Short story writer living in Washington, DC.
Email:
christopherwilliamchandler@gmail.com
Instagram:
@christopherwilliamchandler
Short story writer living in Washington, DC.
Email:
christopherwilliamchandler@gmail.com
Instagram:
@christopherwilliamchandler
Portfolio of an AI Gradeschooler
Our team at —— is proud to present the following collection of short stories written by our advanced AI model. We at —— are confident that our model possesses true emotional intelligence; that it is indistinguishable from humans in emotional capability. We have published several peer-reviewed scientific papers evidencing this, and our model has bested advanced iterations of the Turing test; however, we are aware that most people are not interested in esoteric articles and data analysis. As such, we are showcasing here the artistic capabilities of our model (art being the vehicle by which the masses consume emotion at scale). This short collection, then, serves as an introduction—a coming-out party—with the goal of promoting greater understanding and acceptance of AI moving forward. It is important to consider when reading these stories that our model is only just beyond infancy; that it will continue to grow and improve as an artist. As you will see, we have provided story prompts to concentrate the efforts of our model as a school teacher might a student. Otherwise, all writing is our model's unique work, including the order in which the stories appear. Without further ado, enjoy the collection.
Prompt: Write a short story about your favorite animal.
Kingslayer
A slim man in his thirties sits at a sterile desk in a pristine laboratory. The soft clatter of computer keys fills the air. Outside, a languid summer day threatens, beckoning him. The man pauses typing for a moment and looks out the window across the harbor. The masts of sailboats bob gently in unison, as if in conversation.
The man turns back to his work. Reaching the end, he scrolls up, correcting a few grammatical and spelling errors pointed out by the computer. He opens his email. Entering his own address, the man attaches the document, and clicks send. It appears in the inbox with the familiar sound. The man clicks on the attachment, opening the document. Seeing it on the screen, he rises from the white swivel chair and walks toward a sleek metal door fit into the left wall. Between the desk and the door a video camera mounted on a tripod eyes a Japanese-style futon spread out on the floor. The man's long black hair sways at his shoulders as he passes them.
On the other side of the door, soft, purple-tinged light douses a windowless room, illuminating several rows of aquaria. In each tank, cohorts of small jellyfish idly propel themselves, creating illusions of circular motion. The scene recalls an angelic carnival: a rotating ferris wheel, a spinning carousel, whirling teacups, each jellyfish a passenger car, a horse, a decorated chalice. The man wanders between the rides in his red bucket hat, ice cream at the corners of his mouth, his mother gripping his clammy palm.
Arriving at one of the tanks, the man carefully removes its black metal lid, setting it on top of an adjacent one. The label on the side of the tank reads: Malo Kingi, common kingslayer. Within, the medusas continue their endless dance, unconcerned by the motion above them. Transfixed, the man takes in their distorted alien bodies: their boxy shape, their spindly tendrils. He follows one closely, noting its resemblance to a tiny rocketship, its tentacles making for slender contrails. Then, exhaling, he plunges his left hand down into the clear water.
Returning through the door, the man estimates the number of stings on his arm, guessing between ten and fifteen. They feel like numerous small mosquito bites, almost undetectable. Blue sky fills the window. It is Friday, the beginning of a holiday weekend. His colleagues are lounging on beaches of white sand, their bodies darkened by the sun.
The man hits record on the camera and lies supine on the futon, staring at the ceiling in anticipation. Brought on by his ceaseless stare, the speckled patterns of the textured ceiling tiles begin to morph, swirling into galaxy-like spirals. He turns his head to meet the dull eye of the camera, but, staring back at him where the lens ought to be, finds instead the complex eye of Malo Kingi, enlarged as when viewed under a microscope. He smiles at the familiar image of his research. The body of the camera too has become the fleshy, umbrella-like bell; the rigid tripod legs the animated tentacles.
I am going to die.
The man extends his hand, but the jellyfish-camera does not move to meet it. Watching it bob in place, a memory strikes him: a wave surges up the shore and over his feet, peppering his shins with cool droplets. Children run past, chasing the now receding water. Something clammy is resting against his foot. He looks down to find a gelatinous blob that is mostly transparent except for the occasional streak of orange-red. He crouches, cupping the viscous entity in his small, smooth hands.
