Human vs. AI Writing?

 

Three free writes, two by human writers and one by AI. Rick and I free write some mornings, taking our notebooks and pen to our favorite café (see photo). We find a prompt, usually a person and write non stop for 10 minutes not bothering to correct or change…that can come later. The goal is to get the creativity sparked for writing later in the day.

We are both professional writers. Rick’s specialty is airline journalism. Mine is fiction with a dite of non-fiction thrown in.

We invited AI to join us giving the computer the same prompts as we wrote to. Here are the three stories.

*****

The Man in the Chair

José had taken the kitchen chair outside, the one his late wife had painted before her heart attack. He could never be in the kitchen without seeing two medics put that damned instrument on her chest. Her body had jumped.

Legally, they couldn’t call her dead. That had to be done at the hospital where they took her body.

It had been nine months and three days. Shouldn’t the memory have faded?

He’d survived Christmas without her. The mimosa had come and gone in the village and now the summer tourists were dribbling in. It would be worse when school was out. Then they would arrive with their license plates from Paris, the UK, the Netherlands, Germany and God knows where else.

The coffee had finished perking. He had never learned to make coffee like she did. Why hadn’t he told her how it was better than most cafés.

Why hadn’t he done a lot of things? She’d wanted to travel, but he loved staying in the village, seeing people he knew, not needing a map to find somewhere.

The chair was a dark blue. His wife talked about color a lot. He only noticed if she’d pointed it out. Now he noticed colors, the green walls of the funeral home or the broccoli at the green grocers.

He placed his chair outside his front door. The houses on the street were all 400 years old or more. Once cattle and chickens would have walked there.

The day was going to be warm after weeks of wind and rain. He turned his facet o the sun.

 

Beau de Soleil

 

Enriqué had told his friend that he wanted to escape the village for a few days. He needed a change of scenery. So here he was in another small French village, only further south and overrun with holiday tourists, also escaping, for the long Ascension weekend.

 

He had unfortunately booked into a gite that was on a well-travelled road, though he had discovered that in the morning, after the mini-rush of the few villagers who worked jobs requiring car transport, the street was lightly travelled in mid-morning.

 

So here he sat on a chair brought down from his austere 3eme étage room, facing the sun in the southeast sky. Would he even go back to his village? It was dying, as was he, and the village's demise hastened his own.

 

But if not back, where? He had a small state pension, but it was only usable in France, and he yearned to be free of the sameness. He had never traveled; his late wife had never been interested. 

 

Their children had moved away - to Angleterre, to America - and he could not afford the fare to either. And what would he do in an Anglo-speaking country?

 

As he basked in the first warm day of late spring, thinking it might be pleasant to simply die in this chair, an ancient Citroen trundled up the street and coughed to a stop. He recognized its faded black sheen. 

 

The driver struggled out the door and stood before him. "Come home, Enriqué," the driver said. "Come die where we were born."

ChatGPT

In a picturesque village nestled in the sun-soaked south of France, an older man named Henri found solace in the simple pleasures of life. With a weathered face and a gentle smile, he sat in his favorite wooden chair, strategically positioned on the side of a narrow street. The chair was worn and creaky, just like Henri, but it held a wealth of memories and provided him a front-row seat to the enchanting happenings of the village.

Every morning, as the golden sunbeams danced through the narrow street, Henri positioned his chair just so, ensuring that he soaked up the warmth and basked in its comforting embrace. The gentle rays caressed his skin, revitalizing his weary bones and bringing a twinkle to his eyes. This simple act became a ritual, a moment of pure bliss that Henri looked forward to each day.

From his vantage point, Henri witnessed the ebb and flow of life in the village. The rhythmic footsteps of locals and the occasional meandering tourists formed a soothing symphony, a soundtrack to his peaceful existence. Neighbors greeted each other with warm smiles, exchanging snippets of news and laughter. Children, filled with boundless energy, skipped and played, their joy echoing through the village square.

Henri became an observer of life's intricacies. He marveled at the vibrant colors of flowers spilling over balcony railings, their fragrance lingering in the air. He listened intently to the lilting tunes of street musicians, their melodies weaving tales of love and longing. Each passing season brought its own delights – the sweet scent of lavender in the summer, the rustle of falling leaves in autumn, the gentle whisper of rain on cobblestones in winter, and the burst of new life in the spring.

But it was the people that captivated Henri the most. He knew the stories of those who passed by, their triumphs and sorrows etched into the lines on their faces. He recognized the laughter of young lovers, their hearts entwined in a dance as old as time. He witnessed the shared grief of a mourning family, as they clung to each other for strength. And through it all, Henri, with his kind eyes and gentle demeanor, silently offered solace and wisdom, his mere presence a comforting embrace for those who needed it.

As the years passed, the village changed. New faces emerged while others faded away, buildings were restored or repurposed, and traditions intertwined with modernity. But Henri remained a constant, a fixture in the tapestry of the village's soul. His chair may have grown older, and his bones wearier, but his spirit remained resilient and ever curious.

One fine summer morning, as Henri sat in his chair, basking in the sunlight as he had done countless times before, a young child approached him. With wide eyes filled with curiosity, the child gazed up at the old man and asked, "Why do you sit here every day, Monsieur Henri?"

Henri smiled warmly and replied, "My dear child, I sit here to witness life unfolding. To cherish the beauty of this village and its people. To savor the sunlight on my face and the joy in my heart. And perhaps, just perhaps, to remind others to pause and find solace in the simple pleasures of life."

The child nodded, satisfied with the answer, and ran off to join a group of friends playing in the distance. Henri watched them go, his heart swelling with a profound sense of gratitude for the life he had lived and the lessons he had learned.

And so, Henri continued to sit in his chair, basking in the sunlight, on the side of the narrow street in the small village in the south of France. His presence became a beacon of wisdom and comfort,

 So what do you think. Will AI writing replace human writing or will it be in addition?