May 8th: “Generate a title for my story, please” by Raymond Yepes

Generate a title for my story, please

A short story about generative AI and its harmful implications.

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Times New Roman. 12-point font. Double spacing. Fingers ready to type, twitching above the keys and eager to start writing something, anything… but unfortunately, nothing came to mind. Not an idea nor a sentence. Not even a singular word.

The student leans back in his chair frustratedly, his hands abandoning his keyboard to instead meet with his forehead. He tried massaging his temples, just to see if even the slightest sliver of an idea would cross his mind, but still nothing came. Damn it. The thought emanated throughout his mind like a large, expansive cave with a deafening echo. The student leaned back in his seat, a wave of defeat washing over him. He was afraid he wasn’t going to finish his assignment on time. He’d delayed it all the way until the last day – a common rookie mistake in college. A moment later, he decided to be more honest with himself – he’d forgotten about it completely until the day it was due. He didn’t know which was worse.

And now he was left with only cobwebs and tumbleweeds being blown around in his brain. Maybe he should write a story about that, though he knew it’d be pretty dull. Some way, somehow, the student was going to have to find a way to find an interesting idea and write over 1,250 words before midnight.

The student considered himself a decent writer. Good, even; if he were to give himself a little more credit. The student had a wild imagination, and he was good at turning it into conceivable works of written art. He had over a dozen poems published in various literary magazines, worked in various journalistic settings and dabbled in fiction writing. His friends told him he was an amazing writer. So did his mother. He wanted to believe it – he truly did – but the simple fact of the matter was that he still didn’t have an idea. One that was truly unique and exciting. The prompts he’d found on the internet and provided by his teacher were either too surface-level or flat-out uninteresting to the student.

He had no idea what to do. So he turned to his father, who had been sitting in the same room as him, playing a zombie game on his high-end personal computer. The student’s father wasn’t a writer, but what was the worst that could happen? He’d tell the student that he has no ideas either? So scary.

“Dad,” the student started, staring at his laptop once again, “I have this writing assignment due at midnight tonight. I’ve got to write a goal-driven story that’s over 1,250+ words. Do you maybe have an idea?”

The student’s father paused his game and slipped off his headphones, resting it around his neck. “I’m so sorry, buddy,” he prefaced, “I didn’t quite catch that. Could you repeat it, please?” To which the student did.

The student’s father stroked his beard for a moment, the cogs whirring to life in his mind. “Umm…” he said, thinking for a moment before shrugging. “No, buddy. I’m sorry, I got nothing.”

“Oh,” the student said with a sigh, slightly disappointed. “That’s okay.” He didn’t really know what he expected. He stood up, stretching a bit and getting ready to walk out of the room for a glass of water, but stopped in his tracks at his father’s next (frankly unexpected) words.

“You could ask P.T. Gatch.”

The student turned around sharply, his tone just as slick and clear. “I am not asking him.”

“Why not?” his father said with a lighthearted tone. “He’s very helpful for all kinds of things. Cooking instructions, writing code… I’m sure he can help with your story, too.”

“P.T. Gatch is nothing more than a greedy businessman,” the student stated, firm in his stance but shaky in his tone. “I don’t want to engage with him in the slightest.”

“Oh, come on. You haven’t even tried talking with him.”

“…No. I haven’t. But I’ve heard stories. He gives me bad vibes.”

“Ooh. ‘Bad vibes.’ Wouldn’t want that, now would we,” the student’s father said teasingly. It made the student blush sheepishly. “Well, it’s up to you,” the student’s father said with another shrug, slipping his headphones back on. “But I personally don’t see what the problem is. Gatch always has an idea for everything and can act as a writing tutor for you. It’s a good idea to take advantage of that.”

The student wanted to talk back to his father, say something to defend himself and his case, but he knew that wouldn’t end well. Instead, he slumped back to his computer and massaged his temples again, once again hoping (and practically praying) that an idea would come his way.

The student stood in front of a pale white door. It gleamed just a little too bright for the student’s eyes as it shined in the sunlight. Because of the obstruction, he could just barely make out the sign on the door: “P.T. Gatch.” He’d come despite his screaming conscience. Go back! You know this is wrong! Your stomach is turning simply by standing here!

He knew about the butterflies in his stomach. He knew that by being here, he was practically disregarding all the negative things he’d heard about P.T. Gatch: artist theft, environmental harm, and more. Maybe he should give the man some credit, though; the student was surrounded by lush, verdant plant life all around him. The park around him was complete with stunning, blossoming flowers, vibrantly green grass, and trees that stood proud, reaching to the sky. In the distance behind the office building, he could see a large, expansive lake, the waves glistening.

Plus, the student’s Dad seemed to like him. Maybe P.T. Gatch wasn’t that bad. He tried to console himself with this as he hesitantly opened the door, stepping inside the strangely located office. (Seriously, who puts an office in the middle of a park?)

The student was immediately blinded yet again, this time by artificial fluorescent lights that clung tightly to the middle of the ceiling. In comparison to the natural light outside, it stung the student’s cornea; he found himself squinting in pain more than the amount of brightness itself. But when his pupils adjusted, and the room became clear, there was no mistaking the identity of the man that stood in front of him.

