User 64d0fda09bc4... - AI Fiction in the Wild

Estimated User #66

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1 fiction conversations over 8 months, 20 days (Apr 27, 2023 – Jan 13, 2024) 53% prompt uniqueness St.-Petersburg, Russia

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Apr 27, 2023

Jan 13, 2024

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1 conversation in cluster Cluster 97× “rewrite in the style of stephen king: Twenty minutes later s...” over less than a minute (May 4, 2023 – May 4, 2023), oldest first. Show: 10 15 50 100

May 4, 2023 at 4:53 AM MSK — 3 turns Russia, St.-Petersburg fiction View full conversation

USER: rewrite in the style of stephen king: Twenty minutes later she pulled into a crowded lot behind an anonymous office building in Cambridge, just off Somerville Avenue, with satellite dishes on the roof and fat cables snaking down into the basement. Headquarters of The Industry Weatherman, journal of the tech VC community and Miriam's employer for the past three years. She swiped her pass-card, hit the elevator up to the third floor, and stepped out into cubicle farm chaos. Desks with PCs and drifts of paper overflowed onto the floor: A couple of harried Puerto Rican cleaners emptied garbage cans into a trolley laden with bags, to a background of phones ringing and anchors gabbling on CNN, Bloomberg, Fox. Black space-age Aeron chairs everywhere, all wire and plastic, electric chairs for a fully wired future.

CHATBOT: Just shy of twenty minutes, she found herself steering into the bustling parking lot hidden behind a nondescript office structure in Cambridge. The concrete monolith, nestled just off the jagged tendrils of Somerville Avenue, boasted its share of satellite dishes atop the flat roof, their metallic bodies hanging like vultures poised to swoop down. Cables as thick as anacondas slithered down from these metal beasts, disappearing into the murky depths of the basement. This unassuming building was none other than the heart of The Industry Weatherman, the nerve center and venerated oracle of the tech venture capitalist world, and Miriam's professional playground for the past three years. Swiping her pass-card like a ticket into the maw of the beast, Miriam summoned the elevator to carry her up to the labyrinthine third floor. The metallic doors slid open, offering her passage into the eye of the hurricane that was her everyday life: a sprawling, chaotic cubicle farm where madness grew as wild as the weeds. Desks littered with computers, their flickering screens a cacophony of colors, were buried beneath avalanches of paper that spilled onto the worn, stained carpet. Amidst the frenzy, a pair of harried Puerto Rican janitors performed their Sisyphean task, valiantly clearing away the debris of discarded printouts and empty coffee cups to make way for new clutter. Oblivious to the cleaners' plight, the symphony of clamoring phones bleated out its mechanized song, joined in harmony by the garbled prattle emanating from the anchors on CNN, Bloomberg, Fox. In every nook of the room, black Aeron chairs peppered the landscape, their space-age design an odd marriage of wire and plastic, hinting at the promise - or the threat - of a fully wired world. These were the electric chairs that would bear witness to the futures solidified or shattered within these walls.

USER: rewrite in the style of terry pratchett: Twenty minutes later she pulled into a crowded lot behind an anonymous office building in Cambridge, just off Somerville Avenue, with satellite dishes on the roof and fat cables snaking down into the basement. Headquarters of The Industry Weatherman, journal of the tech VC community and Miriam's employer for the past three years. She swiped her pass-card, hit the elevator up to the third floor, and stepped out into cubicle farm chaos. Desks with PCs and drifts of paper overflowed onto the floor: A couple of harried Puerto Rican cleaners emptied garbage cans into a trolley laden with bags, to a background of phones ringing and anchors gabbling on CNN, Bloomberg, Fox. Black space-age Aeron chairs everywhere, all wire and plastic, electric chairs for a fully wired future.

CHATBOT: Approximately one thousand and two hundred seconds later, Miriam found herself maneuvering her vehicle into the bustling and ever-so-slightly chaotic car park tucked away behind a building that was as nondescript as an accountant in a room full of other accountants who also happen to be exquisite at camouflage. This humble yet mysterious building lay nestled in the sprawling arms of Cambridge, positioned almost exactly on Somerville Avenue, and practically had satellite dishes lounging about on the roof, if one can imagine such a thing. Fat cables, apparently inspired by a diet of less-than-healthy vegetables, slithered their way downward, disappearing into the basement like someone who accidentally poured hot tea on Granny Weatherwax's feline associate. This decidedly average edifice was, in fact, the beating heart of The Industry Weatherman - the esteemed journal of the tech venture capitalist community, and the place that had the great privilege of employing Miriam for nigh on three years. Swiping her pass-card as if she were a wand-wielding wizard trying to unlock a particularly secretive doorway, Miriam summoned the magical levitating room - known by common folk as an "elevator" - to whisk her away to the wondrous realm of the third floor. The elevator doors slid open like ancient curtains, revealing the frenzy of an irritated anthill that was Miriam's everyday. It was a sprawling, cacophonous cubicle farm, where rampant chaos prowled like a particularly curious and inquisitive kitten. Desks laden with PCs, their screens a riotous medley of colors, were submerged beneath heaps of paper that cascaded across the floor in cheerful rebellion. In the midst of it all, a valiant and beleaguered duo of Puerto Rican janitors waged their own private war against mess and disorder, seemingly on a quest to empty the overflowing containers of refuse and replenish them with more manageable levels of assorted items. Adding to the symphony of chaos was the familiar chorus of ringing telephones, harmonizing with the constant babble of anchors on CNN, Bloomberg, Fox, and others like an unholy alliance of noises. Amid this maelstrom of mild confusion, sleek black Aeron chairs populated the landscape like furniture from another world. Formed from a strange partnership of wire and plastic, they resembled the now-legendary reclining mechanisms of the Ankh-Morpork guild of electricians, offering a different kind of comfort in a thoroughly wired future.

Cluster 97