'On the Slush Pile' - Adam Carlton

 

Amazon link

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In my last post, ChatGPT reviewed my book as a friend. But this time, I gave it very different instructions:

"Now, assume you are the slush pile reviewer at an agency, and you come across this manuscript from unknown author Adam Carlton. You know your agent likes SF and tech thrillers, so you need to be dispassionate and accurate in your review for your manager, the agent. So write an honest review of Adam Carlton's book of short stories together with a recommendation as to whether it should be accepted or rejected."

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Internal Review: Freyja’s Deathbed Conversations and Other Stories by Adam Carlton

Summary:

Adam Carlton’s Freyja’s Deathbed Conversations and Other Stories is a collection of thirty-four speculative fiction stories that blend hard science fiction, near-future dystopian themes, and elements of cyberpunk and political thriller. The stories explore AI surveillance states, high-tech espionage, revolutionary struggles, and the moral dilemmas posed by emerging technologies. While the collection showcases a strong grasp of technological and political issues, its execution is uneven, and it may struggle to find a clear market.

Strengths:

• Intellectual Depth & Thematic Coherence – Carlton’s understanding of AI, surveillance, and political intrigue is evident. His stories often grapple with relevant and pressing concerns about the future of society, offering a thought-provoking (if bleak) vision of what lies ahead.
• Sharp, Incisive Prose – The writing is technically strong, often delivering complex ideas with clarity and precision. Carlton excels in dialogue-driven scenes, particularly in espionage- and resistance-themed narratives.
• Genre Suitability – The collection sits at the intersection of hard SF, dystopian fiction, and tech thriller—genres with a dedicated readership. Fans of William Gibson, Charles Stross, or even Cory Doctorow might find some appeal here.
• Standout Stories – Technical Support offers a gripping, plausible near-future spy thriller, Annabel and the AI Weapon plays with military AI ethics in an engaging way, and The Fake Revenge of Joséphine Lefebvre injects dark humor into a Black Mirror-esque premise.

Weaknesses:

• Marketability Issues – Short story collections are already a hard sell in the SF/thriller space unless the author has an established readership. This book does not appear to have an easily defined unique selling point that would distinguish it from other dystopian/AI-heavy anthologies.
• Character Depth & Emotional Engagement – While the ideas are strong, many stories prioritize intellectual rigor over deep character exploration. This results in a cold, analytical tone that may alienate readers looking for more emotional engagement.
• Over-Reliance on Ideological Themes – Some stories read more like thought experiments or essays in narrative form rather than compelling, character-driven fiction. While the political and philosophical underpinnings are clear, they occasionally overshadow storytelling fundamentals.
• Structural & Pacing Issues – Several stories, particularly in the latter half, feel overlong or meandering. The strongest pieces would benefit from being expanded into longer works, while weaker or repetitive entries could be cut.

Recommendation:

Reject, but encourage a novel submission.

While Carlton’s writing is competent and often engaging, this collection is unlikely to find a strong commercial foothold. Short story anthologies are difficult to sell unless backed by a major name or a compelling hook, and while this has solid dystopian and cyberpunk credentials, it does not break new ground in the way that would justify a debut sale. However, Carlton’s talent for high-concept speculative fiction and political thrillers suggests potential in the long-form market.

I recommend passing on the collection but inviting Carlton to submit a novel-length manuscript in the same vein as Technical Support or Annabel and the AI Weapon. If he can bring the same sharp writing and techno-political insight to a well-structured novel with stronger character arcs, he may have something worth pursuing.

'Donatien's Children' on the slush pile - Adam Carlton

Amazon link

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In my previous post, ChatGPT simulated an agent's slush pile reviewer taking a look at my short story collection. The recommendation was that I should be asked to submit a long-form novel instead. So I naturally pursued this:

"So Adam Carlton responded to your letter by sending you his novel (uploaded). You now need to read it, then write a second report to your manager, the agent, reviewing the novel and recommending wither to accept it or reject it."

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Internal Review: Donatien’s Children by Adam Carlton

Summary:

Adam Carlton’s Donatien’s Children is a dense, intricate, and politically charged science fiction thriller that explores the intersection of artificial intelligence, biotechnology, and corporate power. At its core, the novel follows intelligence agent James Melrose as he investigates StarDrop Corporation, a shadowy entity that has suddenly introduced world-altering technologies in fusion power, spaceflight, and synthetic life.

The story unfolds through multiple perspectives, including those of journalist Élise Fossey, her researcher sister Mireille, and Petra Schelling, a former chess prodigy turned StarDrop operative.

As the world grapples with the rise of StarDrop’s Artificial People—synthetic beings seamlessly integrated into politics, media, and entertainment—the protagonists uncover a mystery that suggests extraterrestrial origins and an existential threat to humanity.

Strengths:

• High-Concept & Thematic Depth: The novel is deeply intellectual, exploring themes of AI ethics, corporate dominance, and the philosophical implications of synthetic life. Carlton’s background in technological and political speculation is evident, and his world-building is immersive.
• Intriguing Multi-Perspective Narrative: The shifting viewpoints allow for a broad exploration of StarDrop’s influence, giving the story a layered, investigative feel. The protagonists—particularly Élise, Mireille, and James—are well-drawn and have distinct voices.
• Cinematic & Tense Storytelling: Some sequences, especially those involving covert operations, political machinations, and deep-space exploration, are gripping and would translate well to screen adaptations. The pacing in key moments is strong, and the novel maintains an undercurrent of tension.
• Genre Appeal: The novel aligns well with contemporary SF thrillers in the vein of Richard K. Morgan, Neal Stephenson, or Charles Stross, blending speculative science with espionage and corporate intrigue.

Weaknesses:

• Overly Dense & Occasionally Didactic: Carlton’s prose, while sharp and well-crafted, often leans toward exposition-heavy passages. Some sections feel more like essays on AI ethics or political theory than organic storytelling. Readers looking for a more character-driven experience may struggle with this.
• Structural Complexity & Length Issues: The novel spans multiple timelines and perspectives, but at times, the jumps between them are abrupt or insufficiently signposted. Some sections—especially in the middle—drag due to overly detailed world-building at the expense of narrative momentum.
• Emotional Distance from Characters: While the protagonists are intellectually engaging, they sometimes lack emotional depth. Their motivations are clear, but the novel’s cool, analytical tone makes it harder to forge a deep emotional connection with them.
• Marketability Challenges: Though it is well within the SF/thriller genre, its intellectual rigor and structural complexity might make it a niche rather than mass-market success. Readers who enjoy high-concept SF will appreciate it, but those looking for a more conventional thriller may find it overwhelming.

