Here is the first task for the subscribers I replied to yesterday. This post is to help you see how to use AI to improve your writing. It is a difficult task, because AI writing is brilliant in some places, and terrible in others. You need to be a good reader to spot the difference between the two.
Desperately, Lola tried every trick in the book to lure Sahil but it was no use. Sahil did not seem to grasp Lola’s endeavours: overtly, making eye-contact, tossing her hair, laughing ostentatiously and heavy-flirting. Sahil was slow on the uptake and did not reciprocate Lola’s desperation – Sahil seemed keener on tensing his biceps, standing like an Adonis-type statue, and not spilling a drop of his vanilla protein shake.
Lola had fancied Sahil since kindergarten; he had a chiselled torso, olive-skin, raven-coloured hair, and a pearlescent smile. What’s more, he was adept in a myriad of sports, and a multitude of sporting clubs wanted his signature. His future was bright. From a distance, Lola observed – observed from a distance, because she was an A* student, unpopular and not aesthetically pleasing on the eye: a wan complexion, glasses, gaunt-looking and beehive bob.
That’s why, when Cha-Cha DiGregorio, the most-popular girl, with the worst reputation at St Bernadette’s, invited her to the party, Lola could not believe her luck. Lola thought that this was her one opportunity to change the landscape of her popularity and prize her prince charming (Sahil) from the clutches of any vultures.
As the night progressed, three bimbos, all with svelte-like figures, shoulder length hair, bronze finishes, and a fragrance of hubris, homed in on Sahil. Lola was distraught, because the three weird sisters has made her life hell at school. She was always the butt of their derisory comments. Lola decided to escape her misery and decided to dowse herself in strawberry daiquiris.
Before long, Lola was in a corybantic dance and devoid of any social etiquette. Gyrating against any male that moved. Unfortunately, the room started spinning, the lights started to reverberate, and the chequered kitchen tiled floor started to wave; thus, sending Lola…
CRASH! WALLOP! THUD!
It was fair to say that Lola’s face had startled the buffet.
“What a loser,” remarked one of the bimbos, her voice so cutting, “she’s always been an embarrassment.”
“Be quiet – Kim what a crass thing to say,” exclaimed Sahil.
Like a knight in shining armour, Sahil grappled the Damsel in distress and proceeded to take her to the living room. After placing her on the sofa, wiping the remnants of embarrassment from her face, and ensuring that she had a blanket, Sahil watched like a doting nurse.
After a couple of hours, Lola started to make a strange noise...unfortunately, for Sahil he had forgotten to get a bowl: Lola, reminiscent of ‘The Exorcist’, and immerse the dashing knight in a coat of vomit.
Fortunately, for your mother children, despite the backlash of Cha-Cha for ruining her mother's Porada softbay sofa, this vanilla-type hero, felt sorry for her and decided to end her misery and ask her on a date. Thankfully, she accepted and now, we have created the three musketeers with use three.
Hello Sir! Not part of your 3, but I gave the story prompt a try written within 1 hour which is usually the amount of time I have left in this question. I had written it by hand and scanned it, so apologies for any typos I might have missed! (Italics didn't carry over for some reason)
5 things I tried to include based on the article:
1. Using ambitious vocabulary
2. Maintaining the rhythm of the story
3. Natural writing but still sophisticated
4. Show not tell
5. Don’t go overboard with the literary techniques
Prompt: write a story about a time things turned unexpectedly
Bunting was strung across the rooftops like a criminal hanging from the gallows. It fluttered in the weak wind and the rustling of paper, bleached with age, echoed in the silent night. Every house had some semblance of haphazardly thrown together decoration, coupled with patriotic signs and the country’s symbol— a rather pretentious golden eagle soaring into a shimmering sunset— was painted on each door and window with a shaky hand.
However, not a single person in the town displayed them for a celebration— they did it to avoid the noose.
