Peanuts In My Pocket

Since retiring last November, I’ve been using ChatGPT daily as both a research tool and an editing assistant. I’m working on a novel, though the process presents many challenges. ChatGPT has been invaluable for feedback and editing, and I can see my writing improving, albeit with some tough critiques along the way. Despite its support, I’ve never been tempted to let it create fiction for me. But I’ve learned that if I’m not cautious with my prompts, it can inject “value-added” content that derails my narrative. Once, it even churned out a thousand words of irrelevant material, adding new characters and taking my story in an entirely unintended direction.

This experience made me wonder: is AI-authored fiction a current or future possibility? Could I even distinguish it from human-authored work? To explore, I started an experiment six months ago, using random writing prompts from r/WritingPrompts. I’d enter a simple command, something like, “Write a short story based on this prompt,” followed by a prompt such as this one from a few years back: “As death swings its scythe at you, you block and grab, wrenching the scythe from its arms. Death stops, smiles, says ‘No takesies backsies!’ then turns and runs.”

At first, the responses were unimpressive. But with the release of version 4, I tried the same prompt again and was genuinely surprised by the results. The story was decent—engaging, even—and far better than my initial attempt, though unpublished. I’ve included the AI’s version at the end of this post, should you be curious.

I suspect we are on the brink of a revolution in writing and content creation. As we refine our ability to use AI for writing, the outputs may become indistinguishable from human work. The only factor is time. Even with a simple prompt, ChatGPT managed to produce a compelling narrative. Imagine the potential when prompts become more intricate or as AI technology continues to advance. I don’t know if AI will ultimately replace writers, but it will undoubtedly transform the way we approach writing. What do you think?

The Scythe’s Burden
By ChatGPT

The moon hung low, casting a pallid glow over the deserted street. I should have seen it coming, but no one ever does. One moment I was walking home, mind occupied with the trivialities of life, and the next, the cold breeze whispered a name—a name I hadn’t heard in years. My name.

I turned, and there it was. Death. Tall, cloaked in shadows, its skeletal hand gripped a scythe that glistened as if it were hungry for souls. Mine, to be precise.

“Well,” Death said, its voice a dry rasp, “time’s up.”

Instinct took over before fear could set in. As Death swung its scythe, a force deep within me—some primal survival instinct—urged me to move. I dodged to the side and grabbed the long handle of the scythe mid-swing. Time itself seemed to slow. My fingers tightened, and with a grunt, I wrenched the weapon from Death’s bony grip.

The sound of the scythe slipping from its hands was oddly satisfying.

Death stopped. Its empty eye sockets locked onto mine, its head cocking to the side as if contemplating what had just happened. Then, to my surprise, it smiled. A wide, crooked, and oddly human grin.

“No takesies backsies!” it said with a strange, almost playful lilt in its tone.

And then, without another word, it turned and ran.

I stood there, gripping the scythe, dumbfounded. I’d just disarmed Death, and now, Death was running from me. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go. My heart pounded, the weight of the scythe suddenly heavy in my hands, far heavier than it looked. The cold metal hummed in my grip, as if alive, vibrating with the resonance of countless souls it had claimed.

“Hey!” I yelled, unsure of what else to say. “Get back here!”

But Death was already a silhouette in the distance, vanishing into the fog that rolled in from nowhere. The street fell silent. The world fell silent.

I was alone. Alone with Death’s scythe.

For a moment, I wondered if this was some cosmic joke, if Death had just pulled a fast one on me. But as I stood there, the weight of the scythe seemed to grow heavier still. A sudden surge of awareness hit me like a freight train—I wasn’t just holding a weapon. I was holding responsibility.

My breath caught as a figure stepped out from the shadows. A young man, barely out of his teens, wide-eyed and pale, stared at me. His face was gaunt, his cheeks hollow, and his eyes… his eyes held the unmistakable look of someone whose time had come.

“No,” I whispered, realizing too late what was about to happen.

The scythe acted on its own. My arms, no longer mine to command, moved in a swift arc. The blade passed through the air with a soft hum, slicing reality itself. There was no blood. No scream. Just a soft sigh as the boy crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

I stared at him, horror flooding every inch of me.

The scythe thrummed again in my grip, impatient. I could feel it—more souls waiting, more names whispered on the wind. A pull I couldn’t resist, a job that was now mine.

“No… no, no, no!” I dropped the scythe, but it didn’t fall. Instead, it hovered just above the ground, tethered to me by something far stronger than flesh or bone.

I had stolen Death’s scythe. And now, I was Death.

From the fog ahead, I heard a familiar voice, distant yet mocking. “No takesies backsies!” Death called, laughter trailing behind it like the echo of a forgotten dream.

I sank to my knees, the weight of eternity pressing down on me, the scythe vibrating with silent demands.

It turns out, no one can cheat death. Not even me.