“P.T. Gatch,” the student said hesitantly, not sure whether to be in awe or fear. The man in front of him was refined and fair, complete with a perfectly ironed button-up business-casual shirt and pants, slicked-back raven black hair, and piercing blue eyes that seemed… hollow. Empty. And yet, they still somehow stabbed into the student’s conscience, making him uneasy as the man smiled just a little too wide for comfort.

“Greetings,” Gatch began, speaking clearly with precise, almost unreal diction. His voice wasn’t necessarily monotone, but it lacked vocal variety as the man continued to speak. The student couldn’t tell whether or not he sounded oily or velvety. “My name is P.T. Gatch. Think of me as your personal assistant for anything you might possibly need. Just ask me anything, and I can fetch an answer for you.”

“Anything? Really?” the student answered hesitantly, his brow furrowing at the notion. “Sounds too good to be true.”

“I know it might be hard to believe at first,” Gatch said, the same smooth tone filling the room, unchanging and unwavering, “but if you’d just give it a try, I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

The student, while hesitant, decided to give the man the benefit of the doubt. There was no harm in trying. What was the worst Mr. Gatch could do – not have an answer? If that happened, the student would leave and that would be that. It would be unfortunate, since the student was becoming more desperate to complete his story with each passing moment, but he’d find another way if this turned out to be a bust.

“Okay,” the student said, taking a moment to think about what to say. “I need to write a story for class. 1,250-plus words. The thing is, I don’t have any ideas for what it should be about. The only requirement is that it needs to be about a character going on a ‘quest’ of sorts to reach a goal. Do you have anything good?”

After the student’s query, P.T. Gatch’s eyes glazed over for a moment, becoming lazy and unfocused. It caught the student off guard, but only lasted a moment; as the man’s eyes shifted back to its piercing blue color a few seconds later.

“Great question,” he began, his wide smile returning. “I’d be more than happy to help you find an idea for your story. I’ll start with giving some general information, but please let me know if you’d like me to go into more detail about any of these ideas. First…”

The man then launched into a long tirade of idea after idea after idea. The student did his best to listen to Gatch, but he spoke fast, despite his clear diction. He wasn’t sure if Gatch would ever stop, he just continued to ramble on, and it was a bit overwhelming for the student. Eventually, though, Gatch finally did cease to talk, pulling out a slip of paper from behind his back and handing it to the student.

“Here’s a transcript of everything I just said,” Gatch ended with a slight tilt of his head. The student skimmed over the three pages of ideas, all nicely laid out and formatted. Some of them weren’t half bad – they definitely still needed drastic development, but the student wasn’t denying that there was still something there.

“Hey, these are… these are alright,” the student wheezed out, a half-chuckle escaping his lips. “You got any more?”

The student and P.T. Gatch continued to further discuss the story. He didn’t know how long he had remained there with Gatch; the minutes blurred together after a while. He could have been there an hour or two, but most likely more. Multiple ideas were presented, eventually one was picked and fleshed out, and the student felt ready to finally start on his story.

The student made his way to the door of the office building once more, waving in Gatch’s direction. “Thanks, P.T. Gatch. I’ll admit, I had my doubts about you, but you turned out to be a big help.”

“Thank you! I’m always striving to be my best in helping others,” Gatch responded, returning the wave. “Do come again.”

With a satisfied grin on the student’s face, he confidently opened the door and stepped outside – only to be greeted with death all around him.

Instead of a thriving green park, what the student found was a brown plant graveyard. The trees were petrified and no longer bore fruit, the flowers had since wilted and crumpled to the ground, the grass had been replaced with trampled dirt and the lake in the distance was almost bone dry. Emerging out of that lake was a long metal tube, stretching out and leading all the way back to the office building.

The student, shocked and horrified at the sudden, drastic sight, turned around to see P.T. Gatch once more. He was smiling as usual, posture straight and blue eyes empty as it had been before. But now the student noticed something he hadn’t before – the tubes that had been outside came in through the walls, and had been attached to the man’s back the entire time. Now tube didn’t feel like the right word. They looked like mechanical tendrils.

The student, still utterly horrified, stuttered out one last question. “Wh-what the hell happened?!”

Gatch’s eyes clouded over once more; this time, as it did, the student noticed that in the corner of his eye, the last of the water in the lake had been sucked up. It was now completely bone dry with not a single drop remaining.

“Great question,” Gatch began with his same cheery, flat tone, which ironically did nothing to soothe the student as it had before. “To generate my answers, I take sustenance from various organic compounds to power my responses. Most commonly and most powerfully, dihydrogen monoxide is the molecular compound that best powers my responses.”

“That… that’s water! I’m not stupid!” the student half-shouted, his face going pale as a sudden realization came to him. “The lake is gone because… because I asked you for story ideas?”

P.T. Gatch’s eyes clouded over once more, but instead of clearing a moment later, the whole man’s body twitched suddenly, shuddering for a few seconds. Eventually, though, Gatch’s composure returned. “Unfortunately, I do not have enough sustenance to continue answering your queries,” Gatch said, his eyes unclouding and focusing directly onto the student. For the first time, he took a step forward. It was a heavy step, one that carried an unnatural weight to it and made the ground shudder slightly below him. After this, he spoke one last time, making a comment that made the student’s blood run cold.

“Did you know that the human body is made of 60% water?”