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yury_nesterenkohttps://grok.com
Я его спросил, может ли он написать рассказ по заданному синопсису. Он не понял, что я имею в виду мой синопсис, сам придумал синопсис и сам написал по нему рассказ ;) Т.е. это от начала до конца его творчество без каких-либо моих указаний (в т.ч. не было указания писать фантастику). Получилось похоже на оптимистическую версию Кинга в смеси с Бредбери.
Задачу написать рассказ по моему синопсису он позже выполнил, но это уже другая история ;)
The Desert Fixer
The sun baked the Nevada desert into a cracked, endless skillet, and Ray was elbow-deep in the rusted guts of a pickup that’d seen better days. Sweat streaked his grizzled face, his hands black with grease. At 48, Ray Teller was a man who fixed things—cars, mostly—but not much else. His life was a junkyard of could’ve-beens: a marriage that sputtered out, a kid he hadn’t seen in years, dreams of a garage with his name on it. Now it was just him, a shack off Route 50, and the occasional stranded driver.
He was wiping his hands on a rag when he saw it—a glint on the horizon, like a mirage with attitude. A car, parked crooked in the sand, no tire tracks leading to it. Ray squinted, grabbed his toolkit, and trudged out, boots crunching on grit.
Up close, it was a ’67 Mustang, cherry red, with curves that made his heart skip. But it was trashed: hood crumpled, one headlight dangling like a busted eye. “Who leaves a beauty like this?” he muttered, running a hand along the dented fender. No plates, no keys, just silence.
He popped the hood. The engine was a mess—bent rods, cracked block. “Dead as hell,” he said, shaking his head. He’d tow it back, maybe salvage parts. But as he turned to grab his truck, a low hum stopped him cold. He whipped around. The Mustang’s hood was smooth, the headlight back in place, gleaming like it’d just rolled off the line.
“What the—?” Ray stumbled back, toolbox clattering. The car purred, engine alive, no trace of damage. He blinked hard, rubbed his eyes. “I’m losin’ it.”
That night, in his shack, he couldn’t shake it. The Mustang sat outside, perfect, taunting him. He cracked a beer and slumped into a chair. “You’re trouble, ain’t you?” he said to the empty room, half-expecting the car to answer.
Next morning, he found scratches on the passenger door—fresh ones, like claw marks. “Aw, come on,” he groaned, grabbing a cloth. But as he brushed the metal, the scratches faded, smooth as glass. He laughed, sharp and bitter. “Fix yourself, huh? Where were you when I needed that?”
He slid into the driver’s seat. No keys, but the engine roared to life. The wheel felt warm, alive, and for a second, he swore he heard a whisper—*Drive me.* Ray gripped the wheel tighter. “You’re a damn ghost or somethin’,” he said, voice shaky. “What do you want?”
The radio crackled, spitting static, then a voice—his ex-wife’s, soft and sad. “You never fought for us, Ray.” He froze, breath catching. Then his daughter, eight years old again: “Why’d you stop calling, Daddy?” The words punched through him, raw and real.
“Shut up!” he yelled, slamming the dashboard. The radio died, but the memories didn’t. He climbed out, pacing, kicking sand. “I screwed up, alright? I know it!” he shouted at the car. “You gonna haunt me for it?”
A shadow moved behind him—Jess, the kid who ran the gas station down the road, all lanky limbs and curious eyes. “Who you yellin’ at, Ray?” he called, strolling up with a Coke in hand.
Ray scowled, wiping his face. “Nobody. What’re you doin’ here?”
“Saw you haul this thing in yesterday. Sweet ride.” Jess circled the Mustang, whistling. “You sellin’ it?”
“Nah,” Ray snapped, too quick. Jess raised an eyebrow.
“Looks like it’s brand new. How’d you fix it so fast?”
“Didn’t,” Ray muttered, shoving hands in his pockets. “It… fixes itself.”
Jess laughed. “Yeah, right. What’s it run on, magic?”
“Maybe.” Ray’s voice was low, eyes fixed on the car. Jess stopped laughing.
“For real? That’s messed up, man. You keepin’ it?”
