Khamon
Folk Harpist
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Agreed because the editor would have replaced "draw no problem," with "draw, 'no problem,' " and "bad" with "badly."
LOL! Boooooooks
- Thread starter Kamilah Hauptmann
- Start date
Jopsy Pendragon
Make Authoritarianism Go Away
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Hm. "Chatgpt, make a very short story for my friend Free, very loosely using all 8 of the 'how to devastate a reader' bullet points, in the voice of Dr. Seuss about a Lovecraftian xmas holiday and really reach for an emotionally devastating surprise conclusion":I need to find some newer writers who know these things.
THE NIGHT THE STAR FELL ON NURK
In the small snowy town that was called Little Nurk,
Where folks trimmed their trees with a holiday smirk,
There lived young Liddy Loom—full of cheer, full of will—
With a heart like a lantern on Wintervale Hill.
She waited each year for the Glimmering Star,
A bright streak of shimmer that fell from afar.
It always meant joy; it always meant light—
Till the year something else tumbled down through the night.
It started at midnight (as gut-punches do),
With a hush so abrupt that it silenced the flue.
The wind froze mid-howl. The clock froze mid-tick.
Even Liddy’s own breath fell unnervingly quick.
A sound like a whimper crawled under the door—
Not loud, but the kind that nestles deep in your core.
And Liddy, sweet Liddy, with mittens of red,
Stepped into the frost where the village lights bled.
The Star lay before her, cracked open and humming,
As though something inside it was wincing at coming.
She whispered, “You’re hurt!” in a voice soft and slack—
And the thing in the Star whispered faintly:
“You… were supposed… to come back.”
Her heart tripped a step. Her breath jittered thin.
Something old in her bones seemed to tremble and grin.
For deep down she knew—though she wished she did not—
That the Star wasn’t fallen.
It merely had sought.
It stretched in the snow like a long dreadful sigh,
A tangle of limbs learning how to be “I.”
Its many-soft eyes wept a shimmering brine.
It said, “Liddy Loom… you were always mine.”
She wanted to answer—a line, small and brave—
But the words that could save you can misbehave.
Her silence said more than a speech ever could:
It said fear, it said love, it said I never understood.
The creature shuddered. “Forgive me,” it moaned,
In a voice that made galaxies wither and groan.
“I still love you… but I can’t… stay contained.”
Its edges unraveled.
Its outline reframed.
And Liddy, dear Liddy, stepped closer in sorrow,
For she’d dreamed of this Star every frosted Tomorrow—
Not knowing it learned her, remembered her, kept her—
Not knowing she’d shaped it each winter it swept her.
Then the light folded inward—a soft, dreadful spark—
And the world went abruptly, unseasonably dark.
No explosion. No scream. No cinematic display.
Just her mitten on snow
…with no Liddy attached in any visible way.
The next dawn the townsfolk found signs she had stayed:
Her boots in the doorway, her scarf neatly laid.
A mug by the window still steaming with tea.
All the mundane small artifacts
left of a she.
And outside in the snow, on Wintervale Hill,
Where her lantern once glowed with particular will,
A trail of faint starlight now spiraled below—
Leading into a darkness
that glimmered
just so.
Some say the Star took her.
Some say she agreed.
But all know the lesson
that Little Nurk heeds:
Be careful which lights you adore in the sky—
For the brightest stare back at you, as they cry.
In the small snowy town that was called Little Nurk,
Where folks trimmed their trees with a holiday smirk,
There lived young Liddy Loom—full of cheer, full of will—
With a heart like a lantern on Wintervale Hill.
She waited each year for the Glimmering Star,
A bright streak of shimmer that fell from afar.
It always meant joy; it always meant light—
Till the year something else tumbled down through the night.
It started at midnight (as gut-punches do),
With a hush so abrupt that it silenced the flue.
The wind froze mid-howl. The clock froze mid-tick.
Even Liddy’s own breath fell unnervingly quick.
A sound like a whimper crawled under the door—
Not loud, but the kind that nestles deep in your core.
And Liddy, sweet Liddy, with mittens of red,
Stepped into the frost where the village lights bled.
The Star lay before her, cracked open and humming,
As though something inside it was wincing at coming.
She whispered, “You’re hurt!” in a voice soft and slack—
And the thing in the Star whispered faintly:
“You… were supposed… to come back.”
Her heart tripped a step. Her breath jittered thin.
Something old in her bones seemed to tremble and grin.
For deep down she knew—though she wished she did not—
That the Star wasn’t fallen.
It merely had sought.
It stretched in the snow like a long dreadful sigh,
A tangle of limbs learning how to be “I.”
Its many-soft eyes wept a shimmering brine.
It said, “Liddy Loom… you were always mine.”
She wanted to answer—a line, small and brave—
But the words that could save you can misbehave.
Her silence said more than a speech ever could:
It said fear, it said love, it said I never understood.
The creature shuddered. “Forgive me,” it moaned,
In a voice that made galaxies wither and groan.
“I still love you… but I can’t… stay contained.”
Its edges unraveled.
Its outline reframed.