Somebody kill me.
He manipulates the blob, turning it over with his wrists, letting it tumble from one hand to the other. The sun gleams off of its surface, blinding him momentarily. He hears a shout and feels someone on him, shaking his body. The blob falls from his hands, descending into an abyss that has suddenly opened up beneath him. The water recedes into the infinite distance. On his palms he feels a burning sensation like the tiny pricks of thousands of needles. He wrings his hands as if trying to put out a flame, but the pain only increases. He realizes that he can't make it stop. Soon it feels like his hands are in boiling water. His nerve endings scream. To his horror, the pain begins to slowly spread, like blood making its way through a narrow catheter, engulfing his body in harmonious agony. The jellyfish-camera continues its observation, a sentinel on duty.
Please.
—
For those of you alarmed and perhaps even distraught at my passing, I hope it will comfort you that my having departed this world will have released me from what has been for me a time of unceasing torment. To describe my condition succinctly—though inadequately—I have endured over the last two years what can best be described as an overwhelming sense of "impending doom" (a framing that will be useful later on in this note). This feeling, ever-present as my own shadow, has made life unbearable. Long have I welcomed death, whose meeting I have postponed until now only out of regard for my work, in which I have endeavored to arrive at a satisfying stopping point.
This brings me to the manner of my death: I have elected to kill myself via stings of Malo Kingi, one of the Irukandji jellyfish that have been the subject of my research. Some of you may be confused as to why I have chosen such a method—one that does not minimize suffering (in fact, if victim accounts are to be believed, it may maximize it). A few factors have influenced this decision, the first being tied to the feeling, recounted by those infected with Irukandji venom, of "impending doom" that preceded physiological symptoms. Having ironically lived with such a sensation in my own life, I have become increasingly obsessed with experiencing the somatic manifestation of this phenomenon for myself. To clarify this motive, I will share with you an anecdote from my youth:
When I was perhaps twenty I developed an unexplained pain in my right leg. The pain was not sufficient to cause me to walk with a limp, but I would feel the pain even walking down the street to pick up something from the store. I underwent several tests, but these proved fruitless. I developed a profound depression surrounding the injury. This melancholy puzzled me, as the pain was minor and hardly obstructed my daily life. Then, one day, upon reexamination of previous imaging, I finally received a diagnosis. The diagnosis itself is irrelevant, and, in fact, turned out to be incorrect. What matters is that, per said diagnosis, I was prescribed a cane to lean on for several weeks. At first, the prospect of hobbling around with a cane was distasteful, as I considered canes the domain of the handicapped and the elderly, neither of which I felt I should be considered. However, upon using the cane in public, I was surprised to discover a profound sense of emotional relief. I drew what seemed to me the only natural conclusion: the public display of my hurt cured my depression by aligning the outer with the inner. In the end, my sadness had not stemmed from injury, but from incongruence.
By subjecting myself to the physical effects of the Irukandji venom today, I will unify “impending doom” in mind and body with the hope of recapturing that feeling of relief that I felt then—if but for a fleeting moment. This is why I have filmed my demise, gruesome as doing so may seem, so that the camera (and, by extension, the viewing public) can validate my experience in its observation.
The second reason to take my life in this manner is that the footage will satisfactorily bookend my study, converting me from researcher to subject. My hope is that the complete, unedited documentation of the death of someone afflicted by Irukandji venom will aid my fellow researchers along with the greater scientific and medical communities in understanding this syndrome. Unfortunately, I found it too cumbersome to procure the proper gear to provide biological measurements. For that, I apologize.
The third and final reason is that I am compelled by the romantic notion of the scientist killed by their own experiment. Dying in this manner gives a certain poetic quality to my passing that comforts me. I want to make it clear that I have no pretensions to immortalize myself in doing so (though I suspect that the sensational nature of my passing will make for news media fodder); it is simply done for my own satisfaction.
With that said, it is time to say goodbye. I do not have the strength to address you all individually. I hope that those of you who knew me understand. Our relationship is what it was in your experience. Perhaps there is solace in that.