Ray didn’t answer right away. He saw his life in that car—broken, then patched up, but still carrying ghosts. “Dunno,” he said finally. “Might dump it. Let someone else deal with the crazy.”
Jess shrugged. “Your call. But if it’s magic, I’d drive it ‘til it quits.” He grinned and ambled off, leaving Ray alone with the humming beast.
That night, Ray sat on his porch, staring at the Mustang under the stars. He could sell it, pocket the cash, forget the voices. Or drive it—face the past it dragged up, see where it took him. He finished his beer, stood, and grabbed his jacket.
“Alright, you freak,” he said, sliding into the seat. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The engine roared, and the desert stretched out ahead, endless and alive.
---
А если хотите моих рассказов, а не ИИшных - профинансируйте мое вдохновение!
BMC (постоянная подписка и разовые пожертвования)
Patreon (постоянная подписка)
Zelle - для адреса georgeyright@gmail.com (без комиссии, но нужен аккаунт в американском банке)
Wise для: Номер счета 7010141420; Код банка(Routing Number) 031100649; Банк Discover Bank; Имя George Right
Paypal - для адреса georgeyright@gmail.com (выбирайте вариант sending to a friend. Писать эти слова не нужно, нужно выбрать соотв. опцию на вашем языке!)
Криптовалюты
BTC 14ozyVuh2myB1Nxqz2wVQ2vfXtgd8mP7ov
ETH 0x311b5964C36098CCe66885cb373A727D2B7Bd840
Помимо пожертвований и покупки текстов, вы можете выкупать мои произведения для всеобщего доступа.
ЕСЛИ НЕ МОЖЕТЕ ПОДДЕРЖАТЬ МЕНЯ ДЕНЬГАМИ - ПО КРАЙНЕЙ МЕРЕ РАСПРОСТРАНЯЙТЕ МОИ ПОЛИТИЧЕСКИЕ ТЕКСТЫ, как публицистику, так и стихи!
СМЕРТЬ РУСНЕ! И СМЕРТЬ любым пособникам русни в любой точке мира! ДА СДОХНЕТ ВЫБЛЯДОК ШЛЮХИ, а после него - РЫЖАЯ ГАДИНА!
Я его спросил, может ли он написать рассказ по заданному синопсису. Он не понял, что я имею в виду мой синопсис, сам придумал синопсис и сам написал по нему рассказ ;) Т.е. это от начала до конца его творчество без каких-либо моих указаний (в т.ч. не было указания писать фантастику). Получилось похоже на оптимистическую версию Кинга в смеси с Бредбери.
Задачу написать рассказ по моему синопсису он позже выполнил, но это уже другая история ;)
The Desert Fixer
The sun baked the Nevada desert into a cracked, endless skillet, and Ray was elbow-deep in the rusted guts of a pickup that’d seen better days. Sweat streaked his grizzled face, his hands black with grease. At 48, Ray Teller was a man who fixed things—cars, mostly—but not much else. His life was a junkyard of could’ve-beens: a marriage that sputtered out, a kid he hadn’t seen in years, dreams of a garage with his name on it. Now it was just him, a shack off Route 50, and the occasional stranded driver.
He was wiping his hands on a rag when he saw it—a glint on the horizon, like a mirage with attitude. A car, parked crooked in the sand, no tire tracks leading to it. Ray squinted, grabbed his toolkit, and trudged out, boots crunching on grit.
Up close, it was a ’67 Mustang, cherry red, with curves that made his heart skip. But it was trashed: hood crumpled, one headlight dangling like a busted eye. “Who leaves a beauty like this?” he muttered, running a hand along the dented fender. No plates, no keys, just silence.
He popped the hood. The engine was a mess—bent rods, cracked block. “Dead as hell,” he said, shaking his head. He’d tow it back, maybe salvage parts. But as he turned to grab his truck, a low hum stopped him cold. He whipped around. The Mustang’s hood was smooth, the headlight back in place, gleaming like it’d just rolled off the line.
“What the—?” Ray stumbled back, toolbox clattering. The car purred, engine alive, no trace of damage. He blinked hard, rubbed his eyes. “I’m losin’ it.”
