Challenging ai to a writing competition pt. 1

I will be using this website to publish a new series where i challenge chat-gpt to writing contests! this is something i want to do frequently, but before i post my submission and chat's submission, i want to explain the rules.

essentially, I will begin by searching the internet for creative writing prompts. once i find one that piques my interest, i will set to writing a submission of reasonable length (500-1,500 words). once i write and edit my entry, i will then enter the same writing prompt into chat-gpt and allow it to utilize a word count range that's comparable to my own. i will not be allowing chat-gpt access to my entry and will be instructing it to go directly off the chosen prompt.

then, i will post my entry and chat's entry on a designated blog post, where readers can compare the two submissions and decide for themselves which they think is better. at the end, i will include a poll on which story the reader would prefer to continue reading, and that will gauge who the winner is. lastly, i will be filming this process and promoting it on tiktok and other socials in order to spread the word. all that i ask is that readers be honest with their voting—i.e., if my story sucks, don't let your hatred of ai be the reason you vote in favor of my entry.

(brief video of me explaining the rules if you learn better by listening)

now, without further ado,...

the selected prompt:

in a future society, memories can be bought and sold. (Taken from nofilmschool.com - "75 Science Fiction Writing Prompts to rile up the future")

my entry:

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” asked a strange man who’d seemingly appeared from thin air, causing Isabel to startle slightly.

She stood along the ocean pier’s railing, staring off toward the early dawn sky. An hour remained before the sun would rise and the Trading Market would open. In other words, the last hour of her tranquil sanity quickly faded. Not bothering to pay the man any more than a side glance, Isabel replied, “Depends who you ask, I suppose.”

A chuckle that bordered a whimsical growl sounded from the man. He turned his body and leaned his hip into the boardwalk’s railing, now facing Isabel head-on. 

“I’m asking you” was all he said in response, prompting her to look at him.

Isabel had been coming here every morning for as long as she could remember, though she had no definitive concept of how long that had been. That was the problem with her line of work. Succubi, that was. In a world where memories could be bought and sold, there would always be those who remembered too much. Likewise, there would always be those wealthy enough to remain blissfully ignorant.

It was almost funny—Isabel made it her routine to come to this spot on the pier and watch the sun rise each and every morning. And yet, she had no idea why. The memory evaded her; or perhaps, it had been stolen and traded without her consent years ago. But even without a clear purpose for the routine, there was no disputing the warm feeling it gave her—the one that vanished each night when the sun sank over the horizon.

“Can I help you?” Isabel asked, ignoring the man’s question altogether. As far as her memory served, the pier was always empty in the early hours of the morning. That’s part of the reason she loved it so much. No people. No talking. Just her and her thoughts and the crashing waves below. A place in time that belonged to her, and her alone. But this man’s presence was like a squawking seagull stealing her sanity.

“You’re a Succubi?” asked the man, the weight of his gaze causing Isabel’s face to itch. The serenity of the moment was ruined, and his question caused anxiety to rise in her chest.

“Even if I was,” she replied coldly, “leeching hours end at 4am. Dream King’s orders. Now get lost, creep.”

She was a professional when it came to feigning confidence she didn’t actually feel. Being a Succubi was dangerous for countless reasons—dealing with creepers like this man was just a part of life. But it was still dark and her assigned Incubus, Thorne, had retired to his sleeping quarters for the day. If this freak tried to pull something, would she be able to make a run for it? Was she strong enough to stand her ground and fight back?

No, doubtful. Even her peripherals indicated he was twice her size and had an athletic build. If worse came to worst, she’d be best off jumping over the railing so the crashing waves could claim her.

“Don’t do that,” the man quipped, laughing lightly, almost as if he could read her mind as she peered over the edge. This caused her to freeze in fear, silently wondering how the hell he could read her—

“Relax, Isabel, I can’t read your mind,” he said, providing further evidence that he could, in fact, read her mind. He continued, speaking playfully, “I asked you not to jump because I could see you eyeing that water like you planned on being the first person to die from a belly flop… Listen, I get it. Intimidating guy you don’t know approaches you in the dark and tries to strike up a conversation. Not very subtle, noted. But it was now or never, considering that Incubus of yours would skin me alive if I ever asked for your help while you’re working.”

The comment made her face blush, realizing that Thorne was capable of much worse than flaying men who couldn’t pay for her services. But, after remembering a second time that he wasn’t here to protect her, she cursed under her breath. “Asked for my help?” she repeated, finally eyeing the man from head to toe, which caused her to blush a second time. Even in the dark, she could see the man was… sexy? That felt like too childish a word to use to describe a man so elegant. He was perfection—an optical illusion she couldn’t remove her eyes from.