Rowan had been a young boy when the cruel tyrant and his fiendish wife had stormed his homeland. Their soldiers had ravaged his home. They burned his village’s crop and destroyed the water reservoirs so, when the population was weak from malnourishment, they could slaughter them with ease. To further add to the humiliation and pain, they forced every person in their empire to celebrate the days of their conquest. Any that failed to do so before the checks would be viciously murdered and their head displayed on a pike to serve as a warning to other dissidents. Rowan never had a restful sleep after he escaped the genocide; his loved ones screams still echoed in his ears and he would wake up, convinced he was drowning in their blood again, but it was only sweat. He would lament, day and night, for many years as to how the universe could be so cruel to him.
Then, Rowan grew up and realised the universe didn’t care about him any more than the next person. So he allied himself with a powerful criminal gang who taught him how to fight, eventually rising through the ranks and taking the place of the country’s number one assassin. There was no job he wouldn’t complete as long as the price was high enough, of course.
Even today, as he sped through the rows of ordered houses, his mind was furiously conjuring a plan to complete his newest mission.
A rumour had spread throughout the lands: the Emperor’s two children from his first marriage were cursed. Tales of how they disembowelled servants, decorated the walls of their rooms with the corpses of animals, and even guzzled on raw meat which could never sate their never-ending hunger for blood. Rowan was convinced at least half, if not all, of the reports were false, but it wasn’t his role to care. The despot’s second wife had contacted him and ordered him to get rid of the princess and prince discreetly, promising him enough gold and riches to last a lifetime.
However…
As Rowan approached the castle, which glittered in the twilight like shimmering gossamer, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. He kept to the shadows that were thrown against the grassy ground as he approached the smallest tower within the block. No sentinels stopped him and no servant bustled about as they prepared for the night. A heavy silence was draped over the atmosphere like a lead shroud, pressing down on Rowan as he stole toward the thick wooden gates. The hairs on the back of his neck raised and he tensed, gripping the twin knives he always kept strapped to his side.
The gates were unlocked.
“This is too easy,” he muttered, shouldering it open. He held his breath as it creaked open, but no guard came rushing out to greet him with weapons. The luscious red carpet muffled his footsteps as he crossed the hallways, plumes of dust erupted with his every step. A layer of grime coated the oil paintings on the wall and a heavy stench of urine permeated the air.
No pictures. He noted with a small frown. No fine clothing, no animal corpses, no toys scattered about. This is not a palace fit for royalty. No, this is more like a prison.
Finally, he reached the last door. A thin stream of light flickered through the crack at the bottom of the door. Rowan replaced one of the knives in his pocket and rest his hand on the cool metal handle, unease pooled in the pit of his stomach. He took a deep breath, pushing the door open and—
A teddy bear flew across the room. It smacked him in the face and landed on the ground with a soft thump.
“Don’t some any closer!” A shrill voice screeched. “I— I’ll hurt you if you do!”
Rowan blinked, dropping his gaze down to the source: a little girl, no older than seven, was huddled in the corner of the room. Her tangled, dirty blonde hair was jagged and stopped just past her shoulders. She glared at him with sharp, golden eyes, arms raised with a stuffed doll in one hand and lion locked and loaded in the other.
“Princess Cassandra?” Rowan blinked, taking in her soiled nightgown— presumably once white— and fierce glower. He squinted at the boy shielded behind her. “Prince Edward?”
“Cass, who is that man?” Edward whispered.
Cassandra snarled, “He’s the bad man who’s going to kill us. Now, stay behind me, Ed. D— don’t approach him.”
Suddenly, the missing pieces of the puzzle shifted and clicked into place. Rowan closed his eyes and groaned. The Empress had fooled him: she wanted him to get rid off the young royal children to make way for her own son to take the throne. Judging by the tremble in the princess’ shoulders and the dire state of the palace, this was not the extent of the Empress’ cruelty.
If there was one thing Rowan hated, it was being taken advantage of.
“Well.” He sighed and took a step forward. The children scrambled back and he paused, raising his hands in surrender. “That was part of the plan. But I don’t feel much like doing it now.”
“So, what?” Cassandra tilted her chin upwards, her hands curled into tight fists by her side until her nails dug bloodied crescents into the calloused flesh. “You’re going to let us go?”