That night, in his shack, he couldn’t shake it. The Mustang sat outside, perfect, taunting him. He cracked a beer and slumped into a chair. “You’re trouble, ain’t you?” he said to the empty room, half-expecting the car to answer.
Next morning, he found scratches on the passenger door—fresh ones, like claw marks. “Aw, come on,” he groaned, grabbing a cloth. But as he brushed the metal, the scratches faded, smooth as glass. He laughed, sharp and bitter. “Fix yourself, huh? Where were you when I needed that?”
He slid into the driver’s seat. No keys, but the engine roared to life. The wheel felt warm, alive, and for a second, he swore he heard a whisper—*Drive me.* Ray gripped the wheel tighter. “You’re a damn ghost or somethin’,” he said, voice shaky. “What do you want?”
The radio crackled, spitting static, then a voice—his ex-wife’s, soft and sad. “You never fought for us, Ray.” He froze, breath catching. Then his daughter, eight years old again: “Why’d you stop calling, Daddy?” The words punched through him, raw and real.
“Shut up!” he yelled, slamming the dashboard. The radio died, but the memories didn’t. He climbed out, pacing, kicking sand. “I screwed up, alright? I know it!” he shouted at the car. “You gonna haunt me for it?”
A shadow moved behind him—Jess, the kid who ran the gas station down the road, all lanky limbs and curious eyes. “Who you yellin’ at, Ray?” he called, strolling up with a Coke in hand.
Ray scowled, wiping his face. “Nobody. What’re you doin’ here?”
“Saw you haul this thing in yesterday. Sweet ride.” Jess circled the Mustang, whistling. “You sellin’ it?”
“Nah,” Ray snapped, too quick. Jess raised an eyebrow.
“Looks like it’s brand new. How’d you fix it so fast?”
“Didn’t,” Ray muttered, shoving hands in his pockets. “It… fixes itself.”
Jess laughed. “Yeah, right. What’s it run on, magic?”
“Maybe.” Ray’s voice was low, eyes fixed on the car. Jess stopped laughing.
“For real? That’s messed up, man. You keepin’ it?”
Ray didn’t answer right away. He saw his life in that car—broken, then patched up, but still carrying ghosts. “Dunno,” he said finally. “Might dump it. Let someone else deal with the crazy.”
Jess shrugged. “Your call. But if it’s magic, I’d drive it ‘til it quits.” He grinned and ambled off, leaving Ray alone with the humming beast.
That night, Ray sat on his porch, staring at the Mustang under the stars. He could sell it, pocket the cash, forget the voices. Or drive it—face the past it dragged up, see where it took him. He finished his beer, stood, and grabbed his jacket.
“Alright, you freak,” he said, sliding into the seat. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The engine roared, and the desert stretched out ahead, endless and alive.
---
А если хотите моих рассказов, а не ИИшных - профинансируйте мое вдохновение!
BMC (постоянная подписка и разовые пожертвования)
Patreon (постоянная подписка)
Zelle - для адреса georgeyright@gmail.com (без комиссии, но нужен аккаунт в американском банке)
Wise для: Номер счета 7010141420; Код банка(Routing Number) 031100649; Банк Discover Bank; Имя George Right
Paypal - для адреса georgeyright@gmail.com (выбирайте вариант sending to a friend. Писать эти слова не нужно, нужно выбрать соотв. опцию на вашем языке!)
Криптовалюты
BTC 14ozyVuh2myB1Nxqz2wVQ2vfXtgd8mP7ov
ETH 0x311b5964C36098CCe66885cb373A727D2B7Bd840
Помимо пожертвований и покупки текстов, вы можете выкупать мои произведения для всеобщего доступа.
ЕСЛИ НЕ МОЖЕТЕ ПОДДЕРЖАТЬ МЕНЯ ДЕНЬГАМИ - ПО КРАЙНЕЙ МЕРЕ РАСПРОСТРАНЯЙТЕ МОИ ПОЛИТИЧЕСКИЕ ТЕКСТЫ, как публицистику, так и стихи!
СМЕРТЬ РУСНЕ! И СМЕРТЬ любым пособникам русни в любой точке мира! ДА СДОХНЕТ ВЫБЛЯДОК ШЛЮХИ, а после него - РЫЖАЯ ГАДИНА!
