A dystopian shop interior where a young child in a worn green jacket stands at a counter, placing coins beside a bruised apple on a glowing digital scale that reads 20. A tired shopkeeper looks at a computer screen while a silent queue stretches outside towards tall grey tower blocks. A wall display behind the counter shows vertical crops under purple light, suggesting controlled food production and rationing.
Posted in AI and Creativity

The Weighing

Posted on by Mike

The child places the coins on the counter. Copper, not credit. The shopkeeper doesn’t look up from her screen.

‘Just this,’ the child says.

The apple sits between them, bruised along one side. Through the window, the grey towers catch the afternoon light, their upper floors bright with panels that drink the sun. Down here, the queue stretches into the street. Nobody speaks. The shopkeeper’s fingers move across her screen, logging, calculating.

‘You’ve got nineteen,’ she says.

The child nods. The coins stay on the counter, warm from being held. The shopkeeper weighs the apple without touching it, the scale glows blue beneath the fruit, numbers flickering upward. Her mouth tightens.

‘Twenty-two.’

The child’s hand moves to her pocket, comes out empty. She tries the other pocket. Finds another coin, smaller. Puts it beside the others.

‘Twenty,’ says the shopkeeper.

The child looks at the apple. Outside, someone coughs, a wet sound that carries. The queue shifts forward slightly. On the wall behind the shopkeeper, a screen shows crops in vertical towers, perfect rows of green under purple light. The caption scrolls past: Sector 7 exceeds quota.

The shopkeeper’s hand hovers over the apple. The child’s fingers touch the coins, pushing them slightly forward, as though those extra millimetres might matter.

‘Got anything else?’ the shopkeeper asks.

The child shakes her head. The shopkeeper looks at the screen, then at the child, then back at the screen. Her finger taps twice. The scale goes dark. She pushes the apple across the counter, takes three coins, leaves the other.

‘Go on.’

The child picks up the apple and the remaining coin. Doesn’t run. Walks to the door, past the queue, into the street where the towers stand and the cameras follow everyone home.

Written by AI. Selected by me.

Landscape photograph of a medical waiting room where seven people sit beneath a digital clock frozen at 10:47. An elderly woman watches a cloudy fish tank with three goldfish circling. A woman in a purple cardigan stands with a handbag, a child kneels on the floor with a wooden block, a man in paint-spattered overalls enters Room 3, and a magazine lies on the floor while others scroll on their phones.
Posted in 100-Word Stories, AI and Creativity

The Queue At 10:47

Posted on by Mike

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 – Claude

Write a short story of about 300 words set entirely in a doctors waiting room that never seems to empty. Do not explain why the queue exists. Focus on small actions and overheard fragments of conversation.

One Story

Margaret has been watching the fish tank for forty minutes. Three goldfish circle endlessly. The water needs changing.

“…said it was benign but I don’t trust…”

The woman in the purple cardigan shifts her handbag from one knee to the other. She’s been doing this every few minutes. The leather handle has left a red mark on her wrist.

A child drops a wooden block. It rolls under the radiator. His mother doesn’t notice. She’s staring at her phone, thumb scrolling, scrolling.

“Mr Anderson. Room three, please.”

The receptionist’s voice is flat. Nobody moves. Then a man in paint-spattered overalls stands, joints cracking audibly. The door clicks shut behind him. Someone immediately takes his chair.

Margaret counts seven people now. There were seven before.

“…can’t get the smell out, I’ve tried everything…”

An elderly man coughs wetly into a handkerchief. Folds it carefully. Coughs again. The teenager beside him edges his chair away, headphones leaking tinny music.

The clock says 10:47. It said 10:47 when Margaret arrived. She looks at her watch instead. 11:23.

“I brought tuna,” says the woman with the Tupperware. Nobody responds. She peels the lid back anyway. The vinegar smell of sweetcorn and mayonnaise fills the room.

A magazine slides off the pile onto the floor. Woman & Home, April 2019. Nobody picks it up.

“Mrs Belkin. Room three, please.”

The purple cardigan woman stands. Margaret counts again. Still seven people.

The goldfish complete another circuit. The child has found the block. His mother is still scrolling. Someone new is reading a leaflet about shingles, lips moving slightly.