She almost wanted to apologize for lumping the stranger in the same category as her customers, all of whom were scarred by debilitating ugliness. 

The same words that made her skin crawl seconds ago now cut through the dark like a dagger. “Yes, your help. You are a Succubus. One of the Dream King’s best, rumor has it. Every night, you free peoples’ minds from the nasty memories which shackle them. Of all the powers bestowed upon humanity in the Great Awakening, yours is the rarest. The most coveted. Because you can help people forget the pain, so long as they’re willing to pay the Dream King’s fees. In an hour, when the sun rises, your customers from last night will wake and not a single one of them will remember the trauma you took. And yet, your soul will bear the scars they were too weak to carry.”

“Get on with it,” Isabel scoffed, “or did you come here to tell me things I already know?”

“Touche, I suppose,” he said through a loosely-pursed grin. “Guess I’ll just come out with it then, eh? You Succubi and Incubus are rare, but there exists a power more elusive than yours—one that not even the Dream King possesses.” He paused, his smile unflinching, as if he wanted to give Isabel the chance to guess if she so desired. Not wanting to extend the eery conversation any longer than necessary, however, she remained silent.

“You possess the power to remove a person’s memories, Isabel. But I… I alone have the power to give a person memories they never experienced.”

The statement caused Isabel’s next breath to pause at the back of her throat. This man—whoever the hell he was—knew. He knew that the Dream King had been experimenting with his Succubi for many years in secret, testing to see if they could learn to perform their powers precisely how this man just stated. All trials, however, only reaffirmed that such an ability was impossible.

“Why are you here?” Isabel asked, then added, “better yet—why are you telling me this? I report directly to the Dream King… I’ll have to—“

“Tattle on me?” he laughed, looking away from Isabel. He approached the pier’s railing and leaned over it, staring at the dark waters below. “We both know you aren’t one of the King’s true believers. I wouldn’t be here if you were. I’ve been watching you for quite some time, and I know you’ve grown weary of his intentions. The only reason you haven’t jumped ship is for the sake of your sister.”

He looked up at Isabel with a raised brow to see her reaction. The words nearly stole the breath from her lungs; she leaned against the railing for support. 

“How do you… No one knows about…” Thoughts raced through her head faster than she could process. Disbelief turned to anger. Though he was a stranger to her, the opposite wasn’t true. This man knew intimate details about her life that she’d hidden for many years. Not even Thorne knew about… “No more games. Who are you and what do you want from me?”

The stranger stood to full height once more, then started walking backwards slowly, smile still on his face. Though the sun rose in the distance, the world suddenly grew dark. The ocean slowly faded away from existence, followed by the wooden planks that composed the pier. The overcast sky vanished. All turned to black as the stranger’s silhouette continued to shrink away. Still, his response echoed like a sinister whisper, “I am the Boogeyman, Isabel. As for what I want from you… I’ll be in touch soon.”

Isabel’s eyes opened as she shot upright in her bed, panting as cold sweat ran down her spine. The sun’s light streamed through her floor-to-ceiling windows, chasing away the feverish nightmare. She scanned her bedroom for any indication of the strange man, only to find that she was alone. She didn’t remember returning home or falling asleep. 

Isabel retraced her steps from last night, trying to piece together the scattered memories. It was the same routine as every night. Her and Thorne had met with several customers, then Thorne had retired to his living quarters and she’d walked to the pier. Or so she thought she had… 

No, something was wrong. She could feel it even though she couldn’t explain it. Someone had tampered with her memories—but not in the way she could. There was nothing missing; and yet, a span of several hours felt as though they’d been rewritten.

I am the Boogeyman. The words echoed in her ringing ears. I alone have the power to give a person memories they never experienced.

And then it dawned on her—that was no nightmare—it was her first taste of a power that could win her ticket to freedom.

chat-gpt's entry:

They say you can live a dozen lives now—if you can afford it. The neon billboards on Market Street advertise in looping holograms: “Your past doesn’t define you. Buy a better one today!” Below, glass-fronted kiosks display vials of light—liquid memories, bottled and pulsing like veins of lightning. Each vial is labeled with the sharp permanence of barcodes: First Kiss. Winning Goal. Mother’s Lullaby.

I walk past them quickly. I don’t buy anymore.