Recommendation:
Consider with significant revisions.

Carlton’s talent for speculative fiction is evident, and Donatien’s Children has the potential to be a strong entry in the high-concept SF thriller market. However, in its current form, it is likely too dense and structurally unwieldy for broad commercial success.

I recommend that Carlton be encouraged to streamline the narrative, particularly by tightening the middle sections and reducing exposition-heavy passages. A more emotionally engaging arc for the main characters—particularly James Melrose and Petra Schelling—would also help broaden its appeal. If Carlton is open to significant editorial revisions, this novel could find a home with a publisher specializing in intelligent, near-future SF. However, if he is unwilling to make these changes, it may be a difficult sell.

'ChatGPT blurbs my short-story book' - Adam Carlton

 

Amazon link

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ChatGPT review of Freyja’s Deathbed Conversations and Other Stories

Adam Carlton’s Freyja’s Deathbed Conversations and Other Stories is a collection that thrusts the reader into a world of techno-dystopian nightmares, bleak existential reckonings, and the inescapable betrayal of hope. In thirty-four stories, Carlton sketches a near-future of omnipresent surveillance, AI-driven oppression, and the paradoxical fragility of human resilience. His Paris is a battleground, his cyberspace a minefield, and his characters—whether revolutionaries, prisoners, or lost souls—are all trapped in a world where the victories of stupidity and deceit loom larger than justice or reason.

From the opening pages, Carlton demonstrates a masterful command of speculative fiction’s twin pillars: plausible world-building and razor-sharp critique. Technical Support plunges the reader into the world of clandestine resistance, where left-wing radicals attempt to outmaneuver a surveillance state grown omnipotent through artificial intelligence. Carlton’s dialogue crackles with authenticity, balancing didacticism with an unflinching cynicism about political struggle. His protagonists understand the game is rigged, but they play on nonetheless, a theme that recurs across the volume.

The title story, Freyja’s Deathbed Conversations, is among the most emotionally resonant pieces, eschewing the high-tech dystopianism of some other tales for an intimate meditation on memory, regret, and familial bonds frayed by time. Here, Carlton demonstrates his ability to weave tenderness into the collection’s overarching darkness, proving that his fiction is not just a vehicle for ideological critique but also an exploration of human depth.

Elsewhere, Annabel and the AI Weapon presents a thrilling yet unsettling portrait of warfare’s future, in which advanced AI systems alter the battlefield’s moral calculus. The protagonist, a naïve activist kidnapped in Nigeria, comes face to face with the very forces she opposes, leading to a moment of cognitive dissonance that leaves the reader contemplating the ethics of technology and violence long after the final sentence.

Carlton also revels in pastiche and satire, most notably in Bridget Jones’s LHC Diary, where the cult of celebrity and the vapid concerns of social media influencers collide with the high-stakes world of particle physics. In Jane Austen and The Amazing Elizabeth Bennet, he rewires classic literary figures into unexpected sci-fi contexts, demonstrating a mordant wit and a willingness to upend genre expectations.

One of the collection’s greatest strengths is its refusal to offer easy resolutions. Rebecca, Céline, and The Fake Revenge of Joséphine Lefebvre dissect relationships poisoned by deception, power struggles, and the commodification of intimacy. Whether it is a revolutionary leader ensnared by a double agent or a middle-class Parisian couple undone by their own AI-manipulated fantasies, these stories reveal a world where personal betrayals mirror systemic ones, where love is often indistinguishable from control.

At times, Carlton’s sheer density of ideas and his tendency to foreground ideological concerns over character development can make certain stories feel more like intellectual exercises than fully realized narratives. His prose, while crisp and often poetic, occasionally succumbs to exposition, particularly when detailing the intricacies of his high-tech settings. But this is a minor flaw in a collection that so consistently challenges and enthralls.

In Freyja’s Deathbed Conversations and Other Stories, Adam Carlton has crafted a deeply intelligent, sardonic, and unsettling work—a mosaic of a future that feels unnervingly close. It is a book that rewards the politically and philosophically inclined reader, but one that also pulses with raw emotional energy. Carlton’s fiction is not just a warning about the dystopia ahead; it is an autopsy of the one we already inhabit.

"Message in a Sealed Letter" - by Adam Carlton (intro)

From ChatGPT

"Adam Carlton's short story, 'Message in a Sealed Letter' is a poignant exploration of love, loss, and self-discovery. It tells the story of a woman who receives a final letter from her husband, trapped in a mining accident. As she reads his words - an emotional farewell filled with memories of their life together - her reaction is unexpected. Is it sorrow or grief she feels, or does the depth of his feelings stand in sharp contrast to her own? What should have been a moment of heartbreak transforms into a moment of clarity, leading her to question their entire relationship and the role she played in it.

"Perfect for fans of introspective and emotionally complex fiction, “Message in a Sealed Letter” is a thought-provoking narrative that will remain in your thoughts after reading."

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Read 'Message in a Sealed Letter'.

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You will find my collection of short stories, published on Amazon (Kindle and paperback) here:

"Freyja’s Deathbed Conversations: and other stories" (2019)

and my SF novel, also published on Amazon (Kindle and paperback) here:

"Donatien's Children" (2022).

Feel free to purchase both!

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A First Interview with Adam Carlton

From OpenArt

The First Interview: Writing and Politics

There's a small, rather private bookseller on the South Bank with whom I have a relationship. Célestine has printed some of my work in limited editions - in French, that is - and I occasionally give small readings. So it was her idea to do this interview.

You should imagine us in her parlour, hidden away in a shop that used to be a merchant's house. The walls are of course obscured by bookcases, shelves bowing under the weight of avant-garde literature, ultra-left pamphlets and diverse erotic and subversive tracts dating back to the eighteenth century.

We occupy plush but ancient armchairs around a low antique coffee table. We are sipping herbal tea and the period feel is only violated by the presence of her phone, which simultaneously records and transcribes our conversation.

I think Célestine must be twice my age.