“Unfortunately, I can’t do that. The Empress would not stop until she tracked me down to punish me.” Scratching his chin, an idea popped into his mind and a slow grin stretched across his face. They were young, but seemed to have sharp instincts and a hunger for survival. Weapons forged by grief and rage were the most powerful in the world. “Tell you what, why don’t you both come with me?”
Edward pulled his sister back. His words were shaky and uncertain, “Why would you offer us that?”
Rowan shrugged. “I’ve always wanted kids, and you two seem pretty intelligent.” He pulled out the knives from his pocket, not missing how the children flinched. He flipped them around, offering them the hilt. “So, what do you say?”
The prince and princess looked at each other, then silently accepted the handles.
Hi sir, not a part of your 3 however I hope this helps for your research.
A blurb etched with hardship and a plethora of stories to tell to the grandchildren, behind each imperfect scribe is part of a journey into history.
The wrinkle that rests underneath his eye was a scar left behind from the countless tears he shed as each one of his friends perished.
Lines above his lips live as the lasting impact of his hunger and impoverished state.
Cracks by his eyebrow held a story- a vicious gash formed when a Cambridge student burnt a twenty-pound note in front of him, the heat searing his skin.
Some large, others small, each imperfection was visible in engraving a profound and lasting impact.
Two droopy ovals, one bright with curiosity glared down the camera lens, shrouded by pockets of exhausted skin they struggled to wonder. Ash-like pigments flooded his eyes, almost reflecting the complexion of his lifeless skin, the world seemed silenced, the once utopia-like city drummed a dull hum in his ears, a shiver sprinted through his hand as he grabbed a thermos of old lukewarm coffee, imagining steam swirling around and his face like a warm hug, only it was a forgotten dream.
Muted by the grey wire that sealed his mouth, Graham had not uttered a word in 6 years, tired from begging “spare me some change”
Nothing changed.
With no hope or money, Graham grew silent and lonely with the only chums being the hairs on his face, he had a name for each three hundred and ninety-three of the tenants. In fact overtime he grew envious of them, they had a place to live he did not.
Graham closed his eyes tightly, praying to- not God- no God gave up on Graham a long while ago, he now embraced the art of manifestation, he imagined the penthouse he once lived in before succumbing to a life of addiction.
However deep in those eyes was a road to recovery a road to combating the plight of homelessness however the public can’t feel sympathy for the homeless no-
“Less smiling, no tramp looks hopeful” condescendingly chuckled the reporter,
“Optimism doesn’t make good print! “
It became clear to Graham, his book could not be an autobiography, it had already been written for him.
Hi Mr Salles, I've kept the word count similar to the version you posted and I've included my draft as a post, I hope that is okay. Max
The wizened old man knew he was running out of time. He knew the end was near. He knew they would come for him at dawn. His furrowed brow and weather-beaten complexion signalled a life of hardship. Pain and anguish etched on his haggard face. His cheeks sallow and hollow. His bones ached and his sunken, soulful eyes were full of regret, fixed on the empty courtyard, outside his window. The sun was rising, bathing the courtyard in brilliant sunshine. Delicate wisps of clouds hung motionless in the still, cerulean sky. And yet there was an eerie silence, as if nature was hushed in respect of the death sentence hanging over the old man. It would be his last sunrise.
He was a wraith-like, ghostly figure. His sparse, grey hair was dishevelled, his silver beard unkempt. What did it matter what he looked like? He saw no one. His was a solitary life, incarcerated like a broken, caged animal. He had no one. His daughter lost to him. How his life might have been so different if he had someone, some hope to live for. He might have chosen a different path to the life of cruelty and crime that had consumed him.
Dense brooding clouds crept across the darkening sky, casting sinister shadows across the empty courtyard. The ominous silence was deafening now. He knew this day would come; that his fate would catch up with him.
Lost in thought, he was startled by the sound of slow, heavy footsteps echoing on cold flagstones. Slowly, he rose to his feet. Looking down from his cell window, he spied the chilling silhouette of the gallows. The silence was pierced by the clattering of wings of an unkindness of ravens, witnesses to his fate. The old man steeled himself. Then came a solemn voice: ‘Provis. It is time.’
