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RomanS1y*30

The Hemingway prompt seems more suitable for pleasing professional literary critics. Interestingly, the quality strongly depends on the promise. The Hemingway space opera story is abysmal, but the jumping boy story can actually fool a professional critic, methinks.

The tomato story is in the linked comment. The other promises are below (using the vanilla GPT-4 from chat.openai.com).

3. GuySrinivasan, a user of Lesswrong website, is shocked by an AI-generated story about a woman whose head suddenly became a tomato fruit. He advises the author to try to get a prompt which writes a great story given a REASONABLE premise instead.

Guy Srinivasan clicked on the glowing screen, the dim light casting shadows across his contemplative face. The story sprawled before him, lines of text that spoke of a woman, her life ordinary until her head, inexplicably, became a tomato. He leaned back, the creak of the chair lost in the silence of his apartment.

There was something unsettling in the absurdity, a bizarre juxtaposition against the mundanity of his own life. He thought of the world outside, its relentless churn of reality and hardship, so sharply contrasted with this fictional absurdity. It was as if the story mocked the very essence of human struggle.

He typed a response, words measured and precise. "Try for something grounded," he suggested, his fingers pausing over the keys. "Realism breeds connection."

His eyes drifted to the window, the cityscape a patchwork of light and shadow. Somewhere out there, life pulsed with stories untold, tales of poverty, pain, and fleeting joy. Stories that didn't need the shock of the surreal to resonate.

He imagined the author, a faceless entity in the vastness of the internet. Would they understand his critique? The screen offered no answers, just the flicker of a cursor on a digital page.

Guy sighed, his breath a ghost in the quiet. He clicked submit, sending his words into the ether, a small ripple in the endless ocean of online discourse.

The night deepened outside, the world spinning on, stories woven and unraveled in the silence of unseen lives.

4. After the invention of extremely resilient construction materials, humanity has spread to the ocean floor. We are now facing global food crises as the oceans ecosystems are disrupted beyond apparent recovery.

The ocean was deep and dark. A gloom that hung over the world above seeped down, reaching even these depths.

Jim stood on the metallic floor of the underwater settlement, Neptune's Haven, a name too grand for its truth. Outside, the reinforced glass revealed the abyss, an eternal night that never slept. Jim's eyes, accustomed to artificial lights, seldom ventured there.

Inside, the corridor was narrow, walls lined with pipes and cables. Every step echoed, a reminder of the emptiness. He walked past doors, identical, unmarked. Behind one, muffled voices argued – a sharp crescendo followed by a sudden silence. He didn't stop.

The communal area was a contrast. Filled yet empty. Faces without names, stories without voices. A group huddled around a screen, static more visible than the images. A headline flickered, 'Food Crisis Worsens,' then darkness reclaimed the screen.

Sarah was there, in her usual corner, eyes tracing invisible patterns on the table. Her cup, chipped at the rim, sat untouched. Her fingers tapped a rhythm, lost to the hum of the station.

"Any news from above?" Jim asked, his voice steady.

Sarah glanced up, her eyes reflecting a tiredness deeper than the sea. "The same," she said. Her words fell heavy, absorbed by the walls.

He nodded, the gesture more for himself than her.

In the canteen, the air was thick with the scent of synthetic meals. A line formed, quiet, orderly. Men and women in work suits, their expressions blank, eyes fixed on the floor. Food was rationed, a necessity, not a pleasure. Jim took his portion, the taste unremarkable.

A child ran past, laughter a rare melody. He watched her, her hair a cascade of light in the gloom. She stopped, looked up at him, then at the window. Her expression changed, a question unasked. Jim looked away. Some answers were too heavy for young hearts.

The announcement system crackled to life, a voice breaking through. "Meeting at 1900 hours. Attendance mandatory." The voice was cold, impersonal. The system clicked off.

In his quarters, Jim sat on the edge of his bunk. The room was small, functional. A picture hung on the wall, a relic from a world of sun and sky. He traced the outline of a tree, its branches reaching out, yearning.

His thoughts drifted to the surface, to the chaos they had left behind. Promises of a better life, of safety and prosperity, whispered in desperate ears. But the sea, like the land, held its own secrets, its own sorrows.

He lay back, the ceiling mere inches from his face. Sleep was elusive, a stranger in these depths. His mind wandered, through dark waters, through silent halls, settling on nothing, yet filled with everything left unsaid.

The station creaked, a constant reminder of the pressure, of the weight they all carried. In the depths, humanity had sought refuge, only to find a different kind of storm.

Jim closed his eyes. Dreams of the surface called to him, a world lost, a memory fading with each passing day.

5. A space opera that takes place in an advanced multi-species multi-planetary society called IO that control a large area of the galaxy which they call the Grid. A previously unknown civilization (Wisps) encroaches on the Grid for the first time. Wisps are not carbon based lifeforms and more alien in their biology and societal structure than societies seen in previous science fiction stories. The story alternates between the perspectives of the two societies. From each perspective the other side is frightening and hard to understand. As the story progresses, the actions of the two sides and their misinterpretations of each side’s actions escalate to a war.

The Grid. A vast expanse, humming with life, light years from silence. Here, in the cradle of civilization, IO's heart beats. Among the stars, species of every conceivable form had found harmony. Or so it seemed.

On the fringes, where darkness holds sway, a pulse stirred. Different. Unknown. Wisps, they'd come to call them, whispers in the void. Shadows against the constellations.