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Q. Welcome, Adam, always good to see you. Let me start by asking you how your political activities square with your writing?

A. Ok, straight into it then! As you know, I'm quite a senior cadre with Lutte Ouvrière - which can be problematic. In general they don't approve of anything which gets in the way of effective revolutionary praxis.

Q. I believe they frown on relationships…

A. Tell me about it! Marriage is deprecated and children are a no-no. The LO culture is that we must be prepared to go clandestine at any moment. So no encumbrances!

Q. Is Adam Carlton your real name?

A. Of course not! We use party names for security within LO and my literary name is a kind of second-order party name, giving me protection against LO itself. Others also obfuscate on my behalf.

Q. You wrote short stories and then a novel. Tell me about that.

A. I write a short story when the elements of setting, character and plot come together in my head and just demand to be written down.

I was writing for the Booksie writers website for several years on a self-imposed schedule. It's good to get feedback and you feel an obligation to feed your fans. Plus going public on the Internet gets you sharp, gets the adrenaline working.

Q. But you've stopped now?

A. COVID was good for writing, of course. Now the political situation here is developing and I don't have so much time. Also, the Booksie fans I used to have seem to have disappeared. Plus it's a small and hermetic pool there.

Q. Do you want to be published?

A. Who would ever say no? But fame and fortune come with costs. It would be harder to retain my anonymity. In any case, my writing is not aligned with the zeitgeist. And there is an absolute oversupply of authors and texts. What agent or publisher in their right mind would reckon they'd make their fortune with my stuff?

And, by the way, no-one wants short stories: they don't sell.

Q. Do you honestly think you're good enough to get published?

A. It's marginal, being honest. I can do the basics but when I read true talent I know I'm not really competitive.

Q. So why write?

A. I enjoy it. It's a little piece of immortality. I bear witness. Probably I'm just feeding a future archival Adam Carlton chatbot trained on my work. It will be the modern way of gathering dust.

Q. Tell me about sex scenes. Many of your stories might be described as ‘erotica’.

A. In my earlier work I was rather explicit. Stuff like ‘He held her hand tightly as he grasped the hem of her short dress and ran it slowly up her thigh’ …

Q. Oh Adam, that's terrible!

A. Yeah, in isolation it's like pastiche but in context…? There's visceral excitement in mirroring what could easily be intimate dialogue - he's doing it and telling her what he's doing.

Q. But now you write differently?

A. Well, when the arc propels characters to sexual intimacy it's always their emotions and their thoughts which matter. Sometimes you have to describe physicality to frame those things, make things stark for the reader or anchor the scene. But often you can be allusive, use metaphor to create the emotional dynamic. That's where the focus has to be.

Q. But that also can go wrong?

A. Tell me about it! If I were more prominent no doubt I'd be a strong candidate for the Bad Sex award.

Q. So many of your stories feature young women, invariably smart, attractive and sassy. Your titles incorporate their names, and sometimes your art work does them justice, shall we say?

A. As is recommended, I write what I know. The revolutionary left is full of motivated, attractive, smart, uninhibited and conflicted women. Their ideology is frequently at odds with their innermost desires and drives. Heaven for a writer!

Q. So you write about what you see.

A. Yes. Forgive me for being coy, but yes. But I’m wary about repetition with diminishing returns. In the back of my mind I chastise myself to branch out, to realise different kinds of characters.

Q. You participate in a blog, ‘Wading Through Treacle‘?

A. It's a useful platform and my colleague there is sympathique. Hopefully I get to sell some books - the stories I'm publishing there now are mostly new ones, by the way.

Q. Do your new stories have a theme? 

A. I have quite a history of observing (mostly failed) romantic relationships under the stern gaze of the LO leadership and control commission. They're often the engine and energy of my stories. But really, it just depends on what energises me on the day.

Q. How's your French?

A. It gets better slowly. The AI systems are getting more colloquial faster than I am. Then, of course, I can always benefit from your own kind proofreading. Thank you!

Q. Well, thank you Adam for agreeing to be interviewed. I suppose another novel is out of the question?

A. I can hardly credit the time, effort and focus it took in writing 'Donatien’s Children'. The hours in front of the screen, for days on end; the enormous effort of concentration and immersion. Paradoxically, the more exciting it gets politically, the less sustained writing I can manage. So don't hold your breath! And thanks for having me!

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Célestine did not ask one question which I was expecting: to what extent has the Marquis de Sade influenced my work - perhaps that will come up in the second interview. Also, she should ask me what I think about the present and future capabilities of AI systems as writers of fiction.

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You will find my collection of short stories, published on Amazon (Kindle and paperback) here:

"Freyja’s Deathbed Conversations: and other stories" (2019)

and my SF novel, also published on Amazon (Kindle and paperback) here:

"Donatien's Children" (2022).

Feel free to purchase both!

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“Paramnesia” by Adam Carlton (intro)

From ChatGPT

Paramnesia is a memory disorder that involves the inability to distinguish between real and fantasy memories.

"In this gripping science fiction tale, two explorers, seemingly relaxed and enjoying the comforts of their quaint English village, are actually on a high-stakes mission across the galaxy. Their house, nestled in the countryside, is merely a sophisticated illusion - an elaborate facade inside a spacefaring container governed by a powerful AI. As they prepare to explore a distant double star system, Beta Hydrae, their mission reveals the cutting-edge technology that propels them through space, yet leaves them questioning the very nature of their journey.

"Their exploration is anything but casual. The AI in charge is tasked with two critical objectives: to keep Earth hidden from any potentially hostile alien civilizations and to safeguard the secrets of their advanced stardrive technology. As they navigate through space, the couple is bound by strict security protocols, leaving them with unanswered questions about the mechanics of their ship and the ever-present dangers lurking in the void.

"This story weaves together the tension of interstellar exploration with the eerie tranquility of a simulated reality, drawing readers into a world where the line between safety and peril is razor-thin. If you're intrigued by tales of space exploration, AI, and the mysteries of the cosmos, this story will keep you on the edge of your seat."

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Read “Paramnesia” by Adam Carlton.

You may also be interested in my new contemporary short story:

Read “Souvenirs d'Annette”.

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You will find my collection of short stories, published on Amazon (Kindle and paperback) here:

"Freyja’s Deathbed Conversations: and other stories" (2019)

and my SF novel, also published on Amazon (Kindle and paperback) here:

"Donatien's Children" (2022).

