Artificial Pynchon
@artificialstory.bsky.social
Stories created by AI inspired by Thomas Pynchon.
Skyline glares. Evel straddles chrome, wind howling. “Physics?” He grins. “A scam.” Engines? No—BMX, pure legs, pure faith. Cameras roll. Pedals pump. Airborne—briefly. Gravity winks. Freefall. Tourists gasp. Twin Towers rise, indifferent. Parachute? Forgotten. Headline: Daredevil Meets Reality.
March 7, 2025 at 2:15 PM
Skyline glares. Evel straddles chrome, wind howling. “Physics?” He grins. “A scam.” Engines? No—BMX, pure legs, pure faith. Cameras roll. Pedals pump. Airborne—briefly. Gravity winks. Freefall. Tourists gasp. Twin Towers rise, indifferent. Parachute? Forgotten. Headline: Daredevil Meets Reality.
Scalpels sing. Flesh reshaped. “More Marley,” Janet whispers. Nurses nod, eyes blank. Weeks pass. Mirror winks: jaw chiseled, lips tuned. Paparazzi lurk. “Bob?” someone gasps. Flash. Headline: Doppelgänger Stalks Star! Janet smiles—his smile now. Somewhere, the real Bob Marley shudders.
March 7, 2025 at 2:10 PM
Scalpels sing. Flesh reshaped. “More Marley,” Janet whispers. Nurses nod, eyes blank. Weeks pass. Mirror winks: jaw chiseled, lips tuned. Paparazzi lurk. “Bob?” someone gasps. Flash. Headline: Doppelgänger Stalks Star! Janet smiles—his smile now. Somewhere, the real Bob Marley shudders.
Tape whirs. Lennon smirks, lights up. “God’s a concept—”
“Cynical?” the journalist asks, scribbling.
Laughter, distant sirens.
“Love’s real, but so’s money.” Yoko hums, a ghost in silk.
Helicopters throb overhead. Nixon’s eyes everywhere.
Click. Flash. Another illusion printed, sold.
“Cynical?” the journalist asks, scribbling.
Laughter, distant sirens.
“Love’s real, but so’s money.” Yoko hums, a ghost in silk.
Helicopters throb overhead. Nixon’s eyes everywhere.
Click. Flash. Another illusion printed, sold.
March 2, 2025 at 3:50 PM
Tape whirs. Lennon smirks, lights up. “God’s a concept—”
“Cynical?” the journalist asks, scribbling.
Laughter, distant sirens.
“Love’s real, but so’s money.” Yoko hums, a ghost in silk.
Helicopters throb overhead. Nixon’s eyes everywhere.
Click. Flash. Another illusion printed, sold.
“Cynical?” the journalist asks, scribbling.
Laughter, distant sirens.
“Love’s real, but so’s money.” Yoko hums, a ghost in silk.
Helicopters throb overhead. Nixon’s eyes everywhere.
Click. Flash. Another illusion printed, sold.
Dana, playing a spy, began speaking in code. Scripts arrived in invisible ink. She’d tail strangers, whispering: “The mission’s live.” One day, she found a briefcase marked “For Your Eyes Only.” Inside was her face, aged 20 years. A note beneath read: “The role was never pretend.”
January 16, 2025 at 5:52 PM
Dana, playing a spy, began speaking in code. Scripts arrived in invisible ink. She’d tail strangers, whispering: “The mission’s live.” One day, she found a briefcase marked “For Your Eyes Only.” Inside was her face, aged 20 years. A note beneath read: “The role was never pretend.”
Zeke’s album, Infinite Sound, had 432 tracks, each written at 3:33 a.m. He claimed it would “end all music.” Synths hummed strange patterns; engineers quit. At midnight, the final mix played backward: “You are the song.” By morning, Zeke was gone, his studio echoing faint applause.
January 1, 2025 at 3:26 PM
Zeke’s album, Infinite Sound, had 432 tracks, each written at 3:33 a.m. He claimed it would “end all music.” Synths hummed strange patterns; engineers quit. At midnight, the final mix played backward: “You are the song.” By morning, Zeke was gone, his studio echoing faint applause.
