Welcome to Fiction Fridays!
Every couple of weeks I use conversational AI to generate a new fiction prompt inspired by the changes and updates to my digital garden. By using conversational AI to generate the prompt, I’m tapping into the power of machine learning to come up with interesting and unexpected ideas that I might not have thought of otherwise. I work on these stories for a few weeks, publishing a new part every Friday.
The prompts are designed to be open-ended and flexible, allowing me to explore a wide range of themes and genres that are aligned with my interests and experiences. However, it is important to remember that these pieces are fictional.
But that’s not all, there is a piece of AI generated art to go with every weekly publication! And if you want to dive deeper, check out the updates to my digital garden.
In a misty village, a young woman haunted by her past meets an artist who seeks inspiration. Drawn to each other, they navigate their emotional landscapes, revealing secrets and confronting inner demons. When the artist disappears, the woman must find her own way forward, using her art to inspire others and confront their own fears and secrets.
Adaile woke up the next morning with a renewed sense of comfort. The dust was gone, no longer visible to the naked eye. The cobwebs blended effortlessly into the background. Like a filter of softness, the mist diffused the entirety of life. With Henry gone and the fear of the light edged into the villager’s consciousness, Adaile went out once more, taking her last reserves of grape juice with her.
It was mostly quiet around the town’s square. But if you held your breath for long enough, you could hear them muttering, almost whispering. Like ghosts, the villagers hushed across the cobblestone, running errands and going about their daily business. Cloaked by the fog, they were once again free to be imprisoned. Adaile felt a sadness creep up her spine when she thought of Henry and the sun, and how the chance of a return was as unlikely as it was likely.
She sold her last bottles of grape juice in silence. And upon returning to her cabin, a longing overcame her that was stronger than any shame for her past. To bring back the joy of the sun. To speak to Henry again. To be free from this terminal misery. She went to the shed with a hammer and a set of nails, and in a fever rush mustered up the courage to build a contraption resembling a makeshift easel. She went into the basement and dyed the last of her grape concentrate with different spices, generating a thick paste of colors. The improvised nature of her actions excited her. What would she do with the ragged bedsheet stretched over a wooden frame? And with the old toothbrush that would soon be soaked in different hues?
She lunged her assortment of artifacts over to the town square and started applying paint to the canvas. The colors, the combinations, the sheer vibrancy of her concoctions stood in such stark contrast to the musky surroundings, it did not take long for a small group of villagers to approach. Within the confines of her canvas, they too could enjoy a sight that posed no danger to them. Before long, the villagers donated old bedsheets, nails, wooden frames, all in an effort to keep Adaile going. They posed for her, just like she had posed for Henry. She drew them and painted them, over and over again. And even if the objective quality of her renditions was clearly lacking, the abstract nature of her compositions released a striking pain from within, to be free and lost in the fog, never to return.
Once the last villager went through his moment of catharsis, the paint began to burst forth from the canvases, spilling violently over the gray cobblestone. A gust of wind was released from the world that awaited just beyond the canvas, creating a clearing in the middle of town. The sun shined down on them, bringing the colors to life.
This was freedom, to be held and nurtured for an instant only. The pain was gone, the colors of the future visible. The people presented themselves as they were, holding the key to the present in their wrinkly hands. The pain would return, and so would the darkness. What changed was their perspective. Adaile would never be forgotten. She never spoke about Henry. And after that day, she knew, he was right where she needed him to be. She would be remembered as the girl who painted the mist.