Just saw a social media post of an author castigating another author for using AI to write a story, and I think I’m inclined to agree. But I reckon a decent author can outgun ChatGPT any day of the week. (Maybe, twelve months from now, it will be a different story.)

Consequently, I’m going head-to-head with ChatGPT. I gave it a rough outline. It was already familiar with my plot, which I have been bouncing questions to it. I’ve posted equivalent sections for your consideration: ChatGPT vs my first draft, and I’m interested in your opinion.

ChatGPT Says…

And then, of course, everything had to go to hell.

It was over twenty cents.

Twenty. Cents.

The till was short. It happened. The coin had probably rolled under the counter, or some toddler had nicked it, or—who even cared? Twenty cents wasn’t even a thing.

But Mum did care.

The moment she got home, she knew. The way Mum was sitting at the table, one hand on the edge of the Formica, her mouth tight.

“I got a call today,” she said.

Em dropped her bag on the floor. “Okay?”

“They said the till didn’t balance.”

“It was twenty cents.”

“That’s not the point.”

Em exhaled sharply. “Then what’s the point?”

Mum stood up. “The point is, you don’t get to be careless. You don’t get to throw away what you have because you think it doesn’t matter.”

Em stared at her. “Mum, it’s twenty cents.”

“You think that’s an excuse?”

“I think it’s reality.”

Mum’s hands clenched at her sides. “It’s not about the money, Manessa.”

And there it was. The full name. The shift from frustration to anger, the moment things went from bad to worse.

Em pressed her fingers to her temples, breathed in. Out.

No.

Not this time. Not tonight.

She lifted her head and looked her mother in the eye.

“I’m leaving,” she said.

Mum blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I got into uni. I’m going.”

For a second, silence. The ceiling fan hummed above them, rattling slightly on its chain.

Mum’s voice was slow. “When?”

“In the morning.”

She saw the shift in her mother’s expression, something fragile cracking behind her eyes, and for a second—just a second—Em almost felt bad.

But then Mum exhaled, sharp, short, and the wall was back up.

“Fine,” she said.

And that was that.

The next morning, Em packed her bag, laced up her boots, and walked out the door.

My turn…

It was in the first week of February that hell broke loose. Em’s mum had been absent from the shop for a few days, but when she returned, it was with full force. She came just as Em was running a mop over the floor. “Did ya balance the till?”

“Yes,” Em said.

Her mum glared at her, then stomped over to the till and punched the drawer open. Like always, Em had left the tally on a small piece of paper, with the required number of notes and coins ready for tomorrow’s opening. Em turned her back and concentrated on swirling the mop head on the floor with smooth, even strokes, but she knew what was about to happen.

The coins clattered on the counter as Em’s mum counted them out, then clattered in the drawers as she piled them back in. Then, finally, there was a furious silence.

Em kept mopping, but her shoulders were hunched.

“Manessa, what’s this?”

Em turned. She clutched at the mop handle in front of her.

“You’re twenty cents short,” her mum said, stabbing a stubby finger at the till.

“I’m not–” Em began.

“Are you calling me a liar?” her mum said, and added, “I can count it again if you want.”

Em shook her head.

Her mum whacked the open drawer with the back of her hand. “Why is it short? Can’t you count?”

Em put the mop back into the bucket, but her hands were shaking. She closed her eyes and tried to talk plainly. “I’m twenty cents short because a twenty cent piece rolled under the counter. I know it’s there. I was going to get it tomorrow.”

Em’s mum slammed the drawer shut. At least, she intended to, but she pushed it so hard that it bounced open again. She pushed it again, choking it closed.

“Get down and get it now,” she said.

“What?” Em said.

“Now,” her mum said, pointing at the wet floor and the gap beneath the counter.

“The floor’s wet. I can do it in the morning,” Em protested.

“What? You want me to get down on the wet floor and do it?” Em’s mum said.

Em shook her head. She’d been on her feet all day and her legs were sore. Slowly, she lowered herself to her knees. The soles of her Docs squeaked on the slick surface and the water soaked through the knees of her work pants.

She saw her mum’s shoes, up close, an old pair of Kmart runners with discoloured mesh fabric and tired, wrinkled soles. “Can you see it?” Em’s mum’s voice said from above.

Em turned her face towards the counter. She felt the damp ends of her her long, red ponytail brush at her neck. It wasn’t nice.

The counter was held off the ground on legs, and there was a space of about five centimetres between it and the tiled floor. Em peered in. She saw a screwed up serviette, some cobwebs, some fluff– and the missing coin.

Em reached in and touched its honest surface. It was cold and hard and reassuring and it slid out, along with a bundle of damp, dark fluff.

Em wrapped her fingers around the coin, clambered to her feet, tabbed the cash register and dropped the twenty cents in where it belonged. There wasn’t any use in talking. Anything she said or did would be held against her. Best to just exit quietly.