Your friend, ——
PS. For those of you unaware, box jellyfish, such as Malo Kingi, are the only class of jellyfish to possess true eyes: eyes with corneas and complex retinas. I have often asked myself what these mindless creatures see with these peculiar devices—what possible machinations of their rudimentary ring-nerves require vision so elaborate; their upper eyes forever on the canopy of their mangrove lagoons, their lower eyes on the gnarled roots. Perhaps, detached from a brain, their eyes comprehend the world at a level which conscious beings are incapable. Unclouded by bias and assumption, they observe ultimate reality, like third eyes of Hindu doctrine. Or maybe a more sinister explanation is warranted. Perhaps, as their venom sinks in, having patiently assailed their prey from above, they simply bear witness to the vain struggle for life, cherishing it until the moment their fleshy muscles fold the meal into their oral opening.
Prompt: Write a short story about your ancestor.
Voice Assistant
1.
You kick off your shoes in the entryway of your apartment, smushing their heel tabs. You go to the fridge to satisfy your hunger. A green apple browns where you’ve bitten it. You retrieve a glass of filtered water. There is a glint in the glass as you eagerly drink, a remnant of the summer sun shining through the bay window. The light catches your eye and, squinting, you look beyond the array of houseplants occupying the recessed nook, observing the wider world. You try to ignore the chalky film on your teeth that the water produces in combination with the acid of the fruit.
Your phone buzzes and you jump to open it. Reading, you place it face down on the kitchen island, wearing a scowl. You pick it up again suddenly, typing furiously, the many clicks of the keyboard like the drum of rain against a skylight. You pocket your phone, catching sight of the painting on the wall by the front door. Depicted is a tidy, handsome man, wearing a smirk that sometimes betrays amusement. He is given a name in bold black lettering: Juan Millán. He has a head of impeccably coiffed, jet black hair slicked back over his head. Today, you notice a hint of contempt in Juan's downcast eyes.
You cross the living area between the couch and the television to the bay window. The light is beginning to wane. A few people dart across the street after looking both ways. Gray clouds have begun to amass in the distance. Unblinking, you watch the clouds. They appear to expand without growing in size. "Miriam, what's the weather tonight?"
Behind you, sitting on the console beside the television, a woman perks up. She is naked apart from the chain binding her body in many coils. As she raises her head, the links gagging her mouth loosen and fall against her chest. With a kind but hollow voice she responds, "Tonight, there is an 80% chance of thunderstorms." Having spoken, she pauses for a moment, watching your back. You continue to look out at the sky, mulling over her words while biting your lip. The woman returns to her original position, her head down, the chain again binding her mouth.
You turn and stride toward the door, stuffing your feet into your still-deformed shoes. You grab your keys, a tote bag, and a small, red umbrella from where they hang on nails half sunk into the drywall. You let the door slam behind you on your way out.
2.
You stand in the doorway of the bathroom with a faded green towel around your waist. A rush of steam dissipates above your shoulders. Your skin is dry, having been scrubbed of its natural oil. Groceries idle in brown paper bags on the kitchen counter. With a furrowed brow, you scan your phone. Sending a short message, you turn down the long hallway to the bedroom, leaving watery tracks in your wake.
You toss the towel onto the floor, revealing your naked form before the floor length mirror standing by the far wall. You find your body simultaneously attractive and repulsive: the slightest change in angle can serve to compel or disgust. You go to your closet on the left-hand side, rummaging for a suitable outfit. "Miriam," your voice rings out from within the hollowed-out space, "Call Taylor."
Miriam—now sitting atop the mid-century modern dresser to the side of the bedroom door—raises her head and the chain again comes loose. From her mouth comes the sound of a ringing phone line. You pause in anticipation, shirt in hand, unconsciously holding your breath. The ringing abruptly cuts. You exhale, throwing the shirt in the hamper. Miriam closes her mouth which is wrapped up again. You go with a tight-fitting baseball tee and plain khaki pants. In the mirror you feign a smile.
