The part I used was a copy-paste of the suggested one: “a woman’s head suddenly became a tomato fruit.” Thanks for doing this I’m quite curious to see the difference between gpt 4 vs 3.5.
I woke up with the distinct feeling that today was going to be different. This wasn’t your usual ‘I have a bad feeling’ kind of different. This was your ‘My head feels heavier than a neutron star’ kind of different. As a seasoned astrophysicist working on the cutting edge of galactic exploration, believe me, I know my way around a neutron star.
“Lily, for God’s sake, have you seen the coffee?” I called out to my sister, the supreme monarch of the kitchen. No answer. Great. The day you need her the most, she’s out picking tulips.
I trudged my way to the bathroom, my hair tangling in my face. It felt odd, and not just the usual bedhead odd. It was wet. In fact, it was slick. Slicker than the last batch of hyper-lubricant we got from those five-dimensional beings from… wait, classified stuff. Never mind.
I turned on the bathroom light, the glare bouncing off the gleaming tiles. Why do I put up with this early morning blindness ritual? I fumbled for the sink, my fingers trailing over the cool marble, my reflection slowly coming into focus.
What I saw almost made me lose my footing.
In the mirror, staring back at me, was a giant, ripe tomato where my head should’ve been. I blinked. The tomato blinked back.
“Wha...,” I tried to say, but all that came out was the faint sound of squelching.
How does a tomato panic? Well, let me tell you, it’s not a pretty sight. The world pitched violently as I, well, rolled around in my bathroom, colliding with everything in sight.
It took a while for the initial shock to die down, and I, with my expertise in handling alien situations (you don’t want to know about the Fluzbar Incident), composed myself. A rational mind is a valuable tool. Ironic, coming from a talking tomato. But, hey, I didn’t design this universe.
Determined to find answers, I rolled to the holographic terminal in the corner of my bedroom. It was a state-of-the-art device, capable of connecting with thousands of networks across the multiverse. Yet, I found myself questioning its ability to comprehend my current predicament.
“Emergency protocol seven. Activate.” My voice echoed oddly, as if muffled by a cushion. The holographic terminal blinked into life, casting an eerie glow.
The machine whirred, scanning me. Its familiar hum, however, sounded almost mocking today. “Identity confirmed: Dr. Victoria Cushing. Welcome, Doctor,” it chirped in its cheerfully impersonal tone.
Well, at least the machine recognizes me. That’s a start.
“Search for incidents involving sudden human metamorphosis into a fruit,” I ordered, my voice quavering with a mix of dread and curiosity.
The terminal hummed, and I held my breath, which was tricky given that I didn’t technically have any lungs. After what felt like an eternity, the terminal dinged.
“No relevant data found.”
Great. Thanks, multiverse.
I sat there, in the quiet early morning light, my panic giving way to a strange calmness. Here I was, a woman with a tomato for a head, sitting alone in her room, waiting for her sister to find her like this. And yet, I found myself snorting at the absurdity of it all.
Suddenly, the terminal flashed a deep red, a warning signal I’d hoped never to see.
“Attention, Dr. Cushing. Incoming coded transmission from Galactic Headquarters. Code Black.”
My tomato heart—if I had one—seemed to drop. Code Black was only ever used for one thing: imminent universal threat.
The terminal began decrypting the incoming message, as I, a tomato-headed astrophysicist, waited in the quiet of my room. My world had changed unimaginably, and now, it seemed, the universe was following suit.
If you give me your “_______” part, I’ll generate the story with GPT4 using your template.
The part I used was a copy-paste of the suggested one: “a woman’s head suddenly became a tomato fruit.” Thanks for doing this I’m quite curious to see the difference between gpt 4 vs 3.5.
Chapter One
I woke up with the distinct feeling that today was going to be different. This wasn’t your usual ‘I have a bad feeling’ kind of different. This was your ‘My head feels heavier than a neutron star’ kind of different. As a seasoned astrophysicist working on the cutting edge of galactic exploration, believe me, I know my way around a neutron star.
“Lily, for God’s sake, have you seen the coffee?” I called out to my sister, the supreme monarch of the kitchen. No answer. Great. The day you need her the most, she’s out picking tulips.
I trudged my way to the bathroom, my hair tangling in my face. It felt odd, and not just the usual bedhead odd. It was wet. In fact, it was slick. Slicker than the last batch of hyper-lubricant we got from those five-dimensional beings from… wait, classified stuff. Never mind.
I turned on the bathroom light, the glare bouncing off the gleaming tiles. Why do I put up with this early morning blindness ritual? I fumbled for the sink, my fingers trailing over the cool marble, my reflection slowly coming into focus.
What I saw almost made me lose my footing.
In the mirror, staring back at me, was a giant, ripe tomato where my head should’ve been. I blinked. The tomato blinked back.
“Wha...,” I tried to say, but all that came out was the faint sound of squelching.
How does a tomato panic? Well, let me tell you, it’s not a pretty sight. The world pitched violently as I, well, rolled around in my bathroom, colliding with everything in sight.
It took a while for the initial shock to die down, and I, with my expertise in handling alien situations (you don’t want to know about the Fluzbar Incident), composed myself. A rational mind is a valuable tool. Ironic, coming from a talking tomato. But, hey, I didn’t design this universe.
Determined to find answers, I rolled to the holographic terminal in the corner of my bedroom. It was a state-of-the-art device, capable of connecting with thousands of networks across the multiverse. Yet, I found myself questioning its ability to comprehend my current predicament.
“Emergency protocol seven. Activate.” My voice echoed oddly, as if muffled by a cushion. The holographic terminal blinked into life, casting an eerie glow.
The machine whirred, scanning me. Its familiar hum, however, sounded almost mocking today. “Identity confirmed: Dr. Victoria Cushing. Welcome, Doctor,” it chirped in its cheerfully impersonal tone.
Well, at least the machine recognizes me. That’s a start.
“Search for incidents involving sudden human metamorphosis into a fruit,” I ordered, my voice quavering with a mix of dread and curiosity.
The terminal hummed, and I held my breath, which was tricky given that I didn’t technically have any lungs. After what felt like an eternity, the terminal dinged.
“No relevant data found.”
Great. Thanks, multiverse.
I sat there, in the quiet early morning light, my panic giving way to a strange calmness. Here I was, a woman with a tomato for a head, sitting alone in her room, waiting for her sister to find her like this. And yet, I found myself snorting at the absurdity of it all.
Suddenly, the terminal flashed a deep red, a warning signal I’d hoped never to see.
“Attention, Dr. Cushing. Incoming coded transmission from Galactic Headquarters. Code Black.”
My tomato heart—if I had one—seemed to drop. Code Black was only ever used for one thing: imminent universal threat.
The terminal began decrypting the incoming message, as I, a tomato-headed astrophysicist, waited in the quiet of my room. My world had changed unimaginably, and now, it seemed, the universe was following suit.
It was going to be a very, very different day.