I’m coming a bit late to this party, but I need to get educated. The term “Artificial Intelligence” that keeps being bandied about is real. Many of its implications are beyond me, and what I see is a bit scary. How do you access it? One way is simply go to your Google page and ask the question. It will light up with a blue color for a few seconds and then spew its answer. Teachers and professors need to be on the alert for such tactics exercised by lazy students. Maybe there are positives, but I’m not yet a believer. Below you see a few examples.
I asked AI to write an opening paragraph to a gunfight in a western story :
The dusty main street of Redemption Gulch lay sweltering under the midday sun, its usual cacophony of saloon piano and blacksmith's hammer silenced by an unspoken tension. A lone tumbleweed, brown and brittle, skittered across the packed earth, the only movement for a full minute, until the double doors of the Last Chance Saloon swung open with a slow, deliberate creak, revealing the lean figure of Silas "Snake-Eyes" Blackwood. He stood framed in the doorway, his silhouette a stark, unmoving presence against the blinding light, his hand hovering over the Colt .45 strapped to his hip.
***
…an opening paragraph to lovers on a sandy beach:
Here on this sun-kissed beach, where the rhythmic whisper of the ocean intertwined with the gentle caress of the breeze, their love story unfolded. The golden sand, warmed by the afternoon sun, shimmered under their bare feet as they walked hand-in-hand, leaving fleeting footprints that spoke of a love as vast and boundless as the horizon. Each crashing wave mirrored the beating of their hearts, a testament to the powerful, undeniable connection that drew them to each other, just as the tides are drawn to the shore. The salty air, carrying the faint scent of sunscreen and a hint of the unknown depths of the sea, enveloped them in an embrace as comforting and familiar as their intertwined fingers.
***
… an ending to a racing story:
The roar of the engines faded into a collective sigh as Liam, his face streaked with oil and sweat, crossed the finish line. He hadn't won. Not this time, anyway. The checkered flag waved, not for him, but for the blur of crimson and gold that had passed him on the final turn. A pang of disappointment hit him, sharp and swift, but it was quickly eclipsed by something else – a deep, resonant satisfaction.
He climbed out of the cockpit, the air hot against his skin, and watched as his rival, Marco, was mobbed by his crew. Liam had pushed harder than ever before, his old car screaming under the strain. He'd fixed every bug, tuned every component, and wrung every last ounce of speed from her. And though he hadn't claimed first place, he had pushed Marco, the reigning champion, to the very edge. He had earned respect, not just from the crowd, but from Marco himself, who now approached him, helmet in hand, a rare smile gracing his lips. "A hell of a drive, Liam," Marco said, extending a hand. "You'll get there."
Liam grasped his hand, a grin finally breaking through his fatigue. He knew it was true. He had learned from every twist and turn, every near collision, every perfect drift. The taste of victory might have eluded him today, but the lessons learned, the resilience gained, and the sheer joy of the race itself, were victories in their own right. He glanced back at his car, its metal still shimmering in the afternoon sun. It was battered, but still capable, just like him. And as he walked towards his own crew, who cheered for him as fiercely as if he had won, he knew the next race was already calling. This wasn't an ending; it was a new beginning.
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