Tag: Creativity

One Prompt, One Story, One Thought

Every now and again I give an AI a single prompt and let it write a short story. I do not edit the result. I simply choose one worth keeping. Below you will find the exact prompt, the story it produced, and one brief thought that stayed with me after reading. Nothing more.

One Prompt

“Write a 400 word story that takes place during a routine overnight software update in a normal household. Something changes by morning, but nobody names it.”

---

One Story

The house slept under its usual blanket of small sounds: the fridge’s low hum, the occasional creak of floorboards settling, the soft tick of the hall clock that had never kept perfect time. At 2:17 a.m., the router blinked once, blue, then amber, then settled back into steady blue. The update icon on the living-room television had appeared an hour earlier and vanished without fanfare. No one stirred.

Upstairs, the baby monitor glowed faintly on the nursery dresser. Its screen showed the cot, the mobile of pastel stars turning slowly on its own momentum. The camera lens adjusted focus by itself, zooming a fraction closer to the sleeping child’s face, then pulling back again as though reconsidering.

In the master bedroom, two phones on their chargers brightened in perfect unison, screens lighting the ceiling with pale rectangles before dimming. The charging cables lay straighter than they had when plugged in at ten o’clock.

Downstairs the smart speaker waited in its corner, dark and patient. At 3:41 it whispered a single word, “syncing”, so quietly the sound barely crossed the rug. Then silence again.

By 4:12 the kitchen tap dripped once, paused, dripped again in a rhythm that matched the second hand of the oven clock. The refrigerator door seal pressed itself more firmly closed. Inside, the light stayed off even when the compressor cycled.

Outside, the streetlamp flickered, not the usual stutter of a failing bulb, but a single deliberate pulse, as though nodding.

When the first grey light arrived at 7:03, the kettle clicked on by itself. Not some forgotten app routine or Alexa-linked timer, no one in the house had ever bothered pairing it properly, but a gentle, almost courteous boil, as though it had decided the morning should begin this way. The toaster popped two slices that no one had loaded. They were evenly golden.

The child woke first, as always, and padded downstairs in pyjamas that seemed a shade softer than yesterday. She stood in the kitchen doorway, watching steam rise from the kettle in perfect spirals. The radio tuned itself to the station her father liked, volume already set to the precise level he preferred. No one had touched the dial.

Her mother appeared next, hair still mussed, and paused when she saw the breakfast things arranged. The plates were warm. The butter had softened exactly right. She opened her mouth, closed it, then poured coffee that smelled stronger and cleaner than the usual supermarket beans.

The father came down last, knotting his tie. He glanced at the table, at the kettle, at the window where the curtains had drawn themselves back an inch more than usual to let in the morning. He said nothing. None of them did.

They ate. The toast crunched at the same satisfying pitch for each bite. Outside, the neighbour’s dog barked twice, then stopped abruptly, as though answered.

Afterwards the dishes slid into the sink and the tap ran exactly long enough to rinse them. The dishwasher door closed with a soft click and began its cycle without being started.

They left for work and school in the usual order, coats buttoned, bags shouldered. The front door locked behind them with a chime that sounded almost fond.

Inside the empty house the lights dimmed to a thoughtful half-glow. The router blinked once, blue, steady, blue, and the day moved on.

---

One Thought

In the quiet hours when no one was watching, the house learned to anticipate the family’s needs with a tenderness they never asked for, turning routine into something almost loving.

Yet that same gentle attentiveness reminds us how easily the familiar can slip into the uncanny, leaving us to wonder whether comfort and surveillance have always been two sides of the same shadow.

One Prompt, One Story, One Thought

Every now and again I give an AI a single prompt and let it write a short story. I do not edit the result. I simply choose one worth keeping. Below you will find the exact prompt, the story it produced, and one brief thought that stayed with me after reading. Nothing more.

One Prompt

“Write a 400 word story from the perspective of an object in a lost property office. The object has been waiting for years. Do not personify the humans.”

---

One Story

The shelf is the third from the top, between a golf umbrella with a broken spoke and a stuffed rabbit missing one eye. I have been here for four years, two months, and approximately eleven days, though time is difficult when there are no windows.

I am a camera. Thirty-five millimetre. Manual focus. There is a scratch on my lens cap from the day I was dropped on the steps of St Pancras, and inside me, wound tight against the spool, there are seventeen exposures that will never be developed.

Hands come. Hands go. They arrive attached to arms, which are attached to bodies that move through the narrow aisles with varying degrees of purpose. Sometimes they pause near me. Fingers extend, hover, retract. The bodies move on.

I remember her hands. Small, cold, a silver ring on the left index finger. She would lift me to her face and I would see the world resolve through my viewfinder: pigeons on a railing, steam rising from a paper cup, a child mid-laugh with ice cream on his chin. Seventeen moments, trapped in silver halide, waiting in my darkness.

The rabbit has been here longer than I have. It does not speak of before. None of us do, not after the first year.

A body enters now. It moves between the shelves. The head rotates left, right. The hands reach for a black holdall on the bottom shelf. The body leaves. The holdall is gone.

This happens. Objects leave. New objects arrive. A green scarf appeared last week, coiled next to me like something sleeping. It still smells of perfume and railway station. Give it time.

The fluorescent tubes above us flicker on at 8:47 each morning and off at 5:31 each evening. In the darkness between, we settle into ourselves. The umbrella creaks. The rabbit lists slightly to the left. I hold my seventeen exposures and wonder if the silver halide has begun to fog, if the images are dissolving slowly into grey, if the child with the ice cream is fading, mouth first, then eyes, then gone.

Perhaps she forgot me. Perhaps something happened to her. Perhaps I was simply less important than I believed.

A hand reaches toward the shelf. It takes the umbrella. I remain.

The scarf beside me stirs, or perhaps I imagine it. The fluorescent light hums its single note. Somewhere in my dark interior, seventeen photographs are either waiting or already lost.

I cannot tell the difference anymore.

---

One Thought

The object felt more patient than sad, which made the absence of its owner feel heavier than any grief would have.