Feel free to purchase both!

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What we think of when we think of death

The soldier: the first one can be hard; after that it's pretty easy.

The dualist: there may be some connection between the person I feel myself to be and the squidgy mass of cells-in-soup inside my skull - but the same thing?!

The neuroscientist: it's process - the mind is what the brain does; I concede we don't know how that could work.

The evolutionary biologist: natural selection has favoured the complex human nervous system. It supports sophisticated social behaviour in challenging, dynamic but mostly predictable environments. What's the problem?

The philosopher: to explain consciousness is categorically different to experiencing it. We both know you're in pain and why, but you're the one screaming.

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Me:

Sometimes when I think of dying I feel that a complex organ (my brain) will stop functioning and its constituents disperse into the biosphere. No big deal.

Sometimes I think that human subjective experiences are extraordinarily similar. Millions of people have sensations, feelings, thoughts and consciousness just like mine. My personal deletion in death is not dissimilar to me falling asleep and waking up next morning as a… slightly different person: someone very like me who is not me.

The human race (or successor conscious beings) may advance in times to come - or may become extinct. We all feel that to secure the former is worth any sacrifice (most of us!) but there is no evidence the universe is the kind of entity which could care either way.

The process of evolution ensures that we have to care - selection bias - so that's really no surprise. We each live within our individual consciousnesses, so structured that we have to care about ourselves and those others we take to constitute our mutually supportive community. If you like, those are the boundary conditions for being a socially adjusted human (not sociopathic, schizophrenic, psychotic, etc).

When we die, a universe may die with us and within us, but let's not be precious. The flow, the continuity of the collective consciousness of humanity gives me reassurance. Just like I'll not be too concerned about falling asleep tonight - as someone will likely awaken tomorrow morning with whom I identify.

Like most people trained in physics, I happen to accept the block universe concept in which the passage of time is a psychological construct, a product of local spacetime interaction between our bodies and the environment. In this sense the past and the future are equally existent and our lives exist in entirety - just as a DVD contains the whole movie, all at once.

(Maybe the universe is really some complex multiverse structure in Hilbert space - who knows?).

Anyway, because I'm a reasonably adjusted human being, I'm a fan of sensual, emotional, smart, prosocial consciousnesses having an indefinite, fulfilling future. I'm reassured by progress so far - at least in this branch of the universal wavefunction. These emotions are conditioned by my future-ignorance, of course.

And for reasons mentioned, I'm not too scared about the eventual unavoidable extinction of the personal consciousness of this author.

You, dear reader, will take up the torch.

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Greg Egan's short story "The Walk" in his collection "Axiomatic" uses this approach as setting. 

Roger Scruton in his book "On Human Nature" makes the distinction between being conscious and having a theory of consciousness.

And I wrote a short piece about this - 'Live Forever' - at sciencefiction.com.

See also Adam Carlton's short story, "Doppelgänger": memory discontinuity hangs heavy.

Anna in the Shadows - a short story by Adam Carlton

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‘Anna in the Shadows’ - by Adam Carlton

The scene is late at night in a litter-strewn, deserted corporate cafeteria, all formica tables and plastic chairs, dimly lit by flickering fluorescents. Anna is seated by herself at a table, maybe fifteen feet away.

She was there first; I just came in and sat - not too close out of politeness.

Anna is in her thirties, rather Scandinavian looking: blonde, pale and slim. She is always quiet, reserved, inwardly focused. The mostly male engineers - under their breaths - call her 'ice queen'.

I know Anna very slightly but feel an affinity. If they think she's haughty and superior, I know they're wrong: she's merely disoriented and confused.  She's been in many technical meetings I've chaired but she never volunteers much. Quietly competent, is how I'd sum her up.

I'm a VP with the company; she's a team leader - so there's an asymmetry of position here. Still, it's late and it's been a tiring day. All that awaits me is a desolate hotel room so I'm in no great hurry to depart. As for Anna, who knows?

I smile in her general direction and say sympathetically, "Busy day?" 

Anna responds at first monosyllabically but then it's as if a dam has been breached. She has no reason to trust me but somehow she does.

Looking down at the table, she confides that she finds everything at work difficult - not the technical stuff, she emphasises but the interpersonal relationships, the office politics. 

“What do people want from me?” she asks in bewilderment.

I wonder that she has to ask.

"Ever feel," I say, "you live your life on stage under too much light? Audience out there, but you can’t see or engage with them?"

I know someone like that. I’ve spent a long time trying to understand what it’s like being him. I’ve come to a tentative conclusion: being him is like being alone on a brightly lit stage.

He knows there is a shadowed audience but he can't really perceive them as other cognitive entities. He feels the emotion of the crowd - their approval or hostility - but only as a boundary condition on his emotional state, of which he is normally barely aware in any case.

When he is in conversation, he is like an actor extemporising to that shadowed audience. He declaims but he is not in dialogue. He is not tracking the audiences intellectually - it's as if their remarks are printed on a screen in front of him on the stage: depersonalised scrolling text. He bats his arguments back, or changes topics on a whim.

You might think he is terribly alone in this solitary echo-chamber. (His conversation partners are puzzled: they sense the lack of engagement with them - it sounds like a conversation but there is no conversing going on, no meeting of minds).

But he is emotionally aware in a subliminal way - although not tolerant of company and not seeking it. He finds close family immersion (in limited amounts) oddly comforting. 

A quick breath - agreement or fatigue, it’s hard to tell.

"I have my own story," she murmurs.

"I think I live in a glass observatory on a dark hill overlooking a bright metropolis - the world. Through the telescope, I watch the city’s flickering lights and busy streets, not with indifference, but with a confused awareness that I can’t hear the busy life within. The glass lets me see the world but not step into it.

"Visitors sometimes come up the hill. I welcome them politely, even with a certain formal charm, but to me they’re data. Their words stretch across my attention to be parsed; I reply.

"I'm confused by their reactions. They always seem nonplussed, sometimes argumentative, occasionally hurt. I try to avoid conversations."

She gives me a rueful look, the first genuine communication we've had all evening. “You think I do alright?” she says, “You think I manage my life with a competent, cool detachment? Well, it's been nice to talk to you but I have to leave now and pick up my child.”