And Liddy, dear Liddy, stepped closer in sorrow,
For she’d dreamed of this Star every frosted Tomorrow—
Not knowing it learned her, remembered her, kept her—
Not knowing she’d shaped it each winter it swept her.
Then the light folded inward—a soft, dreadful spark—
And the world went abruptly, unseasonably dark.
No explosion. No scream. No cinematic display.
Just her mitten on snow
…with no Liddy attached in any visible way.
The next dawn the townsfolk found signs she had stayed:
Her boots in the doorway, her scarf neatly laid.
A mug by the window still steaming with tea.
All the mundane small artifacts
left of a she.
And outside in the snow, on Wintervale Hill,
Where her lantern once glowed with particular will,
A trail of faint starlight now spiraled below—
Leading into a darkness
that glimmered
just so.
Some say the Star took her.
Some say she agreed.
But all know the lesson
that Little Nurk heeds:
Be careful which lights you adore in the sky—
For the brightest stare back at you, as they cry.
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Asking ChatGPT to compose a story in an existing author's voice while using well trodden themes from another seems somewhat contrary to finding "newer writers." But I guess we can always use one more vaguely kidnappy Christmas tale.
Jopsy Pendragon
Make Authoritarianism Go Away
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The bit I struggle with most when it comes to prompts is getting any kind of nuance out of elements I want included. It has no subtlety. Every version (yes I made several before setting on that one) had some stupid mention of the "still warm mug of {whatever}" no matter how much leeway I told it it had.
And I still had to edit it to correct the beats per rhyme, which was savagely far off in several places. (I'm sure I missed several)
At least I convinced it to m not use characters from another story idea that had no business in this stupid refugee from The Aisle of Slop.
Veritable Quandry
Specializing in derails and train wrecks.
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That's why it is terrible at summaries. No nuance. It misses important details that a human usually picks out.
Isabeau
Merdeuse
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Sort of related
www.aboutamazon.com
New Kindle feature offers instant spoiler-free answers to questions about your books
“Ask this Book” is now available on the Kindle iOS app in the U.S. for thousands of English-language books.
www.aboutamazon.com
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Isabeau
Merdeuse
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In the same vein as “can you visualize an apple in your mind”,
bsky.app
It‘s kind of difficult, or it was for me, to know what it is exactly that you do until you really think about it.
For me, yes, but the colours aren’t as vivid as when actually watching a movie with my eyes (still can’t quite believe people can do this). I do need to make out all the spatial surroundings. Even if there are barely any descriptions, I have to build a set.
ex.
I just started reading Automatic Noodle, by Annalee Newitz and I constructed a whole street kitchen in my head and placed the different characters here and there since the scene is quite a few pages long. The author does describe a few items, so I base my “set” on what is given. Of course, if she writes “he opened the giant red fridge door” on the following page, my brain will replace whatever I had imagined with that .
I think I once wrote here about reading two thirds of a book only to realize one of the characters had lost both his parents (not both his arms!) in an explosion, and how I had visualized him the whole time with no arms.
Grace 🏳️🌈 (@graceverything.bsky.social)
Can yall visualise the books you’re reading?! #booksky
bsky.app
It‘s kind of difficult, or it was for me, to know what it is exactly that you do until you really think about it.
For me, yes, but the colours aren’t as vivid as when actually watching a movie with my eyes (still can’t quite believe people can do this). I do need to make out all the spatial surroundings. Even if there are barely any descriptions, I have to build a set.
ex.
I just started reading Automatic Noodle, by Annalee Newitz and I constructed a whole street kitchen in my head and placed the different characters here and there since the scene is quite a few pages long. The author does describe a few items, so I base my “set” on what is given. Of course, if she writes “he opened the giant red fridge door” on the following page, my brain will replace whatever I had imagined with that .
I think I once wrote here about reading two thirds of a book only to realize one of the characters had lost both his parents (not both his arms!) in an explosion, and how I had visualized him the whole time with no arms.
Isabeau
Merdeuse
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Cindy Claveau
Radical Left Degenerate
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Scott Adams, 'Dilbert' creator and conservative commentator, dies at 68
I enjoyed his books but I'm not that sad about this for obvious reasons.
I enjoyed his books but I'm not that sad about this for obvious reasons.
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Isabeau
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Poetry is still printed in books, right?
gizmodo.com
Ancient 'Dial-a-Poem' Service Rises From the Grave, Lets You Use Your Phone as a Phone
There's something rather poetic about a service designed to breathe life back into poetry getting resurrected after all these years.
gizmodo.com
Isabeau
Merdeuse
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Something To Pass On
A glimpse of the far future of books, information storage and our role in the wider universe.
everythingisamazing.substack.com
Evernote Link
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Hyperion author Dan Simmons dies from stroke at 77
I went into Hyperion blind, decades ago, knowing almost nothing about it. I was never the same.
arstechnica.com
I regularly reread Simmon's Hyperion books every few years.
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Happy World Book Day!
Grab your favorite books from the shelf they live on most of the year and take them for a walk, or an ice cream cone, or to play in the park. They deserve it.
Grab your favorite books from the shelf they live on most of the year and take them for a walk, or an ice cream cone, or to play in the park. They deserve it.