This Chat GPT sounds a bit challenging/worrying for us authors. But is it any good? I decided to put it to the test by getting it to write some flash fiction based on the theme of one of my short stories.
Both are included below. Can you spot the prose that took hours and days for a human brain and hand to craft, and the one that was zipped out in a nanosecond by a machine in the ether, the cloud or wherever?
The challenge I posed ChatGPT was:
Write a short story about a fight in a bar.
STORY A
The atmosphere in the bar was tense. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of alcohol. The patrons were a mix of regulars and newcomers, all gathered to drink away their troubles. It was a Friday night and the bar was packed.
At a table in the corner, two men were arguing. They had been drinking heavily for hours and their tempers had flared. The argument quickly turned into a shouting match, and before anyone could intervene, one of the men threw a punch. It landed squarely on the other man's jaw and he stumbled backwards, knocking over his chair.
The other patrons of the bar jumped to their feet, trying to separate the two men before things got out of hand. But it was too late. The man who had been punched retaliated with a wild swing, connecting with his opponent's nose.
Blood splattered across the table and the floor as the injured man clutched his face and howled in pain. The other patrons shouted and tried to pull the two men apart, but they were too drunk and too angry to listen.
Suddenly, a burly bouncer appeared at the scene. He grabbed both men by the scruff of their necks and threw them outside. They stumbled into the streets still shouting and flailing at each other.
The other patrons shook their heads and went back to their drinks, knowing that it was just another night at the bar. As for the two men, they eventually tired themselves out and staggered off in opposite directions, nursing their wounds and nursing their grudges.
The bar returned to its usual buzz, but the fight had left a mark. The tension was still palpable, and everyone knew it could erupt again at any moment. But for now, at least, the bar was quiet.
STORY B
I lassooed a chair above my head and let fly, missing everyone, save the pinball machine whose lights I knocked out. The landlord cursed. Bodies continued to land before, on and beyond his bar. He repelled all advances on his till with a snarl, an upturned, half-empty bottle of rum and genuine threats of legal action.
No one saw who called the ceasefire, but it was universally observed. Brawlers froze like a Christmas Day in the trenches, perhaps. A casualty cut her way through the crowd, small hand held to small forehead. Blood trickling through slender many-ringed fingers. Men with bruised eyes followed her all the way into the ladies, violence no longer the object of their desire.
The respite was short-lived. The tap shut of the toilet door was the battle cry. Hostilities resumed.
Pool cues were snapped in two over knees and employed as anorexic baseball bats, if you please. A red raw hand paid a pound for a game, but used the triangle as a grenade, the chalk as shrapnel, the balls as cannon fodder.
Flashing blue ended the performance. The law came to restore and order us all to spread ‘em and introduce hands to walls. The landlord surveyed the scene with distaste. There were superficial injuries to pub and punter alike. Thoughts returned to the girl. A WPC was dispatched to the WC but returned empty-handed.
But when cautions had been grudgingly accepted, shards of glass swept from sight and blood wiped from walls, those who were there were scarred and sore but not without satisfaction. Because on that day as we’d tried to kill each other, we’d stopped to smell a rose.