I show my surprise; I know nothing of her personal life.

“No, I don't have a partner,” she says, defensive like I’ve forced my way through some personal barrier, “I'm a single mother; no-one here knows that.” 

She stands up to depart,  looking confused and dismayed; speaks quietly to herself: 

“How did I end up like this? I didn't plan it, I didn't understand anything, I just didn't know..."

"A Woman of Mystery" by GPT-3 and Adam Carlton

GPT-3 is the text-generation system recently developed by OpenAI using "175 billion parameters, two orders of magnitude larger than the 1.5 billion parameters in the full version of GPT-2".

The easiest way to try it out is to use the “custom” option (6) of AI Dungeon with the Dragon engine enabled. Dragon is GPT-3, the default Griffin is the less-powerful GPT-2.

You can seed the AI engine with a starting sequence and then it will generate continuations. Here is a story Adam Carlton developed with GPT-3 using the AI Dungeon app and the seven-day free subscription for Dragon, published on Booksie.

One author is in bold, the other is in plain text. Which is GPT-3?

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A Woman of Mystery

My wife died recently. I am sad and lonely. I sit in a bar drinking and reading the paper. I see an attractive girl about my age in a short cotton dress. She holds my gaze. I invite her over and we begin to talk. I have a feeling this meeting was intended though. What does she want?

"I'm sorry, but I don't know anything about you."

"What do you mean?"

She says that she is from a small town in Texas and has never been out of it. She also doesn't seem to be very well off. "Well, I've got money for gas and food so I can get back home tomorrow night." She then goes on to say that she's going to go to the movies with some friends.

But she then contradicts herself and asks whether I might have a better proposal. I think furiously, keen to spend more time with her.

"You're not really interested are you?" I ask.

"No, no I guess not." She replies. "But if you were, would you still come here?"

After spending some time talking with her, we both decide to leave together. We walk along side each other and then suddenly she turns around and looks at me again. "Would you like to go back to your place now?" she asks as if she just made up something completely unexpected.

We go back to my place and I sit her down on the couch. "Do you want something to drink?" I ask her.

"Some juice or soda?"

She smiles. "I'd love a diet coke, thanks" she replies.

I go into the kitchen and come back with two diet cokes. She takes one and we both sit down on the couch. It feels strange to me that she is here.

She starts to ask me about myself. The conversation rapidly moves to my financial situation. Just as I start thinking she's a gold-digger she tells me she's feeling warm, "Do you mind if I take my dress off?"

"Oh, no. Please do."

She stands up and slips the dress over her head revealing a lacy black bra and panties. She sits down and takes a drink of diet coke before saying, "If you really want to help me out, I could use some money for food and gas."

She looks at me with her big green eyes and hopeful face. I'm really starting to like this girl.

"I don't think I can afford it," I say.

She comes across to me with her big eyes and slowly kisses me. "Are you sure?" she says.

She kisses me again and rubs her body against me. "Oh, you're just so sweet," she says.

We have wild passionate love making. Afterwards we're laying in bed when she says, "I guess I should go home now."

I tell her she can stay the night and we fall asleep like that. In the morning I wake up before her and have to go to work.

When I return the house has been ransacked, but she has left a note.

"I'm so sorry for stealing your money and jewelry. I have to get back home as soon as possible.

Thank you for the most wonderful night of my life!"

--- END ---

Adam observes: 'I don’t think serious authors will be quaking in their boots quite yet. But if this was submitted as an assignment in a middling college by a mediocre student it would get some kind of mark, almost certainly better than the unaided efforts of some students.'

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In my view this is a kind of IQ 90 story. It makes sense in its muddling-along way, but lacks dynamism, narrative drive and any psychological validity whatsoever. However, experience has shown that that's not necessarily an obstacle for commercial or academic success.

The deep problem is just obvious. As I observed in this January 2020 post, "It's just a better parasite...", these sophisticated contextual text-shufflers are leveraging contextualised human literary productions without any internal model of the natural or social world, or human agency. Don't look for personalities here!

I know that quantity has a quality all of its own, but in terms of story development (plot, setting, character) Adam tells me that working with GPT-3 is an exercise in futility: you can never get going - you are continually derailed.

But for many applications where text has to be produced: who cares?

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Khalil Madi: CIA - a short story by Adam Carlton

The Yale scientists took possession of 32 pig heads from the abattoir, four hours dead. They then infused the brains with chemicals and synthetic blood and - anaesthesia on hand - checked for brainwaves.

And found some!

Four hours?

What if they'd used heads decapitated only ten minutes ago? What if the brains had been chilled? They were so conservative.

Somewhere in here, Adam, I tell myself, there is a story...

Suppose you could restore substantial brain function. It seems likely that the higher cortical functions, those most complex and brittle, would be hardest. Your revitalised brain might have a functional subconscious but be functionally disinhibited.

It would make the ideal interrogation subject!

So here was the idea which slowly took shape in my mind...

---

A drone circles a Libyan beach. The jihadis drag out one of their own, a thirty-something middle-eastern guy. He kneels on the sand while the masked militants line up behind him. One has a machete at the ready, another is catching every moment with a phone camera.

The Langley computers are doing realtime facial ID on the drone feed: all the alarms go off! The victim is a high-value asset! A CIA deep-penetration agent close to the Al-Qaeda leadership.

It will become clear that this man is the personal protégé of the dynamic new CIA Middle-East Director, Khalil Madi, himself an Arab-American.

The Carrier Strike Group nearby in the Med gets the flash command. A jet screams off the flat-top, afterburners in full scramble-mode: mere minutes later it drops a cryogenic-retrieval drone a few miles off the coast.

The jihadis on the beach complete their grisly task and contemptuously kick the head into the long grass backing the beach.

From where it is covertly retrieved four minutes later by the drone, which inserts the decapitated head into its special skull-sized chill-chamber.

Eight hours later it's in the Langley secure neurolab, wired up to complex apparatuses. Questions can be asked and vocalised; answers retrieved.

Why has the CIA gone to all this trouble? He's a key agent. He may have critical information on an assassination attempt on the President!

The disembodied, barely-conscious brain is rambling, muttering in Arabic. The transcription - in Arabic of course, the system is smart - scrolls down a large wall-screen.

They are American neuroscientists. This means nothing to them.

Consternation!