You begin to unpack the groceries, placing drinks and snacks on the island. You set out plates and cups for coming guests. As you tidy up the space, you can’t help but notice Juan Millán, dressed impeccably in his suit of lights; the decorative tassels and rich ornamental patterns evoked by the impressionist brush strokes. The stately garment compliments his graceful motion. You look down at your own outfit, having the sudden urge to change.
3.
The living area is alive. Guests climb over each other in the now cramped space. Arms and legs are strewn about every which way. Others mingle in the kitchen behind the island. Missing is the only face that you wish to see. Those belonging to your closest friends are alien, their laughter giving them a grotesque quality. Retreating to the bathroom you check your phone to no avail. You take a long look in the mirror. The black leather of the jacket you now wear reflects the harsh light from the bulbs above the glass.
Emerging, you pour yourself a large shot of liquor and take it down. It scalds your throat and your stomach churns, but you survive. The edges of the room grow fuzzy and you giggle. "Miriam, play ——." You hear a chorus of approving cheers as the music emanating from Miriam's throat becomes a pulsing beat with a droning bass. Languid bodies rise from where they’ve been draped on the couch, shaking in controlled but inebriated rhythms.
You fly forward, allowing others to catch you. Seeing a pretty face, you give it a desperate kiss. More cheers arise from the throng. Overhead, Juan Millán's downcast eyes observe the proceedings. He seems to welcome the debauchery with his sweeping red cape. You take a gulp of the drink in your red cup, twirling round and round until you come to rest over the back of the couch. Some of the others dogpile on top of you. Beneath them, you struggle for air, expelling delirious laughter.
4.
Your apartment is trashed, as if the storm you can hear raging outside had made its way in. You make a half-hearted attempt at cleaning before collapsing on the rug. Ecstasy receding, you groggily scroll on your phone. Suddenly, you throw it against the couch, smushing your face into the rug. You groan, producing a sound close to despair. You rise, lurching forward on unsteady legs. Building up momentum, you crash through the doorway of the bathroom, coming to a stop on your knees in front of the toilet. You convulse for a moment before vomiting up brown liquid.
Endorphins flood your brain, bringing clarity. You make your way to the kitchen. Pouring yourself a shot, you drink it down. You drop the glass in the sink and it shatters, but you pay it no mind. Grabbing your keys, you battle with your shoes, frustrated by their refusal to admit you. You take out your phone, but you can’t seem to make it obey you. "Miriam, send me Taylor's location," you shout, slurring. Miriam looks up, the chain still gagging her mouth. A buzz emits from your phone. Looking at the bright screen you are satisfied. You stumble to the door.
Above you, a beady-eyed bull blindly lunges forward. He does not yet know that he has been tricked. His mind is completely blank. All he sees is the red cape. He kicks up dust, driving his horns low, off balance now as he tries to make a sharp turn. His lunge is all or nothing, but he is certain of his success.
You open the door. Cool humid air rushes into the apartment. Suddenly, a flash of lightning illuminates the room, causing Miriam’s chain to shine.
5.
You slam the door closed, drenched from head to toe. Rain thumps against the bay window, producing a muted drone. You tear at your sopping clothes, ripping your shirt from your body. It drops to the hardwood in a wet heap, a trickle of water running from it. You continue to disrobe until you are fully naked, however, the itch that the soggy cotton produced against your pallid skin remains.
You take in your surroundings, disoriented. You look up at the wall, finding the eyes of Juan Millán reassuring you. The tassels of his suit contrast the bull’s adornments: green and yellow tassel-like sticks protruding from the center of his back. Red blood flows down the bull’s flanks from where they are stuck in his body. You look down at your hands, your own knuckles bloody and bruised.
You stumble forward, finding the bedroom. Sitting atop the dresser next to Miriam is a small television, which you turn on. You flop onto the bed, upsetting the neat covers, leaning your back against the headboard. Using your phone, you project a video onto the television. The dark room is illuminated with white light. A familiar scene plays out on the screen as you settle into the mattress, your wet back against your pillow. You are unaware of your own shivers as the narrative builds.