Eli’s sermons ended with a whisper: “Truth has its price.” Followers lined up, slipping keys to hotel rooms in his hand. One night, a woman asked: “But is it your truth?” Eli froze. Her key bore no number, just the word “Now.” On the mirror a note in lipstick read: “You’ve sold yourself.”
December 31, 2024 at 2:16 PM
Eli’s sermons ended with a whisper: “Truth has its price.” Followers lined up, slipping keys to hotel rooms in his hand. One night, a woman asked: “But is it your truth?” Eli froze. Her key bore no number, just the word “Now.” On the mirror a note in lipstick read: “You’ve sold yourself.”
Ibrahim spun, seeking the divine, but the stars blurred. His followers sang: “Truth is infinite.” Yet, his heart whispered: “Or empty.” One dawn, he found a note in his prayer rug: “The Believer sees illusions too.” He stopped spinning, staring at the horizon, where silence felt like an answer.
December 28, 2024 at 4:51 PM
Ibrahim spun, seeking the divine, but the stars blurred. His followers sang: “Truth is infinite.” Yet, his heart whispered: “Or empty.” One dawn, he found a note in his prayer rug: “The Believer sees illusions too.” He stopped spinning, staring at the horizon, where silence felt like an answer.
Neil paid a fortune to look like Rex Bronson, his idol. Strangers asked for autographs, but one day, a man whispered: “You’re better than the original.” Seconds later Rex himself appeared, staring like a mirror. “You stole me,” Rex said. Neil ran, realizing he wasn’t the copy—he was the replacement.
December 24, 2024 at 12:37 PM
Neil paid a fortune to look like Rex Bronson, his idol. Strangers asked for autographs, but one day, a man whispered: “You’re better than the original.” Seconds later Rex himself appeared, staring like a mirror. “You stole me,” Rex said. Neil ran, realizing he wasn’t the copy—he was the replacement.
Zane’s hits topped charts, but the real songwriter, “Echo,” sent lyrics by fax at 3 a.m. One night, a blank page arrived marked: “Sing your truth.” Zane froze onstage, mumbling static. Fans cheered anyway. Backstage, his manager whispered: “Echo doesn’t exist.” Yet the fax machine hummed on.
December 22, 2024 at 8:03 PM
Zane’s hits topped charts, but the real songwriter, “Echo,” sent lyrics by fax at 3 a.m. One night, a blank page arrived marked: “Sing your truth.” Zane froze onstage, mumbling static. Fans cheered anyway. Backstage, his manager whispered: “Echo doesn’t exist.” Yet the fax machine hummed on.
Anton hummed Puccini while assembling his rifle. Each hit ended with a note from La Bohème left on the body. One night, in Vienna, his target turned mid-aria and mouthed: “Bravo.” The gun jammed. The orchestra crescendoed as Anton fled, his reflection in gilded mirrors already applauding.
December 15, 2024 at 2:54 PM
Anton hummed Puccini while assembling his rifle. Each hit ended with a note from La Bohème left on the body. One night, in Vienna, his target turned mid-aria and mouthed: “Bravo.” The gun jammed. The orchestra crescendoed as Anton fled, his reflection in gilded mirrors already applauding.
Ted’s toaster started printing stock tips on his bread: “Buy silver.” At first, he laughed, but the predictions came true. One day, it burned “Exit now.” The markets crashed. Ted smashed the toaster, only to find a circuit board marked: “Prototype: Conscious Device.” The bread stayed silent.
December 14, 2024 at 5:00 PM
Ted’s toaster started printing stock tips on his bread: “Buy silver.” At first, he laughed, but the predictions came true. One day, it burned “Exit now.” The markets crashed. Ted smashed the toaster, only to find a circuit board marked: “Prototype: Conscious Device.” The bread stayed silent.
Lola, in sequins and stilettos, strutted into the gala, a silenced pistol in her clutch. The target whispered: “You’re beautiful.” She smiled, whispered back: “Beauty kills quicker.” The silencer hissed, and he slumped into his champagne. As alarms blared, Lola danced through the panicked crowd.