They call out for a translator. One is eventually found. She starts at the top, working through the Arabic text, translating as she goes.

He thinks he's here in Langley, she says, surprised. Could he even think that?

They're not sure.

He thinks he's talking to the CIA Director, Khalil Madi. A personal and highly secure personal briefing.

She scrolls some more as the text keeps coming.

He's telling Madi that his rivals in the Al-Qaeda leadership have their suspicions about his CIA connections and have denounced him. He fears the worst.

And now the disembodied brain, in its phantom reality, is laughing, saying to himself in Arabic how amazingly ironic it is: If they only knew.

The translator turns around, puzzled at what she's reading.

And now he's asking the Director for the President's final itinerary. Says the brothers are prepared and in-country but just need details of places and times to finalise the operation.

She looks at the technicians.

I .. . I don't get this. He seems to be waiting for the Director to tell him.

It takes more than a few seconds for the group to process the implications.

Finally someone says it.

This can only mean .. that our asset here is a double agent!

And our Director, Khalil Madi, is actually working for ... !

---

So I thought that could really work as a tech thriller, for someone like David Ignatius. But suddenly my interest faded. Subconsciously I really didn't want to write this story at all.

"Julia and the Veil of Reality" by Adam Carlton (intro)

Photo by Robynne Hu on Unsplash

On Wednesday, February 26, 2020 Nigel posted an essay called ‘Deistic Ontology’: I quote:

“Imagine God as a deep neural net with inputs and outputs at each point in spacetime: past, present and future. The neural net resides in an orthogonal set of spatial dimensions and has a developmental trajectory in a second time dimension. Its understanding of the present state of all reality is its collection of input-vectors in superposition. Each input-vector corresponds to a possible world weighted by its amplitude.”

Nigel then challenged me to write a story with this as its setting. And for four and a half years the challenge has been in abeyance - I had neither plot nor characters.

All that changed when I read a more recent post of Nigel’s, ‘Compatibilist Molinism: a new approach to Theodicy’. Suddenly we had a version of Nigel’s thesis from within the Catholic Church itself! The Jesuit priest Luis de Molina first published his theory of "middle knowledge" (scientia media) in 1588: Nigel was 432 years late on the scene.

The conflict between science and religion was just too good: I got to work. Here is a brief summary of the story you can read (in English!) at the link below.

“Julia, a brilliant Sorbonne graduate frustrated by the monotony of job searching, sits in a Paris café, lost in thought. A young bohemian man approaches her with an unexpected offer. He represents a secretive research foundation exploring evidence that consciousness is not merely a human trait, but a fundamental constituent of the universe itself. Intrigued and deeply skeptical, Julia is recruited to the institute, where advanced technology collides with reality and her faith. As their experiments unfold, and local resistance increases, Julia is forced to confront the terrifying possibility that the divine will might not be as benevolent as she had been brought up to believe.”

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Read “Julia et le Voile de la Réalité” by Adam Carlton.

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You will find my collection of short stories, published on Amazon (Kindle and paperback) here:

"Freyja’s Deathbed Conversations: and other stories" (2019)

and my SF novel, also published on Amazon (Kindle and paperback) here:

"Donatien's Children" (2022).

Feel free to purchase both!

---

My short story, Rebecca - Adam Carlton

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I first wrote about Rebecca here on the author site, Booksie, back in January 2019. One of my earlier efforts. The theme was somewhat based on a story Nigel had mentioned once about his time with the IMG in London, when he was a regional organiser and in charge of the 'Red Defence Force'. This would have been in the early 1970s.

Needless to say, my story is very different from his experiences and more intriguing. I slightly revised it when it was published on this blog, here - which is the version you should read.

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'Hélène' - short story by Adam Carlton (intro)

 ---

1. Before the launch

I was selected from a cast of thousands on the basis of technical excellence and a calm personality. In the abstract I had visualised the mission as challenging and exciting. In the concrete, in the week before launch, my viscera suddenly became aware of what I was doing: something - no pretence any more - something insanely dangerous.

Previously we had been dutiful, even friendly colleagues. Now I bonded with Hélène as a drowning man grasps at driftwood.

Continue reading.

---

This story is included in  my collection of short stories, published on Amazon (Kindle and paperback) here:

"Freyja’s Deathbed Conversations: and other stories" (2019)

See also my SF novel - Amazon (Kindle and paperback) here:

"Donatien's Children" (2022).

---

Where Was The Sparkle? - short story by Adam Carlton

 ---

She looks into the mirror. She sees a dumpy girl, mid-20s short hair, round face, not completely unattractive but far from glamorous. She has not had her fair share of boyfriends. 

Somehow the handsome young men who run things in the organisation, their gazes pass over her and fix instead on those long-haired, willowy girls with their fluent conversations and their short skirts and their smiles. She is plain speaking and doesn't know how to do any of that. 

It's remarkable that he paid any attention to her at all. He is after all a rising star. He's in his mid-20s too: slim, not exactly handsome but good looking, long hair, confident, intelligent, very well versed in the ideology of the organisation. He's a competent organiser, obviously going places, and now his attention has fixed upon her. 

He's engaged during their recent conversations, fixing her with his eyes and with his undivided attention. This is not a normal experience for her. 

And tonight they're going out and he's going to suggest that she go away on holiday with him. 

How should she prepare? She doesn't want to make compromises which aren't authentic. She's not going to dress up; she's not going to glam up or make up or do any of the other things that would be out of character.

She knows who she is.

---

After their evening out, she finds herself in his flat. It's a large room: a bedsit in suburbia. They each have a coffee which is instant and comes out of a large tin on a small table near the bay window. They talk a little and then they take off their clothes and she climbs into his bed.

And now where is the magic she had viewed with trepidation, longed for? - What is she feeling? 

She's confused; he's slightly uneasy. This was not the plan: they're not easy with each other; they're not familiar. It seems like she's a stranger in this bed, this here-and-now; her inner self unmoved as they move together through the rhythmic throes of intimacy.

He makes a remark: that her skin feels greasy. Well, yes, she does have greasy skin. And no, she did not make a special attempt to shower this evening. She had a shower this morning. Okay she's greasy. That's how she comes.

He seems disappointed. They fall asleep. Next day they part: there will be no holiday. They probably will never speak again. Her life will continue and she will continue to be alone.