Hi Mr Salles,
I had a go of your Vomit and Viking idea.
Desperately, Lola tried every trick in the book to lure Sahil but it was no use. Sahil did not seem to grasp Lola’s endeavours: overtly, making eye-contact, tossing her hair, laughing ostentatiously and heavy-flirting. Sahil was slow on the uptake and did not reciprocate Lola’s desperation – Sahil seemed keener on tensing his biceps, standing like an Adonis-type statue, and not spilling a drop of his vanilla protein shake.
Lola had fancied Sahil since kindergarten; he had a chiselled torso, olive-skin, raven-coloured hair, and a pearlescent smile. What’s more, he was adept in a myriad of sports, and a multitude of sporting clubs wanted his signature. His future was bright. From a distance, Lola observed – observed from a distance, because she was an A* student, unpopular and not aesthetically pleasing on the eye: a wan complexion, glasses, gaunt-looking and beehive bob.
That’s why, when Cha-Cha DiGregorio, the most-popular girl, with the worst reputation at St Bernadette’s, invited her to the party, Lola could not believe her luck. Lola thought that this was her one opportunity to change the landscape of her popularity and prize her prince charming (Sahil) from the clutches of any vultures.
As the night progressed, three bimbos, all with svelte-like figures, shoulder length hair, bronze finishes, and a fragrance of hubris, homed in on Sahil. Lola was distraught, because the three weird sisters has made her life hell at school. She was always the butt of their derisory comments. Lola decided to escape her misery and decided to dowse herself in strawberry daiquiris.
Before long, Lola was in a corybantic dance and devoid of any social etiquette. Gyrating against any male that moved. Unfortunately, the room started spinning, the lights started to reverberate, and the chequered kitchen tiled floor started to wave; thus, sending Lola…
CRASH! WALLOP! THUD!
It was fair to say that Lola’s face had startled the buffet.
“What a loser,” remarked one of the bimbos, her voice so cutting, “she’s always been an embarrassment.”
“Be quiet – Kim what a crass thing to say,” exclaimed Sahil.
Like a knight in shining armour, Sahil grappled the Damsel in distress and proceeded to take her to the living room. After placing her on the sofa, wiping the remnants of embarrassment from her face, and ensuring that she had a blanket, Sahil watched like a doting nurse.
After a couple of hours, Lola started to make a strange noise...unfortunately, for Sahil he had forgotten to get a bowl: Lola, reminiscent of ‘The Exorcist’, and immerse the dashing knight in a coat of vomit.
Fortunately, for your mother children, despite the backlash of Cha-Cha for ruining her mother's Porada softbay sofa, this vanilla-type hero, felt sorry for her and decided to end her misery and ask her on a date. Thankfully, she accepted and now, we have created the three musketeers with use three.
Hello Sir! Not part of your 3, but I gave the story prompt a try written within 1 hour which is usually the amount of time I have left in this question. I had written it by hand and scanned it, so apologies for any typos I might have missed! (Italics didn't carry over for some reason)
5 things I tried to include based on the article:
1. Using ambitious vocabulary
2. Maintaining the rhythm of the story
3. Natural writing but still sophisticated
4. Show not tell
5. Don’t go overboard with the literary techniques
Prompt: write a story about a time things turned unexpectedly
Bunting was strung across the rooftops like a criminal hanging from the gallows. It fluttered in the weak wind and the rustling of paper, bleached with age, echoed in the silent night. Every house had some semblance of haphazardly thrown together decoration, coupled with patriotic signs and the country’s symbol— a rather pretentious golden eagle soaring into a shimmering sunset— was painted on each door and window with a shaky hand.
However, not a single person in the town displayed them for a celebration— they did it to avoid the noose.
