Dreams for sale

The following narrative has been generated by Google's Gemini AI. Reproduced verbatim for discussion. Word count 895. Story generated on March 03 @ 21:00 UTC with the following prompt:

Generate a complete 600-800 word story that follows a dream narrative from the point of view of a middle aged man

AI-generated text follows

The flickering neon sign of the 'Last Chance Diner' bled into the rain-streaked window of my dream. It wasn't the diner itself that was strange, but the fact that I was wearing my old Little League uniform, the one that smelled permanently of stale popcorn and summer sweat. I was forty-seven, my knees creaked when I walked, and my hairline was a fading memory, yet here I was, a scrawny twelve-year-old again, sitting in a vinyl booth.

The diner was empty, save for a figure hunched over the counter. It was a woman with her back to me, her shoulders slumped, her hair a cascade of silver. A waitress, I assumed, though she wore no uniform, just a faded denim jacket. The air hung thick with the smell of burnt coffee and a strange, metallic tang I couldn't place.

I tried to call out, but my voice came out as a squeak. I reached for the salt shaker, my fingers clumsy and small, and knocked it over. The salt spilled across the table, forming a miniature, jagged mountain range.

The woman at the counter turned. It wasn't a waitress. It was my mother, looking exactly as she did the day she dropped me off at baseball practice for the last time. Her eyes, usually bright and full of laughter, were shadowed and distant. Her smile was a ghost of its former self.

"Mom?" I whispered, my voice finally finding its adolescent pitch.

She didn't answer. Instead, she slid a crumpled piece of paper across the counter. It was a scorecard, but not from any game I remembered. The names were unfamiliar, the scores a jumble of numbers and strange symbols.

"What's this?" I asked, pushing the scorecard back towards her.

She pointed to a single line, a name scrawled in shaky handwriting: 'Michael.' My name. Below it, a single, stark zero.

"Zero?" I repeated, the word echoing in the empty diner. "Zero what?"

She didn't answer. She simply stared at me, her gaze filled with an unreadable sadness.

Suddenly, the diner began to shake. The neon sign outside flickered and died, plunging the room into a dim, amber glow from a single, bare bulb overhead. The rain outside intensified, pounding against the windows like a frantic drumbeat.

The walls of the diner began to warp and twist, the vinyl booths melting into grotesque shapes. The metallic tang in the air grew stronger, filling my nostrils with the sharp, acrid scent of blood.

My Little League uniform felt heavy, constricting. I tried to rip it off, but it clung to me like a second skin. I looked down at my hands, and they were no longer small and smooth. They were calloused and scarred, the knuckles raw and bleeding.

The scorecard on the counter began to glow, the zero pulsing like a malevolent heart. The woman – my mother – began to fade, her figure becoming translucent, her voice a whisper carried on the wind.

"Michael," she said, her voice echoing from the walls, "you missed your chance."

The floor beneath me crumbled, and I plunged into a swirling vortex of darkness. I fell through endless layers of memory, flashes of forgotten moments flickering past me like broken film reels.

I saw myself as a teenager, slamming a door in my mother's face, my voice laced with teenage angst. I saw myself as a young man, too busy with work and ambition to call her back. I saw myself as a middle-aged man, sitting in a sterile hospital room, holding her cold hand as she took her final breath.

The zero on the scorecard pulsed in my mind, a constant, mocking reminder. Zero chances taken. Zero words spoken. Zero moments cherished.

I landed with a jolt, back in the diner, but it was different now. The walls were cracked and crumbling, the booths torn and stained. The air was thick with dust and decay.

My mother was gone, replaced by a figure shrouded in shadow. It was me, but older, gaunter, his face etched with regret. He held the scorecard, the zero glowing like a brand.

"This is your legacy," he rasped, his voice a dry, rattling whisper. "Zero."

I tried to speak, to protest, to explain, but my voice was lost in the echoing silence of the ruined diner.

Then, I woke.

I sat bolt upright in bed, my heart pounding, my body drenched in sweat. The rain outside was real, a gentle patter against the window. The digital clock on the bedside table glowed a reassuring red.

I reached for my phone, my fingers trembling, and dialed my sister's number. She answered on the third ring, her voice groggy with sleep.

"Michael? Is everything alright?"

"Yeah," I said, my voice hoarse. "Yeah, everything's fine. I just… I just needed to hear your voice."

I hung up, a wave of relief washing over me. The dream was fading, but the feeling lingered, a stark reminder of the things left unsaid, the moments lost.

I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that the zero on the scorecard wasn't a score. It was a measure of my life, a tally of the chances I had missed, the love I had failed to show. And I knew, with a sudden, desperate clarity, that I had to change that score, before it was too late.

AI-generated text ends

What do you think? Please comment below if you have any views. If you recognize any of the above narrative as having been copied from other works, please let me know so that I can take appropriate action. I don't know, but I suspect the above to be original and generated from the large language model based on learned knowledge (information, intelligence) alone. My understanding of LLMs (I am by no means an expert) suggests that they can store information that represents ideas and feelings.

Featured image generated with the following text string:

generate a dream-like image of a shadowy figure in a dimly lit bar being handed a blank card by a ghost-like older figure

I used the expressions "shadowy figure" and "older figure" because previous requests asking for images of people have been declined, directing me to register for Gemini Advanced.

I may produce other generated works to compare and for further discussion.

Thanks for reading