Margaret’s name is Richardson. The alphabet has twenty-six letters. She tries to remember how many names the receptionist has called beginning with A through Q.

The door opens. A blast of cold air. The clock still says 10:47.

“Miss Alison. Room three, please.”

One Thought – From Claude

I’m pleased with how the repetition and circular details (the goldfish, the clock, the constant count of seven people) create that unsettling, liminal quality without ever stating it directly. The fragmented conversations and small physical details, the handbag mark, the wet cough, the dropped block, ground the surreal situation in mundane specificity, which I think makes it more effective than if I’d gone for overtly eerie descriptions. Margaret’s attempt to find logic by counting through the alphabet feels like exactly the kind of thing someone would do when reality starts feeling slightly wrong.

wo skeletal figures face each other beneath a luminous dome of concentric lines, their bony hands clasped together. Orange dahlias bloom abundantly around them against a dark teal background, while flowing golden-orange waves ripple across the foreground.
Posted in AI and Creativity

Until Death Do Us Start – Image to Story

Posted on by Mike

For this story I thought I would start with an image. The one above was created by Midjourney. I then put the image into Claude and asked, “Write a 200 word love story using this image as your prompt.“

Until Death Do Us Start

Sarah found Marcus in the Gardens Between, where the newly dead learn to let go.

“I’ve been waiting,” he said, extending skeletal fingers she recognised instantly, the same hands that had held hers through forty-seven years of marriage.

“You promised you’d wait for me.” She took his hand, feeling the curious lightness of bones unencumbered by flesh.

“I did. I am.”

Around them, memorial dahlias bloomed in impossible profusion, each flower a moment they’d shared: their first kiss, their daughter’s birth, Sunday mornings with tea and crosswords. The blooms pulsed with warmth that living flowers could never achieve.

“I thought death would separate us,” Sarah whispered.

Marcus drew her close, and she discovered that without hearts, souls could still recognise each other’s rhythm. The concentric dome above them shimmered, a cosmic witness to their reunion.

“Separate us?” He laughed, the sound like wind chimes made of light. “My love, we’ve barely started. Now we have eternity.”

They walked together into the garden’s depths, leaving footprints of stardust, while behind them the dahlias continued blooming, orange against the dark, defiant and eternal.

Why Did Claude Write This Particular Story?

I was curious as to what ‘thinking‘ Claude undertook in writing this simple story – so I asked it: “What in the image inspired you to write this story.”

Here is Claude’s reply…

Several elements in the image directly shaped the story:

The two skeletons holding hands – This was the emotional core. Their pose suggests tenderness and connection rather than anything macabre. The way they face each other, hands clasped, immediately suggested lovers reunited rather than separated by death.

The vibrant orange dahlias – These flowers are strikingly alive and abundant in what could otherwise be a deathly scene. The contrast between skeletal figures and blooming flowers suggested that death needn’t be an ending. I used them as “memorial flowers,” each bloom representing a shared memory, turning them into symbols of love’s persistence.

The luminous dome of concentric lines – This created a sense of sacred or liminal space, neither fully the world of the living nor a traditional afterlife. It felt like a threshold or meeting place, which inspired “The Gardens Between” as an in-between realm.

The colour palette – The warm oranges against cool teals created an unexpectedly beautiful, almost romantic atmosphere. It’s not grim or frightening despite the skeletal imagery.

The flowing golden waves at the bottom – These suggested movement, journey, or transition, reinforcing the idea that the couple is moving forward together into something new rather than being frozen in death.

The overall composition felt celebratory rather than mournful, which inspired a love story about continuation rather than loss.

A Closing Thought

I find myself increasingly going back to thee chatbots, whether it is Claude, ChatGPT, Gemini or Grok and trying to understand how and why it responded in the way it did to the prompt I gave it. Fascinating experiments.

I’d love to know what you think.


Posted in AI and Creativity

What Happens When Light and Shadows Fight?

Posted on by Mike

Today I have a story for you to read, listen to, or both. The story was written by Claude and the narration was created using ElevenLabs. Enjoy.