Rowan had been a young boy when the cruel tyrant and his fiendish wife had stormed his homeland. Their soldiers had ravaged his home. They burned his village’s crop and destroyed the water reservoirs so, when the population was weak from malnourishment, they could slaughter them with ease. To further add to the humiliation and pain, they forced every person in their empire to celebrate the days of their conquest. Any that failed to do so before the checks would be viciously murdered and their head displayed on a pike to serve as a warning to other dissidents. Rowan never had a restful sleep after he escaped the genocide; his loved ones screams still echoed in his ears and he would wake up, convinced he was drowning in their blood again, but it was only sweat. He would lament, day and night, for many years as to how the universe could be so cruel to him.
Then, Rowan grew up and realised the universe didn’t care about him any more than the next person. So he allied himself with a powerful criminal gang who taught him how to fight, eventually rising through the ranks and taking the place of the country’s number one assassin. There was no job he wouldn’t complete as long as the price was high enough, of course.
Even today, as he sped through the rows of ordered houses, his mind was furiously conjuring a plan to complete his newest mission.
A rumour had spread throughout the lands: the Emperor’s two children from his first marriage were cursed. Tales of how they disembowelled servants, decorated the walls of their rooms with the corpses of animals, and even guzzled on raw meat which could never sate their never-ending hunger for blood. Rowan was convinced at least half, if not all, of the reports were false, but it wasn’t his role to care. The despot’s second wife had contacted him and ordered him to get rid of the princess and prince discreetly, promising him enough gold and riches to last a lifetime.
However…
As Rowan approached the castle, which glittered in the twilight like shimmering gossamer, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. He kept to the shadows that were thrown against the grassy ground as he approached the smallest tower within the block. No sentinels stopped him and no servant bustled about as they prepared for the night. A heavy silence was draped over the atmosphere like a lead shroud, pressing down on Rowan as he stole toward the thick wooden gates. The hairs on the back of his neck raised and he tensed, gripping the twin knives he always kept strapped to his side.
The gates were unlocked.
“This is too easy,” he muttered, shouldering it open. He held his breath as it creaked open, but no guard came rushing out to greet him with weapons. The luscious red carpet muffled his footsteps as he crossed the hallways, plumes of dust erupted with his every step. A layer of grime coated the oil paintings on the wall and a heavy stench of urine permeated the air.
No pictures. He noted with a small frown. No fine clothing, no animal corpses, no toys scattered about. This is not a palace fit for royalty. No, this is more like a prison.
Finally, he reached the last door. A thin stream of light flickered through the crack at the bottom of the door. Rowan replaced one of the knives in his pocket and rest his hand on the cool metal handle, unease pooled in the pit of his stomach. He took a deep breath, pushing the door open and—
A teddy bear flew across the room. It smacked him in the face and landed on the ground with a soft thump.
“Don’t some any closer!” A shrill voice screeched. “I— I’ll hurt you if you do!”
Rowan blinked, dropping his gaze down to the source: a little girl, no older than seven, was huddled in the corner of the room. Her tangled, dirty blonde hair was jagged and stopped just past her shoulders. She glared at him with sharp, golden eyes, arms raised with a stuffed doll in one hand and lion locked and loaded in the other.
“Princess Cassandra?” Rowan blinked, taking in her soiled nightgown— presumably once white— and fierce glower. He squinted at the boy shielded behind her. “Prince Edward?”
“Cass, who is that man?” Edward whispered.
Cassandra snarled, “He’s the bad man who’s going to kill us. Now, stay behind me, Ed. D— don’t approach him.”
Suddenly, the missing pieces of the puzzle shifted and clicked into place. Rowan closed his eyes and groaned. The Empress had fooled him: she wanted him to get rid off the young royal children to make way for her own son to take the throne. Judging by the tremble in the princess’ shoulders and the dire state of the palace, this was not the extent of the Empress’ cruelty.
If there was one thing Rowan hated, it was being taken advantage of.
“Well.” He sighed and took a step forward. The children scrambled back and he paused, raising his hands in surrender. “That was part of the plan. But I don’t feel much like doing it now.”
“So, what?” Cassandra tilted her chin upwards, her hands curled into tight fists by her side until her nails dug bloodied crescents into the calloused flesh. “You’re going to let us go?”