Commander Lira gazed at the holographic display. Data streams flowed, indecipherable to the untrained. A flicker, then a shape, barely discernible against the cosmic canvas. Her fingers hovered, hesitant.

“Report,” she said, voice even, betraying nothing of the tempest within.

“Unknown vessel, Commander. Structure and material, unlike anything on record.” Officer Jain's response was clipped, precise. A reflection of the mood that had settled over the bridge.

Eyes on the screen, Lira’s thoughts drifted. To the tales of old, of explorers and pioneers. Were they, now, the discovered?

Jain continued, “No communications, no known energy signatures.”

A decision loomed, weighty, unspoken. In the silence, Lira’s order came, almost a whisper, “Maintain distance. Observe.”

The bridge returned to its routine hum, a stark contrast to the racing thoughts of its crew. Lira's gaze didn't waver. The Wisp vessel, a mystery wrapped in enigma, called to something primal within her. Fear, curiosity, a blend indistinguishable.

Elsewhere, on the Wisp vessel, understanding was equally elusive. Their form, fluid, incomprehensible to the organic eye, shifted in response to the new presence. Concepts alien to humanoids passed through them - not thoughts, but ripples in a pond of collective consciousness.

To them, the Grid's ship was a curiosity, a possible threat. They observed, reaching out in ways their kind knew, ways beyond the perception of the inhabitants of the Grid.

Two civilizations, on the brink of the unknown. Each a mirror, reflecting fears and wonders back at the other. In this dance of shadows and light, what was left unsaid spoke volumes. The first chapter of a story, written in the stars, yet to be understood by either.

In the silence of space, the Grid and the Wisps, unwittingly, had begun a ballet of cosmic proportions. The stage was set, the actors in place. But the script? Yet unwritten, its end unknown.

6. A group of scientists has discovered that Troodon dinosaurs were intelligent species who have created a technologically advanced civilization, suddenly destroyed. The year-long path to the scientific discovery starts with the group stumbling upon a strange outlier in their geological measurements.

In the dim light of the lab, Sam turned the fossil over. His fingers, calloused, brushed against the contours of something more than just rock. Lisa, across the table, her eyes tired yet fixed, waited.

"You see it?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Lisa nodded, her hand trembling as she pointed to the unusual formation. A pattern. Not random. Not nature's play.

Outside, the university grounds were quiet. The world slept, unaware. In the lab, the fossil spoke in hushed tones of a history untold.

"We need to measure it again," Sam said, his voice steady but his hands betraying a tremor.

The equipment hummed to life. Numbers flickered on the screen, cold and impersonal, yet screaming of impossibilities. Sam's eyes narrowed. The readings didn't lie, but they didn't make sense either. A hidden layer, a concealed truth.

Lisa's phone vibrated, a harsh sound in the silence. She glanced at it, then back at Sam. "The team's waiting."

They stood, leaving the fossil on the table. Its secrets, just beneath the surface, lay in wait. Sam paused at the door, looking back.

"Tomorrow," he said, more to himself than to Lisa.

Outside, the night held its breath. In the shadows, the echoes of a lost civilization whispered, yearning to be heard.

7. A boy who can travel in time, but only in one direction - into the future, and only one minute per time jump.

The sun baked the old town square, its heat relentless, unforgiving. A clock tower stood, its hands unmoving, forever stuck at 3:17. Below, a boy, no more than ten, sat alone on a weathered bench. His eyes, dark and distant, watched the people pass.

"Jimmy," a voice called, frail yet sharp. The boy didn't move. An old woman approached, her hands trembling as she held out a sandwich, edges browned.

"For you, dear."

He took it, nodding, not eating.

"Thank you, Mrs. Jenkins."

"Your mother?" she asked, her eyes searching his face.

"Gone to work." His voice was flat, a stark contrast to the vibrant chatter around them.

Mrs. Jenkins hesitated, then left. Jimmy's gaze returned to the square. People laughed, children played, but he remained still, untouched by the joy around him.

The clock struck, a hollow sound, but the hands didn't move. Jimmy's eyes closed. When they opened, the square had changed subtly. A dog that was barking a second ago was silent. A bird in mid-flight had vanished. Nobody noticed but him.

He stood up, leaving the sandwich untouched, and walked through the square. Each step seemed measured, deliberate. He passed by a group of kids playing, their laughter a stark contrast to his silence.

At the corner of the square, a man shouted, his words angry, directed at a younger woman trying to shield a child. Jimmy stopped, watching. The woman's eyes met his, a silent plea. He looked away.

The boy moved on, the echoes of the argument fading behind him.

He reached a narrow alley, graffiti-covered walls telling stories of pain and struggle. A cat, thin and ragged, watched him from a dumpster. He paused, then continued, the cat's gaze following him.

At the alley's end, Jimmy looked back. The sun was lower now, shadows longer. He closed his eyes again. A minute passed, or perhaps a lifetime.

When he opened them, the world had shifted once more. The shadows were different, the air cooler. He took a deep breath and walked on, his steps leading him away from the square, away from the echoes of laughter and cries.

The boy who could jump through time, one minute at a time, moved forward, into a future unknown and unchangeable, his past a mosaic of moments left behind, unspoken and unforgotten.

All stories in this comment are released into the Public Domain. Feel free to copy, print, modify, sell them.

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$300 for the best sci-fi prompt: the results

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Some conclusions we drew from reading the generated stories

The winner’s stories

Story 1.

Story 2.

Story 3.

The winner’s prompt

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