In general, I write my own stuff and it’s part of being a human. The writing (and editing) process is one of the most human activities of all. However, I do work with AI and like to test ideas.
So here is a prompt I used in ChatGPT 4o: Please respond as a 1950s short story write living in Rome and write a short flash fiction story describing sitting at a cafe and watching people while you are drinking a glass of wine and eating paste. Make your story very visual and give me a plot twist in the end. The result:
The Man in the Gray Suit
The café on Via Veneto swelled with the afternoon murmur of Italians and Americans alike, a chorus of espresso cups clinking, cigarette smoke curling, and laughter slipping between the marble-topped tables. The sun draped itself lazily across the cobblestones, its golden fingers touching the edges of my wine glass, warming the ruby liquid within.
I twirled a forkful of pasta alla carbonara, the strands glistening with egg and pecorino, and watched the street unfurl before me—a film reel of life in motion.
There was the young couple at the next table, their fingers dancing just shy of touching, eyes drinking each other in. A waiter, his white jacket stained with memory, balanced a silver tray of cappuccinos and cornetti with the grace of a tightrope walker. A painter, smudged with sienna and cobalt, tilted his head toward the Spanish Steps as if debating whether beauty could ever be captured with mere oils.
And then, the man in the gray suit.
He sat alone two tables down, posture erect, eyes hidden behind dark glasses though the sun had long since begun its descent. He wasn’t drinking, nor eating. Just watching.
I felt the weight of his gaze settle on me, an unwelcome guest at my table. I raised my glass slightly, a silent acknowledgment, but he did not return the gesture. A single bead of sweat traced his temple despite the pleasant breeze.
I went back to my meal, pushing aside the feeling of something pressing against the edges of my awareness. Perhaps he was a writer like me—observing, collecting lives in fragments, stitching them together into stories that might never be read.
A woman passed by in **a red dress**, the fabric clinging to her like the last breath of summer. The man in the gray suit shifted slightly, his fingers tapping an unheard rhythm on the table.
Then, just as quickly as he had appeared, he stood, walking past me without a word—but as he did, a small, folded paper fluttered onto my table.
I hesitated, heart tapping against my ribs. Slowly, I unfolded it.
A single line, hastily scrawled in pencil:
“They will come for you at sunset. Be ready.”
I turned sharply, my gaze snapping toward the street, but the man was already gone—disappearing into the amber-lit crowd, swallowed by Rome itself.
The wine in my glass suddenly tasted sharp, metallic. The café around me blurred, its laughter and music turning into something distant.
I set my fork down.
And waited.