“Unfortunately, I can’t do that. The Empress would not stop until she tracked me down to punish me.” Scratching his chin, an idea popped into his mind and a slow grin stretched across his face. They were young, but seemed to have sharp instincts and a hunger for survival. Weapons forged by grief and rage were the most powerful in the world. “Tell you what, why don’t you both come with me?”
Edward pulled his sister back. His words were shaky and uncertain, “Why would you offer us that?”
Rowan shrugged. “I’ve always wanted kids, and you two seem pretty intelligent.” He pulled out the knives from his pocket, not missing how the children flinched. He flipped them around, offering them the hilt. “So, what do you say?”
The prince and princess looked at each other, then silently accepted the handles.
Hi sir, not a part of your 3 however I hope this helps for your research.
A blurb etched with hardship and a plethora of stories to tell to the grandchildren, behind each imperfect scribe is part of a journey into history.
The wrinkle that rests underneath his eye was a scar left behind from the countless tears he shed as each one of his friends perished.
Lines above his lips live as the lasting impact of his hunger and impoverished state.
Cracks by his eyebrow held a story- a vicious gash formed when a Cambridge student burnt a twenty-pound note in front of him, the heat searing his skin.
Some large, others small, each imperfection was visible in engraving a profound and lasting impact.
Two droopy ovals, one bright with curiosity glared down the camera lens, shrouded by pockets of exhausted skin they struggled to wonder. Ash-like pigments flooded his eyes, almost reflecting the complexion of his lifeless skin, the world seemed silenced, the once utopia-like city drummed a dull hum in his ears, a shiver sprinted through his hand as he grabbed a thermos of old lukewarm coffee, imagining steam swirling around and his face like a warm hug, only it was a forgotten dream.
Muted by the grey wire that sealed his mouth, Graham had not uttered a word in 6 years, tired from begging “spare me some change”
Nothing changed.
With no hope or money, Graham grew silent and lonely with the only chums being the hairs on his face, he had a name for each three hundred and ninety-three of the tenants. In fact overtime he grew envious of them, they had a place to live he did not.
Graham closed his eyes tightly, praying to- not God- no God gave up on Graham a long while ago, he now embraced the art of manifestation, he imagined the penthouse he once lived in before succumbing to a life of addiction.
However deep in those eyes was a road to recovery a road to combating the plight of homelessness however the public can’t feel sympathy for the homeless no-
“Less smiling, no tramp looks hopeful” condescendingly chuckled the reporter,
“Optimism doesn’t make good print! “
It became clear to Graham, his book could not be an autobiography, it had already been written for him.
Hi Mr Salles, I've kept the word count similar to the version you posted and I've included my draft as a post, I hope that is okay. Max
The wizened old man knew he was running out of time. He knew the end was near. He knew they would come for him at dawn. His furrowed brow and weather-beaten complexion signalled a life of hardship. Pain and anguish etched on his haggard face. His cheeks sallow and hollow. His bones ached and his sunken, soulful eyes were full of regret, fixed on the empty courtyard, outside his window. The sun was rising, bathing the courtyard in brilliant sunshine. Delicate wisps of clouds hung motionless in the still, cerulean sky. And yet there was an eerie silence, as if nature was hushed in respect of the death sentence hanging over the old man. It would be his last sunrise.
He was a wraith-like, ghostly figure. His sparse, grey hair was dishevelled, his silver beard unkempt. What did it matter what he looked like? He saw no one. His was a solitary life, incarcerated like a broken, caged animal. He had no one. His daughter lost to him. How his life might have been so different if he had someone, some hope to live for. He might have chosen a different path to the life of cruelty and crime that had consumed him.
Dense brooding clouds crept across the darkening sky, casting sinister shadows across the empty courtyard. The ominous silence was deafening now. He knew this day would come; that his fate would catch up with him.
Lost in thought, he was startled by the sound of slow, heavy footsteps echoing on cold flagstones. Slowly, he rose to his feet. Looking down from his cell window, he spied the chilling silhouette of the gallows. The silence was pierced by the clattering of wings of an unkindness of ravens, witnesses to his fate. The old man steeled himself. Then came a solemn voice: ‘Provis. It is time.’