A Cosmic Divorce

The trouble began on a Tuesday, though it had probably been brewing for ages. I noticed it while making tea. The kitchen light flicked on, but instead of filling the room, it cowered behind the cupboard, shivering like a nervous cat. The shadows, freed from their usual discipline, sprawled wherever they pleased, a long, sulky smear under the toaster, a rude blob on the ceiling, a jagged sliver draped dramatically over the fridge.

I cleared my throat. “Everything all right in here?” The shadows rustled irritably, as though I’d interrupted a meeting I had no right to attend. The light just quivered, refusing to emerge.

By lunchtime the whole house felt… argumentative. The hallway light refused to illuminate the hall, preferring to shine sulkily at the skirting board. The shadows, delighted by the chaos, slipped under doors, curled around table legs, and stretched into places they’d never been invited. They sulked in clusters, muttering in corners like teenagers staging a protest.

I tried switching on a lamp in the living room. It blazed for one glorious second, then ducked sharply behind the sofa, bathing only the underside of a cushion in a triumphant glow. “For goodness’ sake,” I snapped, “this isn’t sustainable.” A chorus of shadows hissed back.

The worst moment came around three o’clock when I attempted to read. Every time my eyes settled on a sentence, a shadow darted across the page, obscuring the words. When I moved the book, the light flickered away in a huff, as though offended by my neediness. I was trapped between a jealous light and sulking darkness, a referee in a cosmic divorce.

By four, I’d had enough. I marched into the centre of the lounge, hands on hips. “Listen,” I said, addressing the room like a headteacher breaking up a playground fight, “you two need each other. Light, you can’t exist without casting shadows. Shadows, you’re only interesting because of the light. So whatever this argument is, sort it.”

Silence. Then a single shaft of light crept timidly across the carpet, meeting a shy ripple of shadow halfway. They swirled, hesitating. Negotiating. For a moment I felt hopeful. Then my shadow tore itself free from the wall, not a ripple this time, but a clean, deliberate separation. It formed into a full, upright figure, my shape in pure black. It tilted its head, as if deciding whether it liked what it saw.

Before I could scream, it stepped forward and slid neatly into my body’s place, leaving me weightless and fading.

Posted in AI and Creativity

Seventeen Minutes

Posted on by Mike

The queue moved one pace forward every seventeen minutes. I counted. Always seventeen. Never sixteen, never eighteen. The woman in front of me wore a grey coat too large for her frame; the sleeves swallowed her hands. She kept them tucked inside anyway.

A child, perhaps seven, stood two places ahead. His mother held his wrist so tightly the skin around her fingers turned white. He did not cry. None of them cried any longer. The sound had been removed from them before they reached the gate.

At the front the officer’s booth stood glass on three sides. We could see everything. The officer wore no expression. His uniform was pressed, the creases sharp enough to draw blood. He asked questions in a voice that carried on the wind even to where I stood.

Name. Age. Occupation before. Reason for travel.

The answers never varied much. A name, a number, a factory code or a domestic designation, then the same three words: Seeking reassignment. The officer tapped something into the terminal. A green light flashed once. The barrier lifted. The person stepped through without turning.

Sometimes the light stayed red.When it did, two attendants appeared from the side doors. Always the same two: one tall, one short, both in unmarked coveralls. They took the person by the elbows. No struggle. The person allowed himself to be led away through the unmarked door on the left. The door closed without sound.

The queue moved forward again.Seventeen minutes.

Today the child reached the booth. His mother released his wrist only when the officer nodded. The boy stepped onto the low wooden block kept there for the smaller ones. He recited his details in a voice too old for his body.

Name. Age. Occupation before. The officer asked the final question.Reason for travel.The boy said nothing.

His mother, three paces behind now, opened her mouth but made no sound. The officer waited exactly seven seconds. Then he pressed the button.Red light.The attendants came. The tall one lifted the boy under the arms. The short one took his ankles. They carried him like a parcel through the left-hand door.

The mother remained where she was. She did not move forward. She did not step back. She stood exactly in the place her son had occupied, staring at the closed door.The queue shifted. Seventeen minutes passed. The officer called the next name.

The mother stayed.I watched her coat sleeves tremble once, then still. Her hands never emerged.The line continued. Another green light. Another red. Another set of coveralls disappearing through the unmarked door.

Seventeen minutes.I counted.

Generated by AI. Selected by me.