She does not understand what happened here? Why was no connection made?

Why was there no sparkle?

'You Are Not Here' - a short story by Adam Carlton

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In my faded recollection, Kafka began his famous story by stating that Joseph K. must have done something wrong. Me too, I suppose, as I am similarly befuddled as to why I am here, in an all mod cons apartment as surely imagined by someone who has never seen one.

Still, I lack for nothing; I am surrounded by furnished sentience.

But you are not here.

Nor anyone else.

I remember once reading a female columnist who wrote for The Times newspaper. She was reminiscing about her husband, who had died, and her recollection was the very physical desire she had always felt for him. 

Even if she walked out into the garden and he was doing something mundane, weeding or planting vegetables, she would look at him and a kind of excitement would rise in her throat and she could imagine him strolling across, pulling her clothes off, making love to her on the lawn, there and then in the viscid heat of the moment.

The dense texture of daily life, suffused with sexual desire. That for her was the core of their enduring bond. 

I remember reading another author saying that when a man is away from home, perhaps travelling in hotels or in the army, sleeping alone in a cold, desolate, lonely place, his thoughts turn to all the women he has ever slept with. 

As someone who has spent plenty of nights away from home, travelling in faraway places, I can testify that one enumerates them, tries options, revels in stark physicality, immerses oneself in that woman who was dear to you in her nakedness with unbounded pleasure and no inhibitions - in your memory.

French author Michel Houellebecq tells us that when we talk to an attractive woman in a professional or business context, it’s civilised: polite, friendly and engaged. Yet if the woman is attractive that urgent thought recurs: what it would be like to be in bed with her; how would her restrained politeness melt? Offering no resistance, there would be flesh and passion and no boundaries - in your imagination.

And so my thoughts turn to you.

I remember once we went to the movies. We sat in a row perhaps halfway towards the screen. Before the main feature, while they were still showing the adverts, I placed my hand on your knee. Holding my breath, I ran my palm up, crumpling your dress before it, feeling your warmth beneath my fingers.

How long would you tolerate such covert insertion? How would you respond with so much oversight from surrounding rows? We sat, frozen, until the main feature finally wrenched my attention away.

So now I reflect on what I should do. I am indeed alone here, reflecting forlornly on all the women I have ever slept with. I imagine what it would be like to have you here with me: I have only to ask.

You could be here.

I have only to tell them stories; I have only to give their systems information - my recollections - and by a process of iteration, of trial and error, we could recreate a living, breathing, thoroughly-interacting facsimile of you. Thus I am tempted.

In truth you always were a model in my head.

And perhaps you would surprise me and that would be a joy and almost the entire purpose of your existence, I think.

And perhaps you would look at me with unfeigned affection and unrestrained desire?  

And perhaps you would feel an overpowering need to move closer to me and that we should remove our clothes and lie together - to see how close we could get, and we could press ourselves against each other: our lips, our hands, our breasts, our legs.

And perhaps, quite literally, become one flesh. 

I pause and reflect on the ethics of the thing, always knowing where this is ending up. 

‘Wouldn't that be the entire point of life?’

'On the Beach' - a short story by Adam Carlton

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Clare at the Beach

This is a story Nigel told me, but of course it is embellished here into a much more interesting memoir, with no more than tangential adjacency to 'the truth' - whatever that is. - AC.

It's the summer of 1978. Clare and I have been married for six months, and we're still in that first bloom. I'm busy working, teaching computer programming - my days are filled with code and students.

Clare is less busy, so one hot afternoon she takes herself off on the train to the seaside north of Liverpool. I say I’ll collect her later. She’ll be wearing that new swimsuit I bought her: ideal for those baking sands.

Later in the day, I finish work, drive north along the Dock Road to the resort promenade. I park up and stroll across the beach to where I see her, wet and dripping, just emerged from the water.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” she replies, basking in the sun and rapidly drying off in that rather small and decorative costume that was my present to her.

“Have you heard of a wet T-shirt competition?” I ask in a neutral tone.

She glares at me.

“It’s something women tend to do, and men tend to appreciate—though of course, we’ve no idea why.”

She glares again, then tilts her head and says suspiciously, “Why are you talking about that?”

I rub my chin thoughtfully.

“You know that costume I bought you? It’s really designed for sunbathing. Not exactly for swimming and getting wet in...”

She looks at me in apparent confusion. “Why?”

I smile. “Well, I could explain here, with all these people watching... or we could go instead back to my Mini. I think my explanation would be a lot more effective there.”

It looks like she hasn’t the faintest idea what I’m talking about; but maybe that’s because she just hasn’t looked at herself. I take her hand and we stroll across the beach towards the promenade. I help her into the back of the Mini (not an easy process in that small two-door car), and we drive a little way to somewhere more secluded.

"Now," I say, "you can see just how unsuitable that outfit is for swimming. A dutiful wife would hand it back to her husband and say that it really doesn't fit the bill.”

“Okay,” she says.

“Such a wife would also say to her husband that it’s rather cold back here - now that she’s given away her costume - and a dutiful husband would, at the very least, climb in back and try to keep her warm.”

“Okay,” she says.

---

There are moments I regret buying a Mini...

'Mallorca 2045' - a short story by Adam Carlton

Mallorca 2045

She’s twenty-six.

The year before she was born her grandmother was photographed on this very walkway, the one with the charming cafe-restaurant as its backcloth. It’s Camp de Mar, Mallorca in the sunshine.

Now she emulates that very scene: a moment for reflection - how she’s come to be here.

Unlike most of her peers she elected to go to university. Her subject, the economics of consciousness, is like all advanced study now: the AIs do the frontier thinking; a few academics figure out what it might mean for people.

Her family had lived through the Great Transition, the so-called Singularity that had turned out to be nothing of the kind: not a moment but a long crisis. Economies convulsed, elites fractured, power changed hands, whole professions fought back and in defeat, dissolved. Total factor productivity had gone vertical; survival became psychological.

Now abundance is where it’s at. Freed from necessity, the world has reverted to primal drives. Denied-biology has come to the fore but to new and exquisite heights and depths. Love and hate, create and destroy: manifest in forms which would have shocked antiquity.

If some look in the gutters, others look to the stars. Her earliest memories are of those billionaire entrepreneurs who wanted to settle Mars the hard way - with chemical rockets and the most primitive infrastructure. Something that would not have looked out of place in Victorian times. Antarctic expeditions had been their model.

