Phil Shapiro ChatGPT Explorations

In the village of Glumbrook, tucked between the blue hills and the muttering pines, there was a man named Jerzy who made soup so good it was whispered about in other time zones. People traveled crooked miles over stone and dust just to catch the scent wafting from his chimney. But Jerzy didn't sell his soup. Not for coin, not for silver, not for an armful of rubies nor a particularly well-behaved goat. "If you want my soup," Jerzy would say, "you must bring something of equal worth." The villagers would roll their eyes, but they came all the same. First came Marten the carpenter. He brought a finely crafted stool, smoothed by loving hands, each leg bearing a subtle spiral. Jerzy ladled soup into his bowl but paused. "Did this stool move your soul when you made it?" he asked. "I sanded it for three days!" said Marten proudly. "But did it sing to you?" "No, but it creaked charmingly." Jerzy sighed. "I think you can do b...

Boris, who worked in pest control, showed up at the public library one day to get help studying for a pest control test. Passing that test, he would get a raise at his job. Library worker Peter was able to help Boris practice for the test. Boris passed the test and was grateful for the librarian's help. Two months later, Boris had a severe pain in his lower back and needed to get to the hospital. Having no family in town, Boris called Peter and asked him for help getting to the hospital. The call reached Peter on a Saturday at 4 pm. The two of them went to hospital together and Peter sat by Boris' bed hour after hour. "This pain is too much for anyone to endure on their own," Peter thought to himself. The hours passed by and at 5 am a nurse came into the room and asked Peter, "Are you Boris' friend or family." Peter honestly replied, "I'm neither. I'm his librarian." Nurse said, "I have seen no family member with the devotion you ...

It all began on a breezy Saturday afternoon in May, the kind of day where the sky forgets to bring any clouds and the sun just hangs there like a happy golden pancake. Three second-grade girls—Lila, Jaya, and Maple—stood on the edge of a wide cow pasture behind Lila's grandmother's house, each gripping a shovel, a bucket, and a wildly optimistic sense of international ambition. "We'll call it Operation Dig," Lila declared, jabbing her shovel into the dusty earth. Nothing happened. "Or maybe Operation Moo," Jaya said, eyeing a cow that was slowly chewing grass and watching them like a curious old librarian. "No," said Maple solemnly, brushing her braids behind her ears. "It has to be something grand. Something... global. " There was a silence. Then all three shouted, "Operation: Hole to China!" The dirt was not impressed. It was stubborn, sun-baked, and packed tighter than Lila's dad's suitcase on vacation. After ten ...

My songwriting is spurred by many of the tumultuous relationships I never had. I wrote these songs as a way of working out my feelings of not having tumultuous relationships. This was a very challenging time in my life. You see, while others were experiencing heartbreak, betrayal, and the intoxicating highs and devastating lows of love, I was left to endure a cruelly stable existence. No dramatic confrontations in the rain. No tear-streaked apologies on my voicemail. Not even an ambiguously sad Instagram post aimed at me. So, I had to imagine my pain. I would stare longingly at my reflection in café windows, as if reminiscing about the lover I never had. I'd practice wistful sighing on park benches, hoping a stranger might notice and assume I carried the weight of unspoken sorrow. I even tried leaving cryptic notes around my apartment—"We should talk" or "You know what you did"—to at least give myself the illusion of emotional turmoil. But my suffering remained ...

My family's first computer was a black and white abacus. It had a total of six beads on two wires. The wires were a little rusty, so sometimes the beads would get stuck. Whenever that happened to someone else in the family, they would call me over to fix the computer. I used to read magazine articles about color abaci - and I had my eyes on one that had 15 beads and three wires. I begged my parents to buy one, but they said they couldn't afford it. Finally, my family ended up buying a color abacus. My dad sold his beloved fishing pole so we could buy that abacus. The day the color abacus arrived, I could scarcely barely believe my cliches. I stayed up all night sliding the beads left and right. I could not believe the wires were not rusty. That was a totally new experience for me. I ran my fingers over the smooth, brightly colored beads. Red! Blue! Yellow! I had only seen such vivid technology in the pages of Abacus Enthusiast Monthly . I felt like a scientist at the cutting...