My name is Elias Ward, and I used to be a Memory Broker. People trusted me with the most precious parts of themselves, and I sold those moments to strangers who wanted to feel alive. But memories aren’t harmless antiques to be passed around. They’re barbed wire, wrapping tighter every time you touch them.

I still remember the day—no, correction: I still own the day—that I ruined a man’s life.

He came into my shop pale and desperate, clutching a ring box. His fiancée had died in an accident, he told me, and he couldn’t bear the pain. He begged me to erase the memory of her. I tried to warn him—extraction always leaves scar tissue. Gaps don’t stay empty; the brain knots itself into something new, something worse. But grief is its own currency, and he was rich enough to spend it.

So I took her from him. Every laugh. Every shared breakfast. The proposal under winter stars. And I sold those moments, parceled out to buyers who wanted “authentic heartbreak” for their own shallow thrills.

Two months later, he returned. Not as a client, but as a husk. He didn’t remember her, but he didn’t remember himself either. Without her memories, he no longer knew who he’d been. He wandered the streets until he starved. They found him smiling faintly, like a man who almost recalled something wonderful.

That was the day I walked away from the trade.

Now I live in a cramped apartment above a noodle shop, my nights restless with memories I never bought but somehow absorbed—fragments that leak from the vials I once handled. A little girl’s giggle when she saw snow for the first time. A soldier’s scream as the shrapnel hit. A lullaby in a language I don’t speak but understand in my bones.

The doctors call it bleed. Prolonged exposure to foreign memories contaminates your own. Brokers always go mad eventually. Some carve their arms to find the memories under the skin. Others leap from rooftops, convinced they can fly because they once sold a dream of flight.

Me? I’ve lasted longer than most. But the bleed whispers louder every day.

Tonight, there’s a knock on my door. When I open it, a girl no older than seventeen stands there. Her jacket is torn, her eyes sharp with hunger and resolve.

“You’re Elias Ward,” she says. It isn’t a question.

I hesitate. “Not anymore.”

She thrusts a vial into my hand. The liquid inside swirls gold. It thrums like a heartbeat.

“I need you to put this back.”

I stare at it. “Impossible. You can’t reverse an extraction.”

Her jaw tightens. “It’s mine. I know it is. Every night I dream of a man’s face I can’t place. Every morning, it fades like smoke. Please—I just want to remember him.”

I should slam the door. Instead, I feel the weight of the vial in my palm. A memory this radiant wasn’t meant for sale. Someone stole it.

“Where did you get this?”

Her eyes flick to the stairwell. “Doesn’t matter. Just tell me you can do it.”

And against every instinct, I say, “I’ll try.”

The equipment is buried in a trunk I swore I’d never open again: silver filaments, neural nodes, and a black injector that hums when it tastes electricity. I dust it off and set her in the chair.

“Who was he?” I ask while calibrating the nodes.

“My father,” she whispers. “At least…I think so. Everyone tells me he left when I was little. But sometimes, when I wake up crying, my mother looks at me like she’s lying.”

I glance at the vial again. A father’s memory of holding his child for the first time, maybe. Or the warmth of teaching her to ride a bike. It explains why it gleams like gold. Memories of love always burn brightest.

I hesitate. If I push this memory back into her, it could kill her. Brains don’t like foreign code—even if it was originally theirs. But I also know what it feels like to live haunted by a missing piece.

“Close your eyes,” I say.

The machine hums to life. Threads of light spool from the vial, sinking into her skull like rivers into soil. She gasps, arches, then slumps forward. I kill the power, heart racing.

When she opens her eyes again, tears stream down her cheeks.

“I remember,” she says, voice breaking. “He didn’t leave. He was taken.”

The words freeze me. “Taken?”

She nods. “By the Guild. They said his memories were too valuable to waste. They…extracted him whole.”

I’ve heard rumors of this—full harvests, where a person isn’t just stripped of moments but drained entirely, until nothing remains but an empty shell. The Guild always denied it.

But if it’s true, then her father wasn’t lost. He was liquidated.

She grips my wrist. “Help me find him. Please. You know their system. You know how they hide the stolen lives.”

And in her eyes, I see the one thing I lost long ago: belief that memories matter.

So I make a choice.

We leave the apartment together, the city’s neon glow bleeding into the night sky. For years I sold fragments of souls to the highest bidder. But maybe, just maybe, I can spend what’s left of mine to put someone whole again.

As we vanish into the crowd, I clutch the vial of golden light. Not as merchandise. Not as contraband.

But as proof that even in a world where memories can be bought and sold, some are worth more than everything else combined.

Whose story would you rather see continued?

• devin thorpe's
• chat-gpt's