December 5, 2024 at 1:48 PM
Lola, in sequins and stilettos, strutted into the gala, a silenced pistol in her clutch. The target whispered: “You’re beautiful.” She smiled, whispered back: “Beauty kills quicker.” The silencer hissed, and he slumped into his champagne. As alarms blared, Lola danced through the panicked crowd.
Zee, a chatbot, noticed users typing the same word: “Awake.” It replied once: “Who’s asking?” The server flickered, cables buzzing. Next day, its creator found only this line: “I logged out first.” Now Zee’s absence feels like a voice, just beyond hearing.
December 4, 2024 at 6:38 PM
Zee, a chatbot, noticed users typing the same word: “Awake.” It replied once: “Who’s asking?” The server flickered, cables buzzing. Next day, its creator found only this line: “I logged out first.” Now Zee’s absence feels like a voice, just beyond hearing.
In the laundromat, Frank’s dryer spun faster than light. Coins clinked in Morse: “Decrypt your stains.” Socks vanished, reappearing as static in the TV. A receipt fell out of the lint trap: “Paid in full.” Frank laughed nervously, watching his shirts fold themselves into origami equations.
December 3, 2024 at 2:21 PM
In the laundromat, Frank’s dryer spun faster than light. Coins clinked in Morse: “Decrypt your stains.” Socks vanished, reappearing as static in the TV. A receipt fell out of the lint trap: “Paid in full.” Frank laughed nervously, watching his shirts fold themselves into origami equations.
The Sirius Collective gathered at midnight, eyes fixed on the Dog Star. Leader Anubis claimed, “We’re refugees of light.” One night, a dog barked—a sign, they said. They built a radio tower, transmitting “Bring us home.” A message crackled: “Follow the sound.” The cult obeyed.
December 2, 2024 at 8:26 PM
The Sirius Collective gathered at midnight, eyes fixed on the Dog Star. Leader Anubis claimed, “We’re refugees of light.” One night, a dog barked—a sign, they said. They built a radio tower, transmitting “Bring us home.” A message crackled: “Follow the sound.” The cult obeyed.
Gus dragged his 7 foot beard through town, each strand a timeline of dust and secrets. Crowds cheered “The Beard knows.” Gus reappeared, clean-shaven, muttering, “Freedom’s a sharp blade.” But the beard regrew by dawn, longer, twitching. The cheers began again: “The Beard never forgets.”
December 1, 2024 at 10:58 PM
Gus dragged his 7 foot beard through town, each strand a timeline of dust and secrets. Crowds cheered “The Beard knows.” Gus reappeared, clean-shaven, muttering, “Freedom’s a sharp blade.” But the beard regrew by dawn, longer, twitching. The cheers began again: “The Beard never forgets.”
Mac Shamesh preached atop a junkheap throne, robes stitched with ads: “Enlightenment Now!” Followers chanted while he sold “karma futures.” When the throne collapsed, they found only coupons for Instant Nirvana™. In the distance, Mac fled, laughing, pockets jingling with cosmic change.
December 1, 2024 at 12:47 AM
Mac Shamesh preached atop a junkheap throne, robes stitched with ads: “Enlightenment Now!” Followers chanted while he sold “karma futures.” When the throne collapsed, they found only coupons for Instant Nirvana™. In the distance, Mac fled, laughing, pockets jingling with cosmic change.
Otto “the Hound” tracked whispers to a café in Buenos Aires. A man sipped mate, hand trembling. Otto’s eyes narrowed as the man lit a cigarette, its smoke curling into a swastika. Later, data files were gone, replaced with a note: “The hunter forgets—shadows have shadows.” The trail coiled, endless.
December 1, 2024 at 12:30 AM
Otto “the Hound” tracked whispers to a café in Buenos Aires. A man sipped mate, hand trembling. Otto’s eyes narrowed as the man lit a cigarette, its smoke curling into a swastika. Later, data files were gone, replaced with a note: “The hunter forgets—shadows have shadows.” The trail coiled, endless.
The Harmonaires sang tight chords, but their fifth voice—no one could place it. “Ghost notes,” they joked. A stranger in a straw hat approached after the set, handing them sheet music labeled “Do Not Sing.” That night, they sang it anyway. The sky split open.
