the previous post. A few employ stricter control over the content they provide. Most, if not all, can be manipulated with sophisticated prompting. Left to their own, chatbots are by definition machines that require human input and interaction to function.

The real question is, at what point are they programmed to “think” creatively? Programmers who are human continue to develop increasingly complex algorithms that mimic the cognitive operations of the human brain. The better they do their job, the less intervention required at the user end. But a human should still read and edit the output to ensure it suits a human audience. Maybe that’s the primary job of authors in the future.

The prompt continues.

Tell me a story, scene seven.

“Shadows in the Smoke”

The days that followed the encounter with Edward were tense and fraught with uncertainty. Harland doubled down on his investigation, determined to find The Widow before she could make another move. He pulled every favor, called in every contact, but The Widow was a ghost—a shadow moving just out of reach.

Eleanor, for her part, remained strong, but Harland could see the fear in her eyes. He knew she was trying to keep it together for his sake, but the strain was beginning to show. The thought that The Widow was still out there, watching, waiting, weighed heavily on both of them.

Then, one night, everything came to a head.

Harland had just returned home from a long day of chasing dead ends when he noticed something was off. The front door was slightly ajar, and there was a strange, oppressive silence in the house. His heart raced as he stepped inside, his hand instinctively reaching for the revolver tucked into his coat.

“Eleanor?” he called out, his voice echoing through the empty hallway.

No answer.

He moved cautiously, every nerve on edge, his mind racing with terrible possibilities. As he approached the living room, he saw her—a figure sitting in the armchair by the window. For a moment, he thought it was Eleanor, but as he stepped closer, the figure turned, revealing a different face. A familiar, cold, calculating face.

It was The Widow.

She smiled at him, a predator’s smile, as she sat calmly in his living room, holding a glass of whiskey as if she owned the place. “Good evening, Mr. Harland. I’ve been expecting you.”

Harland’s blood ran cold. “Where’s Eleanor?” he demanded, his voice like steel.

The Widow’s smile widened, and she nodded toward the corner of the room. Harland’s eyes followed her gaze, and his heart nearly stopped. Eleanor was there, tied to a chair, a gag in her mouth, her eyes wide with fear.

“She’s quite lovely, your wife,” The Widow said, her tone almost playful. “I can see why you’ve gone to such lengths to protect her.”

Harland’s hand tightened around his revolver, his entire body trembling with barely restrained rage. “Let her go. Now.”

The Widow sighed, swirling the whiskey in her glass. “Oh, Mr. Harland, you should know by now that I don’t take orders. But I’m not unreasonable. We can come to an understanding, I’m sure.”

“What do you want?” Harland asked, his voice deadly calm.

The Widow set her glass down on the table, leaning forward slightly. “I want you to walk away. Leave this city, leave this case, and take your lovely wife with you. Disappear. If you do that, I’ll let her go, and you’ll never see me again.”

Harland stared at her, trying to gauge her sincerity. He knew she was a master manipulator, a liar who would say anything to get what she wanted. But he also knew that Eleanor’s life was hanging by a thread, and he couldn’t afford to take any chances.

“And if I don’t?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

The Widow’s smile faded, her eyes turning cold. “If you don’t, then I’ll kill her. Right here, right now. And you’ll spend the rest of your life knowing that you could have saved her.”

The air in the room seemed to grow thicker, heavier, as Harland weighed his options. He could feel Eleanor’s eyes on him, pleading, but he couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t bear to see the fear in her face.

“Why?” Harland asked, his voice raw with emotion. “Why do all of this? You could have had anyone, anything. Why come after me?”

The Widow tilted her head slightly, as if considering his question. “Because, Mr. Harland, you made it personal. You got too close, and you threatened something very important to me. I don’t take kindly to threats.”

Harland’s mind raced. He needed to find a way out, a way to save Eleanor without giving The Widow what she wanted. But the odds were stacked against him, and time was running out.

Then, an idea struck him—a risky, desperate idea, but it was all he had.

He lowered his revolver slightly, trying to appear as though he was considering her offer. “Alright. You win. We’ll leave. Just… let her go.”

The Widow studied him for a moment, clearly suspicious, but she seemed to sense that she had the upper hand. “Smart choice, Mr. Harland. You’re a man who knows when he’s beaten.”

She stood up, moving toward Eleanor, her hand reaching for the knot that bound her wrists. But Harland wasn’t about to let her walk away unscathed.

As The Widow leaned down to untie Eleanor, Harland made his move. In a flash, he raised his revolver and fired—not at The Widow, but at the lamp on the table beside her. The shot shattered the lamp, plunging the room into darkness.

In the chaos, Harland lunged forward, tackling The Widow to the ground. They struggled in the dark, The Widow surprisingly strong and agile, but Harland’s desperation gave him the edge. He pinned her down, pressing the barrel of his revolver against her forehead.

“Don’t move,” he growled, his voice filled with fury.