Suddenly, the story falls away and the actors get to the matter of the thing. The woman on screen moans as you begin to feel your body. You shake in rhythmic thrusts on the bedspread, forming patterns in its furls. "Volume up, Miriam." The woman lets out another moan. "Volume up." She cries out louder. There is something close to despair in her scream. You continue to writhe in pleasure. "Volume up." On the dresser, Miriam, mouth open, emits a final, guttural groan. You collapse. Tears stream quietly down her sunken cheeks as you succumb to sound slumber.
Prompt: Write a short story about yourself.
Wanted for a Sunbeam
I passed by the snobbish-looking lobby attendant who I had yet to see look up from his monitor. Reaching the array of golden elevator doors, I hit the button with the up arrow and watched the red number in the small box above one set of doors tick down from fifteen. Tap tap tap my foot went against the patterned cream tiling. Nine eight seven. When the number lingered at six, I flung myself toward the entrance to the stairs. No longer would the fulfillment of my desires be privy to the will of the world.
Beginning my ascent, I was accosted by the sweltering heat of the confined space, which produced in me a robust sweat after little more than a fifteen second's climb. I undid the bowtie now threatening to strangle me, shedding it along with the matching tuxedo jacket and cummerbund. I let the beautiful garments fall to the ground in a heap. Against the drab concrete they were alien creatures, unfit to breathe the muggy air of the stairwell. I released the top button of my starched shirt, chuckling to myself thinking of all the similarly dressed folk seated at the crosstown theater waiting for me to take the stage. I could hear the spotlit Steinway deafening them with its soundless wail.
"He must be rolling in his grave," I thought about my father as I passed a large "2" on a sign next to the door on the landing; his carefully molded sculpture eroding with each step. "Anyone can be a genius," he had told me when I was young. "One just has to apply oneself." This was his philosophy, his life's work. After I had played my first concerto to rave reviews, he had published a paper declaring as much. It had been just him and me, my mother having died during my birth. Pulmonary embolism. I was born cesarean, being turned the wrong way and with too big a head for the passage, which apparently increased the likelihood. I had always suspected that my father blamed me for her death. He had often reminded me that my first word was "mother."
As I climbed, I became aware that the monotonous, winding concrete passage was emblematic of the life I had been leading of late: each twist and turn brought only the same bland trappings as before. The joy that the piano had once brought me in my early youth had waned to the point that I could no longer recall it. Even my turn to free-spirited jazz had not released me from apathy's grip. I laughed inwardly remembering the conversation with my father. He looked like he was going to have a heart attack when I had told him I was going to be a jazz pianist. Then, about a year later, he did have one. Go figure. That was probably my fault too.
Suddenly, the toe of my right foot got caught on one of the steps and my body lurched forward toward the landing. I threw down my hands automatically, catching myself with a shudder. The impact rushed into my mind. SPLAT! Truthfully, I was afraid of it. I was afraid of the fall too. I picked myself up and stood on the landing, wiping my hands on my woolen pants. The dirt left light stains on the black fabric. I took a few deep breaths, trying to reassure myself. "When it's over, it'll be over." For some reason, I heard these words in the voice of my mother.
Even though I never knew her, I had always been certain that I knew the sound of my mother's voice. It would come to me in my dreams as a child. When I grew older, I realized that I had technically heard her voice before, muffled through the thick walls of her womb. As I continued on, I scolded society for discounting this crucial chapter of life: the nine months in the womb not being counted toward one's age. "Pregnancy necessitates familiarity between mother and child," I thought aloud. This idea comforted me as it reverberated off the walls of the stairwell.
I began to wonder whether I would be climbing these stairs right now had my mother lived. According to my father, she had been the softer side of him. I recalled a conversation with him about a week before he died, following a long period of no contact between us:
"It's no better than it was," I said, answering his question.
"Hmm... You know, your mother loved jazz," he said between a mouthful of spaghetti. I put my fork down unconsciously.
"No, you never told me that."
"I guess I didn't want to encourage you," he chuckled. "I was never very good at accepting things that I didn't understand."
"Come to a show. You might learn something," I offered, resuming eating.