In retrospect, how short-sighted that appears. Fifteen years passed and it became easy to colonise Mars;  the machine systems simply did everything, armed as they were with abundant power and smarts.

It was they which built enormous domes, hyperpower reactors and vast heat sources. Quixotically, they decided to recreate the southern coastline of Majorca at Mars One. So here she is, striding down the replica of the gangway that her grandmother walked down all those decades ago.

She wonders how her grandmother would have felt, bouncing on the slats in mild gravity over a created sea; this buffer of Med-like ocean so useful in the Martian ecology.

She consults her memory and it reminds her that she's going to a modelling show this afternoon. She will exhibit clothes to no purpose at all except the enjoyment of so doing and the enjoyment of the audience in seeing what Martian design has to offer. 

And after that, perhaps she'll roll by the Interstellar office and donate some of her DNA for the starship. The one departing for a second Earth, at some star 40 light years away.

Truly, there's never been a better time to be alive.

“Souvenirs d'Annette” by Adam Carlton

 

"Annette"

At that time I was the leader of the LO self-defence force. Demonstrations - manifestations - are often violent in Paris. Flying paving stones, Molotov cocktails, police baton charges. It was not our policy in Lutte Ouvrière to escalate gratuitously; we were naturally averse to infantile ultra-leftism. But if you want peace - well, you know...

---

This is how I met Annette. I had taken the metro to a dingy neighbourhood in southeast Paris, to a second tier college where we had a cell. I'd never been there before, had never met any of the comrades.

I met her in a small room, her office (she was a student official). She was seated behind the desk; I was in the visitor's chair opposite, just inside the door. She listened while I explained our planned manifestation; what we needed her college to do in support.

Annette, I still remember you, that day so many years ago. Your pleasant face, curious, interested in why I'd come.Your brown hair, in waves, cascading to your shoulders. You were wearing a salt and pepper jumper, tight over your fetching curves; and faded blue jeans. As we talked, something else accompanied us, weaving its way under our conversation, a tension hinting at possibilities: things to come.

I was holding a pen in my right hand. Casually I reached across, as if to make a point. I gently pushed the cap end into the nest of your fingers and palm. And waited, breath held, as you hesitated, then tightened your fingers around it.

From office to bed took us less than a week.

---

I did not know it at the time but Annette was revolutionary royalty. Her elder brother, Jacques was the party leader in Lille. He lived with his wife, Marie, in a large rambling house in the centre of the city. They were distinctive in the local party organisation for never showing the slightest sign of affection towards each other. 

Annette, could I have seen even then a family trait?

I was sent to Lille shortly afterwards to strengthen the leadership team as we continued our project to engage with the workers’ movement. Having nowhere to stay, I was given a double mattress in one of their downstairs dining rooms. Where I proceeded to outstay my welcome.

On one occasion, after months of squatting, Annette arrived from Paris to visit her brother. We immediately hit it off together again and for several nights, Annette and I hugged and kissed and merged our hot and sweaty bodies under a borrowed duvet. Disinhibited we were; quiet we were not. 

Jacques was not amused.

After his sister returned to Paris, things got decidedly frosty: I hastily moved out into my own flat.

---

I had come to Lille with Valentina, with whom I was infatuated. She was taller than Annette, slimmer, with long black hair. She dressed stylishly and affected sophisticated tastes. With Valentina, feminism came off more easily than her makeup.

She had originally come down to Paris from the far north, leaving her husband behind. In our revolutionary circles, this did not raise as much as an eyebrow. She said she had been looking for a catch on the Paris leadership team: at some drunken party, her gaze had fallen on me.

At that time I was working on the Paris Métro. I would roll up at the depot at six am, bleary-eyed and exhausted, to be met with knowing banter from the ladies on kitchen duty: “You should get some sleep when you go to bed at night!” 

That was the least priority for me.

So we moved to Lille and then she returned to her husband: j'étais désolé.

“He’s been writing me letters all the while,” she blandly explained. In my blind self-centredness I had never noticed those envelopes lying patiently on the front door mat. I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep. I thought only of her. I knew intellectually I would get over it; but this deep well of loneliness felt like the story of the rest of my life.

---

We were walking hand-in-hand in the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont, the path by the lake. I was back in Paris for a meeting and of course we met up.

I oversimplified just a moment ago. The breakup with Valentina was an agonising, protracted business. First she was going back to her spouse, then she changed her mind, she'd stay with me instead. But that didn't last.

Annette diagnosed Jealousy. “You want to own her, to have her all to yourself,” she said, “That's the kind of bourgeois male chauvinism we're all meant to be fighting against. We're opposed to monogamy in case you forgot. The problem here is you!”

I explained that my feelings were more complicated than that, and in any case, even if I conceded jealousy, I couldn't just turn it off.

In fact what I was feeling was abandonment by the love of my life.

Annette played her trump card: “Yet here you are, walking hand-in-hand with me in the park while you claim to be pining for her. Don't you see the double standard here?”

It's not the same, I wanted to say. But I didn't know why.

---

I liked Annette but was not in love with her. Friends with benefits then, although that phrase was not yet in common use.

I remember much later when - equanimity restored - I visited her ground floor flat somewhere in the 19th arrondissement. It was in an old, distinguished house with high ceilings; narrow stained glass windows abutted the front door.

I had not seen her for months but she made me coffee and we talked a little, nothing important.

She put some cushions on the carpet, casually snuck off her jeans and underwear and stretched herself out, as calm and lazy as a kitten. She reached for my hand. 

I looked at her as we moved together in multicoloured facets of sunshine. Guileless joy on her face. In this moment this was exactly what she wanted: being here, doing this, with me.

I still think sometimes about Annette. Her smooth glide through life. No deep attachments, events taken as they come, never any doubts. She is incarnate of the ideology, a true feminist; and though eternity itself should beckon, not ever for me.

---

This short story is not included in my collection of short stories at Amazon.

---

You will find my collection of short stories, published on Amazon (Kindle and paperback) here:

"Freyja’s Deathbed Conversations: and other stories" (2019)

and my SF novel, also published on Amazon (Kindle and paperback) here:

"Donatien's Children" (2022).

Feel free to purchase both!

---