Different Writers Compared

We know it’s stilly, but we enjoy asking AI to do silly things. Not to pass it off at real work, but just because it’s fun. In this case, we asked AI how various authors would “describe a vase full of flowers.” Here is what it gave us.

William Faulkner

The vase, a relic of some forgotten parlor, tarnished and squatting on the chipped sideboard, held the roses like a grudging sacrifice. Their petals, once lush velvet the color of a wound, curled now with the dry scent of dust and decay, a testament to time's passage. One might think it beauty, the shape of their dying, but it held the sour reek of the grave, whispered of old hurts in the shadowed room, the past a choking weight clinging to the very scent of bloom.

Kurt Vonnegut

The vase was probably made in China. Crappy little glass thing, looked like somebody sneezed it into shape. The roses were dying, of course. Store-bought, too expensive. Some poor sap trying to impress a dame, most likely. The petals were brown on the edges, curling up like they were on fire. Reminded me of those pictures of Hiroshima after the bomb.

So it goes.

Chuck Palahniuk

The roses were supermarket specials, the kind you buy last minute for some girlfriend whose birthday you forgot. Each petal was bruised, bleeding that deep, black-red like someone got stabbed with a lipstick tube. The vase was clear plastic, pretending to be glass. Fake-fancy. The kind you'd find in a hospital room next to some old guy dribbling Jell-O onto his chin. The whole thing stank, not sweet flowers, but rotting meat mixed with too much cheap perfume.

Charles Bukowski

The roses were dying, same as everything else. Blood-red, like some broad had painted her lips too hard and then puked it up. Cheap vase, the kind you'd win at a carnival and stick some dime store flowers in. The whole thing smelled like old perfume and a hangover. Made my gut churn. Reminded me of all the dames who'd passed through, used me up and left me with nothing but the fading scent of regret.

Ernest Hemingway

The vase was glass. It sat on the table. The roses were red and some of the petals had turned brown at the edges. They were cut flowers and the stems were in the water. The water was in the bottom of the vase. It smelled of roses but underneath you could smell the green of the stems starting to rot.