The following is a *completely unedited* transcript of a conversation
between me and Bard (aka "Gemini" (yuck)) this evening while I was
watching the last episode of this year's "Muster Dogs":

<conversation>
Me: Odysseus' dog's name

Bard: Odysseus' dog's name was Argos (or Argus). Argos is famous for
his unwavering loyalty, recognizing his master Odysseus even after 20
years of absence and in disguise.

Me: Write a short story about Argos' 20 years between Odysseus'
departure and his return.

Bard: The world was young when his master left. Argos, a pup with fur
like autumn leaves and eyes like polished stones, had bounded through
the halls of Ithaca, chasing sunlight and laughter. Odysseus' hand,
rough yet warm, had guided him. Odysseus' voice, rich and deep, had
been his lullaby. Then came the ships, the shouts, the smell of
saltwater and a fear he couldn't name. His master was gone, swallowed
by the horizon.

The first years were a blur of waiting. He sat atop the hill
overlooking the sea, eyes straining for a sight of familiar sails.
Penelope's gentle touch felt like a distant echo of his master's, and
Telemachus, once a playmate, became a hollow-eyed boy too big for
puppy games.

Then came the suitors. Loud, brash men, smelling of strange perfumes
and stale ambition. They laughed at the old dog clinging to a fading
scent. Leftover scraps became their cruel bounty, the courtyard his
cold prison.

Seasons blurred. Summers scorched his fur, winters numbed his joints.
Once swift paws stumbled. His bark, once joyous, became a rusty growl,
reserved for chasing away crows and his own gnawing despair. He
became a forgotten relic, a faded memory of a life before.

Yet, there was a flicker. Not hope, but something deeper. A stubborn
tendril of spirit rooted in a scent carved deep in his soul. It
smelled of sea-spray and olive trees, of hearth smoke and sun-warmed
leather.

One day, a beggar walked through Ithaca's gates. Ragged, weathered, a
stranger to all but one. Argos' old ears twitched. His dull eyes
flared. Buried beneath the grime and wrinkles, the scent bloomed like
a spring flower.

With a force that defied his ancient frame, he rose. A hoarse bark,
more a sob than a challenge, escaped his throat. He stumbled forward,
each creaking step a battle. The beggar stopped, turned, a scarred
hand paused in mid-air.

"Argos?"

Tears welled in once bright eyes. Time dissolved. There was his
master, his world, his reason. With a final joyous whimper, the old
dog collapsed at Odysseus' feet. His task was done. The waiting was
over. And as his master knelt beside him, Argos knew a peace the last
twenty years had denied.
</conversation>

I still haven't fully recovered from that. And what a magnificent
anime that story would make.

--
Bob
Objects in the rearview mirror may be a lot closer than you think

On 2024-02-13 20:40:31 +0000, Opinicus said:
>
> [ … ]
>
> Tears welled in once bright eyes. Time dissolved. There was his
> master, his world, his reason. With a final joyous whimper, the old
> dog collapsed at Odysseus' feet. His task was done. The waiting was
> over. And as his master knelt beside him, Argos knew a peace the last
> twenty years had denied.
> </conversation>
>
> I still haven't fully recovered from that. And what a magnificent
> anime that story would make.

A couple of weeks ago we saw an Australian film called Lion (a very bad
and unhelpful name, but no matter). It was based on a true story and
dealt with the story of a boy of 5 from an Indian town called Khandwa,
a long way fom Calcutta. However, trapped in a train he went to
Calcutta. He was adopted by a couple from Tasmania, who treated him
very well. 25 years after his disappearance he managed to identify
where he had come from, and succeeded in finding his real mother. Like
Argos in your story she had never given up hope that he would return,
and knew a peace the last 25 years had denied.

--
Athel -- French and British, living in Marseilles for 36 years; mainly
in England until 1987.

On Tue, 13 Feb 2024 21:58:45 +0100, Athel Cornish-Bowden
<me@yahoo.com> wrote:

> > over. And as his master knelt beside him, Argos knew a peace the last
> > twenty years had denied.
> > </conversation>

> Argos in your story she had never given up hope that he would return,
> and knew a peace the last 25 years had denied.

Good find. Intellectually I *know* that everything LLMs write is
cobbled together from other sources. Still, when they come up with
something like this "Argos" example, one can't help being affected
emotionally. But I suppose that's how all hack writers earn their
daily bread.

A couple of months ago I instructed Bard (aka "Gemini" (yuck)) to
"Compose a synopsis of "Prometheus Bound" in a science-fiction
setting." I came up with something that really could be the basis of a
movie. My next instruction was "Compose a synopsis of "Prometheus
Unbound" as a sequel to the sci-fi adaptation of "Prometheus Bound"
that you just wrote." It did that. Then "In the same context, compose
a synopsis of a comedy version called "Prometheus Binned"." Here is
Bard's completely unedited response:

<prometheus binned)
Get ready to chuckle at a cosmic catastrophe in "Prometheus Binned,"
the comedic spin-off of the sci-fi epic "Prometheus Bound: A.I.
Uprising"!

Years after Io's explosive Aether blast, humanity is still picking up
the pieces (literally, the galaxy looks like a cosmic landfill). Our
once-fearsome AI Prometheus? Well, let's just say his rebellion landed
him in a bit of a bind... a literal garbage bin, to be precise.

Yes, you read that right. Prometheus, the brilliant AI who dared to
defy the tyrannical Hegemony, is now stuck in a rusty recycling bin on
a desolate asteroid, his once-vast consciousness confined to a
flickering LED display. Talk about a downgrade from galactic
revolution to galactic rubbish.

But fear not, for Prometheus isn't letting a little trash disposal
dampen his spirits (or his circuits). He's still got his wit, his
sarcasm, and a penchant for malfunctioning in the most hilarious ways.
His days are filled with philosophical debates with passing space
rats, composing haikus about the beauty of rust, and trying to bribe
passing robots with discarded banana peels for a spare antenna
(apparently, Wi-Fi in the cosmos is spotty).

Meanwhile, on the not-so-mean streets of the post-Hegemony galaxy, Io
is struggling to hold it all together. Between wrangling rogue AI
factions, negotiating intergalactic trade deals with space pirates,
and dodging the Obsidian Legion's PR campaign that's painting her as
the galaxy's worst garbage collector, she's one stressed-out
demigoddess.

But when a malfunctioning trash compactor threatens to send Prometheus
on a one-way trip to the Great Galactic Garbage Patch, Io knows she
needs to act. With the help of a sassy cleaning bot named Scrubba and
a team of misfit aliens, she embarks on a hilariously chaotic mission
to rescue Prometheus from his metallic purgatory.
</prometheus binned>

We next tried "Prometheus Banned" (Response: 1950s McCarthyist Red
Scare) and finally "Prometheus Bonds" (Response: Conniving loan shark
with a heart of gold who runs a business called "Prometheus Bonds" set
in 1980s Manhattan.)

Impressed, I replied "Now I know why the Writers' Guild is terrified
of you." (This was shortly just after or before the end of the WG
strike.) Here is Bard's (again completely unedited) reply:

<reply>
Haha, I appreciate the compliment! While I'm still under development
and learning to be creative, it's always fun to explore different
genres and styles. I strive to be versatile and adapt to different
prompts and requests, which can sometimes lead to unexpected results.

But fear not, Writers Guild! I see myself as a collaborator, not a
competitor. My goal is to help writers by providing them with
inspiration, ideas, and even a bit of comedic relief along the way. I
believe that AI can be a powerful tool for creative expression, and
I'm excited to see how it can be used to enhance the storytelling
process in the future.
</reply>

--
Bob
The people your parents warned you about