superrific
Master of the ZZLverse
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I asked it to write a short story about a used car dealership outside of Jackson, MS, in the style of Faulkner. This is what it produced. I can't really tell if it's good Faulkner, but it's obviously Faulkner because the AI can take Faulkner's signature manipulations of time and run with it.
They called it Lucky’s, though no one remembered a Lucky, not even Ed Baldridge who ran the place and had since ’86 when he bought it from a man who may have been named Leland or Raymond but who vanished sometime between Reagan and Bush Sr., leaving behind a ledger, a pair of ostrich-skin boots, and a Thunderbird with a roach clip still dangling from the rearview. The dealership sat off the old highway, not the new bypass, in that no-man’s strip between Ridgeland and the woods that once held the prison work camp where Jesse Polk cracked limestone until his lungs collapsed one August and he died on a Tuesday, same day his granddaughter was born in Yazoo City and named Jessalyn, who twenty years later would buy a teal Elantra from Lucky’s that would throw a rod outside Meridian the day her boyfriend was supposed to propose.
Ed’s office had a mounted catfish and a Polaroid of a snowstorm that wasn’t from Mississippi but Ohio, from his brief time with a woman named Carleen who believed in forgiveness and time travel and who left one morning claiming both had run out. The gravel lot still bore tire marks from the night in ’94 when three teenage boys joyrode a Buick straight through the chain-link fence and into the billboard, the one that once advertised carpet but now just said JESUS IS LORD in faded red block letters.
Cars came and went, their titles scribbled in spiral notebooks, each one a history of something—divorces, deaths, salvation—while Ed watched them all, sat in the sun and let the dust gather, waiting maybe for Lucky, or at least for someone who’d remember the name.
They called it Lucky’s, though no one remembered a Lucky, not even Ed Baldridge who ran the place and had since ’86 when he bought it from a man who may have been named Leland or Raymond but who vanished sometime between Reagan and Bush Sr., leaving behind a ledger, a pair of ostrich-skin boots, and a Thunderbird with a roach clip still dangling from the rearview. The dealership sat off the old highway, not the new bypass, in that no-man’s strip between Ridgeland and the woods that once held the prison work camp where Jesse Polk cracked limestone until his lungs collapsed one August and he died on a Tuesday, same day his granddaughter was born in Yazoo City and named Jessalyn, who twenty years later would buy a teal Elantra from Lucky’s that would throw a rod outside Meridian the day her boyfriend was supposed to propose.
Ed’s office had a mounted catfish and a Polaroid of a snowstorm that wasn’t from Mississippi but Ohio, from his brief time with a woman named Carleen who believed in forgiveness and time travel and who left one morning claiming both had run out. The gravel lot still bore tire marks from the night in ’94 when three teenage boys joyrode a Buick straight through the chain-link fence and into the billboard, the one that once advertised carpet but now just said JESUS IS LORD in faded red block letters.
Cars came and went, their titles scribbled in spiral notebooks, each one a history of something—divorces, deaths, salvation—while Ed watched them all, sat in the sun and let the dust gather, waiting maybe for Lucky, or at least for someone who’d remember the name.