My writing group does short exercises each week, and about three years ago I started sharing them (the prompt and my exercise in response) here in my blog. I don’t think I’ve shared an exercise in a while, but I tried something new last time we met, and I thought I’d share it with you.

So you know how I just submitted that abstract proposing an article about the ways that agricultural policy of the Cold War era shaped the Midwest? Well, on the Friday afternoon before our last writing group meeting two weeks ago, I had ChatGPT open because I had been using it that day to generate lists of potential sources. Similar to using Google for a search but far more more focused, with much more relevant results (except when they were “hallucinations,” of course). Then, as the work day was wrapping up, I remembered I had some writing exercises to do for our writing group meeting the next morning, a series of four prompts, and I thought: why not see what ChatGPT can do with it?

The prompts were as follows:

1. a mystery puzzle
2. waiting
3. the worst day of your life
4. I need you in the kitchen NOW

I actually had forgotten about number 4, but because my finished exercise coincidentally ended up having a kitchen in it, I guess it worked out okay after all. I created a prompt asking ChatGPT to write a short story incorporating all those elements, and I was decently impressed with what it delivered. There are definitely problems, but the basic essence of the story, the pacing, the portrayal of the characters, etc., seemed like something I could build from and maybe craft a decent larger story out of.

So, first the usual disclaimer. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

And now my exercise.

First my prompt to ChatGPT:

Write a short story, set in 1973 in a rural Ohio River town, in which a 13-year-old girl is working on a mystery puzzle, given to her by her late grandmother, while waiting for her Vietnam War vet uncle to arrive to live with her and her parents. The parents have been fighting. The uncle is the mother’s brother, and she (the mother) says she owes her little brother a home after what he’s been through. The father is an angry sort, running the family business (a funeral home) which has been struggling financially. Another mouth to feed and a complication is all he anticipates the Vietnam War vet bringing to the family. In this story, emphasize the themes of waiting, the mystery puzzle, and the fact that this day is going to be the worst day in the 13-year-old girl’s life. The girl’s name is Abby, the mother’s name is Linda, the father’s name is Bill, and the Vietnam War vet is Gary.

Then, ChatGPT delivered this draft.

As I said before, it definitely has issues and needs editing-slash-redrafting. And yet there was something I recognized as “mine,” if that doesn’t sound too out there. I didn’t exactly write this, and yet I can also see my own writing in there, like a ghostly layer floating through the generative AI text. I can see what to keep, what to change, etc., but something essential is already here that I recognize as a good foundation for me to build on and maybe write something longer, more substantial than.

So here it is.

*    *    *

Abby sat at the worn kitchen table, fingers tracing the faded edges of the puzzle pieces scattered before her. The box had once been bright, but now it was dull, the image on the front barely recognizable. It was the puzzle her grandmother had left her, the one Abby had never gotten around to starting until now, months after the funeral. Grandma had called it a “mystery puzzle,” something to be solved without a guide. Abby had never been sure what that meant, but today, with everything looming, it felt like a distraction she desperately needed.

Outside, the late summer sun hung low, casting long shadows over the Ohio River. The wind smelled of soil and decay, the scent of the riverbanks. The town felt sleepy, its rhythm slowing to match the lethargy of the warm evening. Abby could hear her parents’ muffled voices in the next room—another argument, quieter this time, but still there, like the dull throb of a headache.

She picked up a piece of the puzzle, studying it carefully. It was part of a house, she thought. Or maybe it was a tree. The pieces never quite fit together the way they should. They were all jagged edges and odd shapes, just like everything else in her life lately.

Her mother had been crying earlier, quietly so Abby wouldn’t hear. But she’d heard. She always heard. Linda had been on the phone with Aunt Jean, whispering about Uncle Gary, her little brother who was finally coming home today. “I owe him this,” she had said, her voice trembling. “After what he’s been through… I owe him a home.”

Abby had never met Uncle Gary. He was just a story, a photograph in her mother’s dresser drawer of a young man in uniform, a smile on his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He’d gone to Vietnam when Abby was just a toddler and had been gone ever since. Now, after years of silence, he was coming to live with them.

Bill, her father, wasn’t happy. “We can’t afford another mouth to feed, Linda,” he had snapped that morning as Abby poured her cereal, trying not to look at either of them. The family funeral home was struggling, barely keeping the lights on. Death hadn’t been a booming business lately, as ironic as that was. Another person in the house meant more bills, more stress, more of everything Bill already couldn’t stand.

Abby sighed and pushed another piece into place. It didn’t fit. The whole puzzle felt impossible, and she wondered if it was even solvable at all, or if Grandma had just left her with something broken. Like the way her parents felt broken lately, like her family was about to fall apart entirely.

There was a slam in the other room, her father’s heavy footsteps retreating down the hall, followed by the front door creaking open and closed. He was gone, off to the funeral home for another late shift. Abby was glad he’d left. She couldn’t handle the tension anymore.

She looked at the clock. Uncle Gary should have been here by now. Her mother had said around 5, but it was past 6. The waiting made her stomach churn, like the way she felt before a storm. She didn’t know why, but she was afraid of meeting him. Something about the way her mother’s voice softened when she spoke about him, the way she said, “After what he’s been through…” made Abby imagine dark, twisted things. She didn’t know much about the war, only what she’d heard on the news, and none of it was good.

Her mother appeared in the doorway, pale and anxious, her eyes red-rimmed from crying. “Abby, sweetheart,” she said softly, “Gary’s on his way. I’m going to go wait outside for him, okay?”

“Okay,” Abby said, her voice barely above a whisper. Linda gave her a tight smile and stepped out onto the porch, the screen door slapping shut behind her.

Abby pushed another puzzle piece into place. This one seemed to fit, though she wasn’t sure it was right. She leaned back, staring at the half-finished puzzle. Something about it was starting to make sense, but it was still a mess—just like everything else.

A car engine rumbled in the distance. Abby’s heart skipped. She stood up and crossed to the window, peeking out between the curtains. A beat-up truck pulled into the driveway, the engine sputtering as it came to a stop. Her mother stood on the porch, arms wrapped around herself, waiting.

The door of the truck opened, and out stepped a man. He was thin, too thin, his face gaunt and hollow. His hair was longer than Abby had expected, and his eyes—dark and empty—were nothing like the photograph in her mother’s drawer. Uncle Gary looked like a ghost, like someone who had seen too much and had nothing left.

Her mother rushed to him, throwing her arms around him, but Gary didn’t move. He stood stiff, letting her hug him without returning the gesture. Abby’s stomach twisted again. She had the sudden, terrifying feeling that everything was about to change forever.

She turned away from the window, feeling sick. The puzzle on the table seemed mocking now, its pieces scattered and unsolvable. Her grandmother had called it a mystery, but Abby wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer anymore. The day stretched out ahead of her, heavy and oppressive, like the storm that was about to break.

Today was going to be the worst day of her life. She just didn’t know it yet.

Hans-Peter Gauster sloppyperfectionist, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons