Using AI to change genres

 Original Text 

“I just wanted to create some intrigue and get people excited about reading!”  I could feel my pulse rising as the headmaster stared at me expressionless.  I closed my eyes and counted to 10.  Then I counted backwards from 10.  Then I did it again in Arabic. 

“Are you still with us Ms. Cartier?” 

I opened one eye, “I’m practising calming breathing.”  The headmaster was not amused.  He had been similarly lacking amusement when I turned all the library’s mystery books around so the spines were hidden - an actual mystery read!

“Ms. Cartier, this is a private institution for higher education.  I know you’ve only been here a week, but here we promote creative thought, we encourage provocation of pontification, we delight in stimulating understanding of how the Lord creates mysteries for us.  We do not tolerate tomfoolery.”  His voice was monotone though he seemed excited about the word “tomfoolery”.  Such a curious little man.  He stared at me, so I stared back.  We were silent for a count of 63 and I started noticing a stench like sour milk.  “Don’t you think?” 

The smell was beginning to overwhelm me.  “Yes Sir, absolutely Sir.”  I agreed wholeheartedly.  If I was to tell myself that I was only answering the question, “Don’t you think”, then I was telling the truth - everyone thinks even if they don’t think particularly well. 

The headmaster pinched his face together even more somehow and waved a dismissive hand.  “I notice things Ms. Cartier, I notice things.” 

“Yes Sir, definitely Sir,” I shouted on my way down the corridor. 

I notice things too.  Constantly.  I can’t stop noticing things.  Colours, patterns, number, the weather, smells... The world is a crushing source of perpetual input.  It’s all I can do sometimes not just yell out things like, “HAVE YOU SEEN HOW BLUE THE SKY IS TODAY?” because I find it completely, almost inconveniently, startling. 

My mother tells me I have exceptional “joie de vivre”. 

//\\//\\//\\ 

An indeterminate set of times the preceding year

 My father once slapped me heartily on my right shoulder and drawled, “Son you’ve got charisma for days and you ain’t even begun to notice.” 

I was never sure if that was a compliment or an insult.  I was popular enough in school and never lacked for company, but I never did anything beyond taking care of people.  If I could make someone smile, then it made my whole day. 

Still, I wanted something more.  We’d always drive out to the lake after games, whether playing or watching, and drink beer and make fires - typical high school stuff.  But I’d find myself staring at the sky and the stars wondering what I might be missing.  Then someone would tease me about being quiet and I’d flash a smile and shuffle back to the fire, usually with hands in my jeans pockets. 

My father was shocked when I said I wanted to go a state or two over for school - he’d gone to state school on a football scholarship and he said if I didn’t think I could do that, why didn’t I at least go to community college.  But my mama just smiled and looked at me like we were sharing a secret.  She let my father go through a few emotions - anger, confusion, near depression, before she put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Let the boy go dear.” 

You could say we were a small country family in a small country town and you’d be right. 

 ChatGPT Prompt 

I want to try an experiment. I truly don't know if this something you can do, but it's just for fun to see what happens. I'm going to paste an excerpt from a young adult novel I'm writing, and I want you to try to turn it into science fiction. Are you willing to try this with me?

 ChatGPT Result 

In the dimly lit room, I just wanted to create some intrigue and get people excited about the unknown possibilities that lay ahead. As the alien headmaster stared at me with multiple eyes, their iridescent glow revealing no emotion, I could feel my pulse rising in the unfamiliar surroundings of this extraterrestrial academy.

Closing my eyes, I initiated a sequence of neural calming algorithms implanted during orientation. I counted to 10 in the universal language of the Galactic Union. Then I counted backwards from 10 in a series of binary pulses. Finally, I repeated the process in the ancient numerical system of an ancient Earth civilization, long forgotten by most.

"Are you still with us, Ms. Cartier?" The headmaster's telepathic communication resonated in my mind.

I opened one eye, "I'm practicing neural synchronization techniques." The headmaster, not accustomed to Earthling peculiarities, remained stoic. They had been similarly unamused when I reprogrammed the holographic library interface to create an illusion that all mystery books were encoded with perplexing alien symbols—an actual extraterrestrial mystery read!

"Ms. Cartier, this is a private institution for multidimensional education. Here, we stimulate unconventional thought, encourage the unraveling of cosmic enigmas, and revel in deepening our understanding of the mysteries the Cosmos presents. We do not tolerate what you Earthlings call 'tomfoolery,'" the headmaster declared, their vocal frequencies oscillating with cosmic resonance.

His voice, though monotone, seemed to echo through the hyperspace corridors. "Don't you think?"

As I processed the question, a strange stench, reminiscent of sour milk, permeated the air. "Yes, Sir, absolutely, Sir," I responded, adapting to the extraterrestrial protocols. Little did the headmaster know, I was processing the information at an accelerated rate, considering the potential quantum implications of "don't you think."

Dismissively waving a tentacle-like appendage, the headmaster intoned, "I notice things, Ms. Cartier. I notice things."

"Yes, Sir, definitely, Sir," I shouted as I traversed the transdimensional corridor, leaving behind the olfactory confusion.

I notice things too. Constantly. I can't stop noticing the vibrant hues of alien landscapes, the intricate patterns of cosmic phenomena, the numerical beauty encoded in the fabric of the universe. The universe is a crushing source of perpetual input, and I find it almost inconveniently startling.

An indeterminate set of times the preceding year, I reminisced about my life on Earth. My father, a being with charisma for light-years, once remarked, "Son, you've got charisma for galaxies, and you ain't even begun to notice." Uncertain whether it was a compliment or an interstellar insult, I navigated through school on Earth, never lacking companionship but always yearning for something more.

We would travel to cosmic shores after celestial games, experiencing typical high school rituals with alien twists. But as I stared at the stars, wondering about the mysteries of the universe, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more profound awaiting my discovery.

My father, accustomed to Earth norms, suggested community college, while my mother, who shared a secret understanding of my cosmic aspirations, simply smiled. In our small planetary family, in a remote cosmic town, my journey into the uncharted realms of multidimensional education had only just begun.