The Widow laughed, a cold, mocking sound. “You think you’ve won? This isn’t over, Harland. Not by a long shot.”

But Harland wasn’t listening. He grabbed the ropes binding Eleanor and cut them with his pocket knife, freeing her hands and feet. “Eleanor, go! Get out of here!”

Eleanor hesitated, fear and confusion warring on her face. “John, I—”

“Go!” Harland shouted, his voice desperate. “Now!”

Tears streaming down her face, Eleanor finally obeyed, stumbling toward the door and out into the night.

Harland turned his attention back to The Widow, his grip on the revolver unwavering. “You’re done,” he spat. “You’re going to prison for the rest of your life.”

The Widow’s smile never wavered. “Perhaps. But you should know something, Mr. Harland: I’m not the only one. There are others like me, people who thrive on the darkness. And they’re always watching.”

Harland’s resolve hardened. “Not anymore.”

With a swift motion, he struck The Widow on the head, knocking her unconscious. He quickly bound her hands with the ropes that had held Eleanor and then called the police. They arrived within minutes, taking The Widow into custody and finally bringing an end to her reign of terror.

But as Harland watched her being led away in handcuffs, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t truly over. The Widow’s words echoed in his mind—there were others out there, lurking in the shadows, waiting for their chance to strike.

He found Eleanor outside, sitting on the steps, trembling. He knelt beside her, pulling her into a tight embrace. “It’s over,” he whispered. “She’s gone.”

Eleanor clung to him, sobbing quietly. “I was so scared, John. I thought… I thought I’d lost you.”

Harland held her close, his own tears threatening to spill over. “You’ll never lose me, Eleanor. I promise.”

They stayed like that for a long time, holding each other as the night slowly gave way to dawn. The Widow was gone, but the scars she’d left behind would take time to heal.

But Harland knew one thing for certain: he would never let anything come between him and Eleanor again. They had faced the darkness together and survived. And now, they would rebuild, stronger than ever before.

What did we learn about ChatGPT’s ability to tell a quality story?

ChatGPT remains true to its strength by telling us a story. By that, I mean it is good at recounting events that happened without engaging us in the experiences of the characters. Days are tense and fraught, but what does “tense and fraught with uncertainty” actually feel like?

We are told that Harland doubles down. This phrase falls flat next to previous descriptions of Harland’s dogged determination. I’d like a few active examples of doubling down. Pull us in with experiences that show his increased effort.

When ChatGPT summarizes John’s activities of pulling in favors, it cheats us out of living the story along with him. It fails to involve me at a visceral level. Telling me John is desperate to protect his wife, Eleanor, doesn’t create empathy.

Finally, Harland arrives home and discovers the door to his home is ajar. This beat has potential. Our anticipation rises. But then we are told that Harland’s “every nerve is on edge” and his mind races with “terrible possibilities.” What terrible possibilities? We must make up our own. ChatGPT assumes things not in evidence. It fails to recognize the human need for vicarious experience.

When John recognizes the nefarious and elusive Widow sitting in his armchair, drinking a glass of whiskey, we get a nibble of terrible. Of course, ChatGPT relies on the power of cliché to relay his emotions. Blood runs cold, heart nearly stops, hand tightens around the revolver, and body trembles. But not out of fear for his wife. With rage. Presumably, John fears nothing, including the death of his wife. Anger at being outsmarted, however, that inspires emotions.

If we evaluate the plot generated by ChatGPT, we will be even more disappointed. By some frightening set of confidence skills, The Widow weaseled her way into Harland and Eleanor’s home. She then overpowered the poor domestic and tied her to a chair. After this masterful feat, she settled in for a calm conversation with Harland and presented her ultimatum. Leave town, or I’ll kill your wife.

ChatGPT knows John Harland’s mind must be quick and smart. It devises a brilliant ruse. John simply agrees to leave town. The Widow accepts his line as genuine. After all, she is the deviant. While Harland is an upstanding citizen incapable of deceit. Easy as that, and, all by her little ol’ lonesome, no helper in sight, she reaches over to untie Eleanor.

That’s when our quick-witted detective makes his move. He tackles the unassisted Widow to the ground, places a gun to her head, and quickly and incredibly cuts Eleanor free. All this without losing control of a criminal so diabolical she’s evaded the law for years, possibly decades.

And what is The Widow’s response? Nanny nanny boo boo, there’s more of us nasty people out there! Which, to me, sounds like job security for a private detective.

John knocks her out after she presents her pitiful comeback. With The Widow arrested and safety restored in their home, ChatGPT provides an ending line of hope using another cliché. “They had faced the darkness together and survived. And now, they would rebuild, stronger than ever before.”

Presumably, the LLM chatbot searched the wide, wide web to find stories of like kind in order to build this story. Which makes me worry about the quality of fiction floating around in the cloud. Fiction written by people. People who call themselves writers.