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Claude is pretty funny: “Give me 10 brilliant ideas for a science fiction short short story, pick the most brilliant and execute it terribly” It picked: “People start receiving Amazon packages from parallel universes where they made different life choices.” And it was terrible
September 19, 2025 at 4:57 PM
ChatGPT-5 Thinking picked “An astronomer finds a star blinking in Morse: Earth’s future obituary.” Pretty funny, too. I had to tell it to remember to write a very short story (GPT-5 “loves” to write)
HAHAHAHA it's amazing, I have to try that, it is really funny. They are not very good at giving depth to the stories but in this case that is a strength 🤣🤣
Brushing scams as portal fantasy
This is baffling good and Creative.
This is making me scream angrily with anger
Could be a decent premise for a Twilight Zone treatment
"That's weird", he thought, because it was weird. Bahaha! I've "written" several novels with Author-GPT. They were perfectly written but complete trash.
Hmm... What if the packages weren't actually from a parallel universe it was just a consistent gas leak and you're ordering things in a delirium on a separate amazon account. The story increasingly becomes disjointed and then ends with a chilling calm with the main characters corpse on the couch. ;p
The Bulwer-Lytton Contest is excellent for this. "Sir Arthur Pendragon, High King of the Britons, son of King Uther Pendragon... in turn the son of a long list of people who weren’t kings and thus don’t matter, only slept with his sister once, but boy did it come back to bite him in the ass."
That was a human (presumably) winning entry in 2024. Claude, following your sci-fi prompt but in this style:
The Dream Auditor
Morris Kreplach had audited seventeen thousand, four hundred and thirty-two dreams, and not once—not once—had anyone dreamed of something genuinely interesting, unless you counted Mrs. Henderson from Topeka whose recurring nightmare about being chased through a grocery store by sentient produce had at least displayed some creativity in its selection of weaponized vegetables (the Brussels sprouts were particularly vindictive). But on this gray Tuesday morning in 2157, as Morris plugged his neural interface into the overnight batch from Sector 7, he encountered something that made his coffee cup slip from his trembling fingers and shatter against the linoleum floor of the Department of Subconscious Revenue like his sanity would moments later.
The dreamer was listed as Subject 7749-B, a maintenance worker named Janet Kowalski who lived in a cramped efficiency above a noodle shop and whose tax file indicated she possessed all the mathematical sophistication of a particularly dim turnip. Yet her dream—her beautiful, impossible dream—contained equations that danced across Morris's screen like luminescent poetry: calculations that described the curvature of space-time as if it were putty in cosmic hands, formulas that mapped the precise location of every quantum particle that had ever existed or ever would exist, and most disturbing of all, a mathematical proof that reality itself was nothing more than an elaborate debugging session run by bored graduate students in a universe one dimension higher than ours.
Morris stared at the scrolling numbers, his bureaucratic heart hammering against his ribs like a caged physicist trying to escape tenure review, because he realized with dawning horror that Janet Kowalski's dream wasn't just mathematically impossible—it was mathematically true
ALT