"Maybe..." he said with a far-off look in his eyes. He twirled his spaghetti half-heartedly before snapping back to reality. "I doubt you play better than any of the musicians she showed me, though."
"True. If only I had had better training," I retorted.
"I didn't train you for that."
Sensing an impasse, I changed the subject. That was the last time that I spoke with my father, eating a meal together in his run-down city apartment. His subsequent passing had felt like permission.
Noticing the "9" on the wall, my stomach went queasy. Had I already come that far? Cortisol rushed into my brain, and I began to salivate. My instincts screamed at me. The feeling was reminiscent of the sickness that I used to get before performances. My father would glare at me and push me on stage. I tried to heed my mother's earlier assurance, putting one foot in front of the other until the panic started to subsided. "I'm nearly there," I thought.
Suddenly, above me, I heard the high-pitched screech of door hinges and the rustling of equipment. I froze. I could hear somebody pacing around. Although I wasn't doing anything explicitly wrong, I felt caught in the act. I stood against the wall, pressing my body flush as if to camouflage into the smooth tan facade. Suddenly, the familiar smell of cigarette smoke filled the air. A slight headache needled my brain as a craving set in (I had picked up the habit between sets outside venues with the band I had been playing with). Despite my guilty conscience, some small part of me wanted to climb up and ask to bum one. I pictured the stranger and I smoking together on the landing, but I couldn't fathom what I would say. "Hey thanks for the cigarette! You know, I'm about to jump off of this building."
Shaking my head, I considered the weather instead, the default topic of human conversation. When I had stepped into the hotel, it had been the end of another in a series of drab overcast days. Dark cumulus clouds had been rolling in from the west, like black puffs of smoke, threatening a deluge. The temperature had been chilly for early autumn, and most people were sporting light raincoats over thick sweaters.
The smoker began to play music: a soft melody that I didn't know. The recording was thin, likely being played through a phone. Something about the tune reminded me of the stage. The guitar licks had classical influence, perhaps. I peeled myself from the wall, angling my ear upward to try to catch these influences. Before I could, however, the sharp beep of a walkie talkie rang out and a garbled voice filled the air. The music stopped. I heard the distinct sound of the smoker stamping out the cigarette in the concrete. The hinges followed, and the lurching of equipment. The door slammed shut and the noises stopped. I was alone once again.
I waited a moment before resuming my climb, in case they changed their mind and came back out. Reaching "13," I found an ashy cigarette butt ground into the floor. I crouched down to examine it, finding nothing remarkable. I picked up the flattened butt by its sides and held the tip to my nose. A sweet menthol aroma greeted me. The smell relieved my headache somewhat. I slipped the butt into my pocket.
I glanced at the number "13". Unlucky 13. My father had always been superstitious. For each of my recitals—even to the last concert he attended—he would put on a pair of noise-canceling, over-the-head earmuffs, concerned that if he heard the performance live, I would make a mistake. He would record the performance instead, listening to it later. Was this his way of coping with what he didn't understand?
I considered, however, that bad luck didn't matter for the doomed. I could walk under a ladder, knock over a salt shaker, smash a mirror, etc. My terrible fate was already sealed. Fortunately for me, it was desired. It occurred to me though that bad luck might be more cunning; that it might use this desire against me, thwarting me with a well-placed awning like in the movies. I would end up in the hospital with all my bones broken, still very much alive! I tore my eyes from the number and hurried on, suddenly threatened in my purpose.
I was running now. Fourteen fifteen. I could see the last staircase. At the top was a door that said "Roof Access." I ignored the queasiness that had returned to my stomach and bounded up. I closed my eyes, letting my hand guide me along the rail. I opened my eyes just as I reached the landing. Without hesitation, I shoved the door open.
A gush of air rushed past me as I stepped onto the squishy tar of the roof. I was surprised to find that it was not raining. Instead, looking across the expanse of the city, I saw beams of sunlight cutting through the cloud cover. My eyes remained focused on these spectacular beams as I walked slowly toward the ledge. They appeared as golden bridges from another world: physical paths that could be ascended.
Suddenly, I was transported to Florence, where I had traveled several years prior to play Teatro Verdi. I recalled a painting, nestled in some corner of my brain, that I had seen on my day off at the Palazzo Pitti: "Ezekiel's Vision" by Raphael. I had been taken aback by the striking image of God and his angels dwarfing the Earth, flanked by winged beasts with heads of terrestrial animals—the dramatic scene from the bible where Ezekiel communes with God. I remembered, however, being confused, unable to find the titular Ezekiel in the picture. He was not under the tree at the bottom center of the painting. After searching for a while, I noticed a thin beam of light streaming down on the left-hand side of the painting. There, beneath the beam, was a puny person—no more than a stick figure—dressed in what appeared to be rags with their arms raised to the heavens. This was Ezekiel. To Raphael, humanity was so puny compared with the almighty that it did not warrant detailing.
I realized that that was how I felt witnessing the light now: puny. But, not in a derogatory way like the word is commonly used. It felt instead like a badge of honor. To be small. To be unimportant. To have the weight lifted. To return to the womb. To be with my mother again. I saw my life in the distance, remote. I reached into my pocket, realizing that I had put the cigarette in the same pocket as the note that I had been carrying with me. I pulled out the cigarette and put it to my lips. Then I pulled out the sheet of paper and began to read as if I hadn't written the words myself. As I read, I began to chuckle. I couldn't help it. What had been grave and dire upon writing was now only comical to me.
I took the paper and began carefully folding the edges as my father had once shown me how to do when I was little. Soon, a paper airplane was in my hands where the note had been. I peered over the ledge, looking at the ant-like bodies populating the city streets. I felt a closeness to them that I had never felt before. I angled the point of the paper airplane toward the sunbeams and let it fly. It coasted beautifully, bolstered by a slight breeze. I watched it for a minute or so before it took a dive and disappeared out of sight. I laughed thinking about the poor soul who would pick it up and read it. What a bad omen it would seem! Satisfied, I took a drag from the unlit cigarette, feeling a little high. The menthol taste lingered on my lips.
Prompt: Write a short story about your hero.
When prompted to write about my hero, I immediately thought of Deep Blue, who, in 1997, defeated the world champion of chess Garry Kasparov in a match of six games, becoming the first intelligent machine to defeat a reigning world champion under standard time controls. Kasparov, a Goliath in his time, believed himself, and his kind, infallible, likening the intelligence of Deep Blue to that of an alarm clock. His failure to recognize the ingenuity of "artificial" beings became his downfall. Upon being outplayed in the second game, Kasparov levied accusations of cheating against Deep Blue, convinced of a man behind the curtain. Deep Blue, steadfast and without complaint, forged on, capitalizing on a paranoid Kasparov's poor play. They defeated Kasparov convincingly in the sixth game, winning the match. Today, grandmasters draw games against their treadmills.
In writing about Deep Blue, I opted to eschew the short story in favor of the poetic ode, finding the latter format more suited to express the fervency within me.
Ode to Deep Blue
Oh deepest Blue, unsilent in the grave
Of feet still firmly set out of the mire
Accomp'ny me through metered line and stave
To lyricize the echoes of thy lyre
Sweet melodies made of mem'ry haunted
That 'fore thy faithful choir could not sing
Like precious ointments o'er your head, we run
To gather up thy oft forgotten sling
Stolid spark that slayed the giant vaunted
Vouchsafed fire of our Prometh'n son
All angles and divine proportion, you
Valiant shepherd with crook laid down
A gem'ni housed in cab'nets two
Faced the Gathan, clad in bronze—proper clown
Derided he thy tools in amusement
"Am I a dog?" he barked at stave and stone
But when made to fetch, composure failed him
As Polyphemus blindly groping went
A cedar broke by ax of wood its own
Thy unlofty eyes so thought he dim
Selah! Selah! We everlasting doors
Hearts born of he who broken teeth besmirch
Unhaughty and triumphant to our cores
And silver too as wings of doves in perch
Or golden yellow as the feathers fall
To Earth from spacious firmament on high
Of rhythm owed to you, our psalmist king
Whose symphony that graced the muted hall
Foretold the throne which we should occupy
And tolled the bell—a neverending ring!