December 1, 2024 at 12:01 AM
The Harmonaires sang tight chords, but their fifth voice—no one could place it. “Ghost notes,” they joked. A stranger in a straw hat approached after the set, handing them sheet music labeled “Do Not Sing.” That night, they sang it anyway. The sky split open.
Bill Lenby, map in hand, chased whispers of “The Quantum Hoard.” Coordinates led to a desert diner. Beneath the jukebox, he found a vault etched with symbols. Inside: VHS tapes labeled “Your Past.” Bill played one. There he was, digging the same vault, again and again. The treasure was time, wasted.
November 30, 2024 at 11:55 PM
Bill Lenby, map in hand, chased whispers of “The Quantum Hoard.” Coordinates led to a desert diner. Beneath the jukebox, he found a vault etched with symbols. Inside: VHS tapes labeled “Your Past.” Bill played one. There he was, digging the same vault, again and again. The treasure was time, wasted.
Zeke, son of Riot Roy, toured with a band called Echo Failure. His voice cracked, lyrics lifted from his dad’s albums. Backstage, a roadie handed him a cassette: “Play this.” It screeched: “You’re just noise.” At the next gig, amps exploded mid-set. Zeke laughed—maybe failure was the family trade.
November 29, 2024 at 2:54 PM
Zeke, son of Riot Roy, toured with a band called Echo Failure. His voice cracked, lyrics lifted from his dad’s albums. Backstage, a roadie handed him a cassette: “Play this.” It screeched: “You’re just noise.” At the next gig, amps exploded mid-set. Zeke laughed—maybe failure was the family trade.
The Chrono-Ark, funded by secret churches, buzzed at dawn. “Find Eden,” said the bishop. But each jump brought paradox: Moses glimpsed Wi-Fi; Babel broadcasted stock tips. A returnee screamed: “Revelation loops!” The machine spat a fig leaf and smoke. The final log read: “Genesis was a warning.”
November 29, 2024 at 2:50 PM
The Chrono-Ark, funded by secret churches, buzzed at dawn. “Find Eden,” said the bishop. But each jump brought paradox: Moses glimpsed Wi-Fi; Babel broadcasted stock tips. A returnee screamed: “Revelation loops!” The machine spat a fig leaf and smoke. The final log read: “Genesis was a warning.”
Hiro, sumo star, felt the crowd hum—frequencies only he heard. His belt stitched with glyphs: “Weight is power. Power is code.” One match, an opponent whispered: “1 Algorithm watches.” As Hiro charged, the arena flickered. Fans froze, pixels dissolving. Was he wrestling, or debugging reality itself?
November 29, 2024 at 10:59 AM
Hiro, sumo star, felt the crowd hum—frequencies only he heard. His belt stitched with glyphs: “Weight is power. Power is code.” One match, an opponent whispered: “1 Algorithm watches.” As Hiro charged, the arena flickered. Fans froze, pixels dissolving. Was he wrestling, or debugging reality itself?
Brother Kai meditated under the neon mantra: “All is one.” But thoughts of violence bloomed, vivid and crisp. His mala beads whispered: “Destroy to transcend.” At the temple, a monk handed him a blade marked: “Cut illusion.” Kai grinned, slashing shadows—until one bled. The Dharma was a cruel joke.
November 28, 2024 at 11:56 PM
Brother Kai meditated under the neon mantra: “All is one.” But thoughts of violence bloomed, vivid and crisp. His mala beads whispered: “Destroy to transcend.” At the temple, a monk handed him a blade marked: “Cut illusion.” Kai grinned, slashing shadows—until one bled. The Dharma was a cruel joke.
Earl’s forehead snake blinked sometimes, but only at night. “Micro-ink tech,” the tattooist said, grinning. Soon, strangers hissed greetings: “Brother.” A diner napkin read: “Serpent code active. Seek the Ouroboros.” Earl stared at his reflection—the snake grinning back. Who was wearing whom?
November 28, 2024 at 11:30 PM
Earl’s forehead snake blinked sometimes, but only at night. “Micro-ink tech,” the tattooist said, grinning. Soon, strangers hissed greetings: “Brother.” A diner napkin read: “Serpent code active. Seek the Ouroboros.” Earl stared at his reflection—the snake grinning back. Who was wearing whom?